#but he dressed to impress one man in particular and his ordinary clothes weren’t working

[jubileepizza]

Truthfully I don’t think ianto jones even had a thing for suits, at least not initially. In his attempts at seducing his way into a job he tested a variety of clothing and it was the suit which finally got results. Jack had a thing for (ianto in) suits.

[tiaragqueen]

Could you do a Tsukiyama (tokyo ghoul) obsessing over a fem human who is a bookworm, please?

Under Control

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Tsukiyama Shuu x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,7k

✂ Trigger Warnings: Mention of depression, killing, cannibalization, objectification, obsessive and possessive behavior, slight malnutrition, manipulation, yandere theme.

[Edited]

***

I’ve used every drop of what little knowledge I have and Google translate regarding other languages, so I hope it doesn’t end up weird.Oh, and this is set before :re.

If you like mywriting, please support me on ko-fi!

“The one who loves the least, controls the relationship.” - Robert Anthony

You should’ve known that something was wrong the moment a flamboyant man with vibrant clothes approached you in that book café. And you should’ve known that something was wrong the moment your closed ones started to die one by one.

But it was too late to regret it now, wasn’t it? What happened had happened. There was no need to think about it, especially if the past only brought pain to your already depressed self. You should move on. You should get out of your head more often. You should start seeking help. You should allow yourself happiness. You should allow him to make you happy.

At least, that was what he said.

The truth is, it wasn’t that easy. It would never be that easy to forget that you were the one who had dragged them into your little drama. Them; your family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances. Heck, even your boss! Sure, it wasn’t your fault, to begin with. You didn’t even know that Tsukiyama was a ghoul in the first place.

Had you were a bit more observant, perhaps you would’ve noticed the hints. The way he occasionally licked his lips whenever you spoke about something, the way he studied your face and all the expressions it displayed, the way he checked you out (it wasn’t really discreet, but you’d learned to ignore it), the way he often complimented you whenever you wore clothes that accentuated your figure perfectly, and the way he tended to sniff your neck as a form of ‘greeting’. You’d assumed he was being attentive and considerate, yet it wasn’t all that far from the truth.

Attentive because you were his prey, and considerate because he wanted to make you feel more at ease around him.

But somewhere along the way, he began to change. He became more gentleman-like and… possessive. For example: how he wrapped an arm around your waist whenever you walked together, how he glared at anyone who talked or looked at you for too long, how he bought you some expensive presents regardless of the day and its importance, how he often invited you to his mansion and vice versa, and how he relished in reading books or do some particular gestures to you. Actions that seemed too sweet to be directed towards mere friends, and things that would spark a sense of intimacy between you.

You were a bit caught off guard, to say the least. The furthest things he’d ever done were light flirting and occasional yet lingering touches. But it was a rather nice surprise, you had to admit. Therefore, you’d decided to not to overthink it too much. Again, you’d assumed he was being a good friend. This was probably how he usually showed affection towards his close ones. And besides, you were quite flattered by the amount of attention he’d put on you. So, there was nothing to be suspicious of, right?

Right. Due to how often you both spent time with each other, he might have felt more comfortable now. Tsukiyama had always been extra when it came to you, anyway.

Just like how extra he was when he introduced you to his father.

The last note echoed in the spacious room as Tsukiyama withdrew his fingers from the ivory keyboards. His room. There were paintings of you hung on the wall, each depicting different expression and different attires. You didn’t know when he’d taken up a lesson for painting, but apparently, he’d worked hard to perfect every single frame.

That was what he’d told you on that fateful day, where you’d stupidly visited him because he was ‘sick’. You weren’t aware that ghouls had impressive healing ability, and sickness was probably impossible for them to get in the first place.

“How was it, Mi Amor?” he asked gently, affectionately, lovingly. He caressed your hair, and you sensed love – sincere love – pouring out from his fingertips.

How could a ghoul, one that had killed and eaten many people with another excuse besides hunger, could love someone so earnestly? It was illogical. It was preposterous. It was shocking. It was downright terrifying.

“I’ve composed this song since our first encounter,” he said, droopy eyes admiring the gloss of your crown. His servants have done a good job at taking care of your appearance; from the top of your head to the tip of your feet. All of them were clean, fragrant, and resplendent.

Just like what he had always desired.

“I know this is nothing but I hope you can feel my love, Ma cherié.”

Guilt couldn’t even describe what you were feeling right now; this stomach-churning feeling that told you that you would never loved him the way he wanted you to. The way he loved you. Because he was your captor – your kidnapper – and to fall in love with him would be a sin. A crime so unforgivable no matter how many times you begged for forgiveness.

You weren’t sick like him. But you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him, either.

Because he was your friend. You might have even considered him as your best friend; your confidant. He was your go-to person whenever you wanted to vent out, sharing crazy theories that had taken up almost all the spaces in your brain, asking nonsensical things, have a philosophical debate, or just someone to accompany you.

Because you were lonely. Nearly everyone that you’d befriended was superficial, or at least didn’t pay much attention to the details. You didn’t have anyone who you could truly connect with. You didn’t have anyone willing to wake up at ungodly hours and listen to your rambling. You didn’t have anyone who could see behind your quiet yet friendly facadé.

Because you yearned for a friend. And he… He had been perfect. He was everything you ever wanted; everything you ever wished for in a friend. Tsukiyama was, although eccentric, the only friend you could connect with. He was sophisticated, he understood your feelings, he entertained your strange ideas, and he always kept his promises. Never once did he let you down, and never once did he interrupt you when you talked about something.

Because you were hopeless. But it was all just a facadé, wasn’t it? In the end, you’d never truly meant anything to him aside from being a pet. A treasure. A possession he could never let go. A doll that, despite her master’s declaration of love, could only wait until the day he grows bored and throw you away. Which, in your case, throwing you into the chasm of his stomach.

Were you destined to end like this? Did God hate you or something? Because if so, then this was the cruelest punishment you’d ever gotten. It almost felt… unfair.

You hated this, though. You hated how you could do nothing but sit obediently on his lap. You hated how he dressed you up in fancy dresses and accessories as though you were a fucking mannequin. You hated how he always spoon-fed you. You hated that you had to spend the majority of your time waiting for him to come; to take you out of this hell disguised as a beautiful room decorated with your favorite flowers. You hated that the garden was the only place where you could breathe the fresh air. You hated that his servant – Kanae, was it? – seemed to hate you. You hated how his father immediately took a liking on you. You hated how he had suggested Tsukiyama to just marry you already, and you hated how Tsukiyama had the guts to accept it eagerly. He even promised to do so as soon as you were a bit more familiar with your new life.

You hated this; your predicament. Everything. And most of all, you hated your life. You didn’t think it was possible to loathe something abstract before. But now, you knew.

Pushing your glasses, you nodded. This was probably the least expensive thing that you had, and the only thing that you owned from your old life. A reminder that you used to be an ordinary woman with an ordinary house and ordinary life before you became a lovely lady with a lovely mansion and lovely life. “It was superb. Thank you, Tsukiyama-san.”

The warm smile immediately disappeared as a cold frown settled on his face. “What did I tell you about formality, hm?” he asked, warning laced his pernicious words.

You stiffened on his lap, mentally berating yourself over a little slip that could’ve been easily avoided. “A-apologize, Shuu.” you stammered stoically, albeit with a fearful hint. “I wasn’t… in my right mind just now. Forgive me.”

“There!” Tsukiyama beamed, his mood changed so quickly you weren’t sure whether to be relieved or not. “Isn’t it much better? After all, we’re lovers. It’ll be odd to call each other with such stiff nicknames.” He cocked his head and regarded you with those gleaming purple eyes.

You recognized that look. You fully comprehended what it meant. He was searching for another mistake; the slightest error that he could use against you. Internal panic aroused bile to leave your mouth – to empty your stomach from its nutrients because it wasn’t as if he would give you another, right? Tsukiyama didn’t want you to weigh more than necessary. Your current weight was enough. Not too skinny yet not too fat, either.

It was a perfect body.

“Don’t you think so, Tesoro?”

“Right, of course.” You sucked in a deep breath and nodded dutifully. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“It’s alright, Miele. Mistakes happen.” You looked away, trying to ignore the irony of those words. He must have been in a good mood today if he didn’t start punishing you. Thank goodness. “Just promise not to repeat it, okay? I’d hate to ‘lecture’ you again, Chérie.”

Tears stung your pupils as you dipped your head. You didn’t want him to see you were crying. No, not again. It was enough to display weakness in the past. You couldn’t afford to be weak. You had to be strong. You needed to be strong.

For him or yourself? You weren’t sure. You refused to think about it, either. As long as you were still alive, although not necessarily well, you would be fine.

“Yes, I promise.”

At least, this bittersweet affection was better than be a part of himself. Literally.

Translations

Mi amor (Spanish): My love

Ma chérie (French): My darling

Tesoro (Italian): Treasure

Miele (Italian): Honey

Chérie (French): Sweetheart

[mythicallore]

The Black Monk

Hauntings and poltergeist acitvity are nothing new, and the lore of paranormal research holds countless examples. Yet, every once in a while a case will truly bubble up from the rest to present an extremely strange and strong account. Lying within the country of England is an unassuming, normal looking house, which nevertheless has managed to go on to accrue a reputation as one of the most haunted locations in the nation. Here at this abode we have a rather volatile, frightening, and violent entity that has come to be known as the Black Monk.

The year was 1966, and a family consisting of Jean and Joe Pritchard and their two children, Phillip, 15, and Diane, 12, moved into a quiet house on 30 East Drive, in Pontefract, West Yorkshire, England. It was not long after they had settled in that strange things began to happen around the home, starting, as these things tend to, rather innocently enough. The first main incident started on September 1, 1966, when the son Philip was staying at the home with his grandmother, Sarah Scholes, while the rest of the family was away on a trip to Devon. One day they they felt a strange gust of cold wind pass through despite the summer heat, shortly after which they witnessed what seemed to be a white powder or mist snowing down from the ceiling as the sounds of footsteps echoed from above. When they went to investigate, along with Scholes’ sister Marie Kelley, there were found to be inexplicable pools of water spreading on the floor of the kitchen, and even as they stared at this new development that bumping noise continued from the next floor up and that dust rained down upon them.

30 East Drive

At the time it was thought that the water was merely the result of a broken pipe, and a repairman from the water company was called in to take a look. However, after a thorough inspection of the kitchen there was found to be no sign of anything amiss, and the repairman had no idea of where the water could be coming from, even as it seemed to pool up even more as he was there. The pools would eventually stop, but everyone present was left completely baffled as to what was going on.

Later that same evening, the pools began to form again from nowhere, and this time this phenomenon was joined by a violent, jolting rattling of various cutlery and pots and pans around the kitchen. In addition to this, the whole area was sprayed with tea as some unseen force repeatedly depressed the button on the tea dispenser with great force and increasing speed. The cupboards and furniture of the kitchen also began to vibrate and move about without explanation or apparent cause. This was all followed by a thunderous bang from the outside hallway, but when they looked to see what it could be nothing was there, even though the hallway light began to turn on and off by itself even as they surveyed it. It was further noticed that a plant that was normally positioned at the foot of the stairs was now inexplicably sitting at the top of the stairs, and neither of them had moved it.

As they examined the hall, the crockery and cupboards in the kitchen began to vibrate again with greater vigor, and Kelley was once again brought over to observe the frightening show for herself. The activity once again died down, but when a heavy chest of drawers began to sway on its own volition later that night, both Philip and his grandmother packed a few things and headed to a neighbor’s house for the night, terrified of what was going on. Interestingly, by the time the rest of the family returned from their trip the strange phenomena seemed to have stopped. At the time they all thought that there had to be some normal explanation for what had happened, especially as there were no further disturbances. Indeed, it would not be for another 2 years that anything else out of the ordinary would happen on the premises, but when it did it did so with a vengeance.

Interior of the house

The long period of silence made it all the more shocking when pools of water started forming again all over the house, furniture was moved or rattled on its own, odd green foam would seep out of water taps, loud thuds and bangs would sound out from all over the house, doors would slam open or shut by themselves, and more ominously, family portraits and furniture would be found demolished or slashed and disfigured as with a knife. There were also unidentified sickening odors that would waft through the home, as well as anomalous noises including heaving breathing and, oddly, the sound of barnyard animals. Such things happened nearly everyday, and it all became so commonplace that the family took to calling the invisible entity “Fred,” putting an innocuous nickname to the faceless and gradually threatening intruder.

All of this steadily graduated in intensity, with things being smashed or broken by unseen hands, or objects flying across the room even in the presence of guests. Indeed, whenever people came over the phenomena seemed to actually get worse and more violent, and this apparently even happened in the presence of local police officers and the town vicar, leaving everyone dumbfounded and authorities unable to find any rational explanation. In particular Dianne seemed to be targeted, often waking up to the sound of heavy breathing or undefined voices in her ears, and there were times when she was allegedly downright physically assaulted by the entity, such as being pushed, having her hair pulled, and even on several occasions being dragged across the room. The entity was not above lashing out at others as well, and reports of being held down, pushed, slapped, or punched by the specter were common, even from those just visiting.

The phenomena seemed to work in cycles, with times when this would happen on a daily basis interspersed with long absences, sometimes for weeks at a time, but return it always did. In the face of the escalating malevolent activity, the Pritchard family reached out to the Church for help, and there were several exorcisms performed on the house, all of which seemed to just make the spirit even angrier. During these attempted exorcisms crucifixes were supposedly knocked out of hands or smashed to pieces, and inverted crosses were sometimes found painted or scrawled upon the walls in red and black ink, neither of which were kept in the house. In one particularly frightening incident an invisible force picked up a candlestick and held it in front of the priest’s face, which was enough to send the man of the cloth running away to never come back.

In addition to this, the malicious spirit began to make itself known and visible as a full apparition. At first these visitations took the form of Jean and Joe waking in the middle of the night to see a dark shape standing at the foot of their bed staring at them, which would then blink out of existence. On another occasion, Joe claimed to have awoken to see a figure in flowing black robes hovering over his bed. This strange entity was more often than not described this way, as dressed in black robes and with a hood covering his face, not unlike what a medieval monk might wear and which would earn the wraith the nickname “The Black Monk.”

Before long the Black Monk was seen lurking about by everyone in the family, and was even claimed to have been spotted prowling the property by neighbors and other locals. To make it all even creepier, the phantom would sometimes change things up by appearing wearing women’s fur gloves. Through this all it seemed to still have it in for the daughter Diane, and its attacks on her grew in ferocity. The girl would sometimes wake up with scratches and bruises on her body or be completely thrown from her bed, and on at least one occasion was actively choked and slapped around by an unseen force in full view of witnesses, who were often themselves not immune to these outbursts. Perhaps the scariest incident happened when Diane’s hair was seen to stand up as if someone were pulling and yanking on it, after which the girl was forcefully dragged up the stairs screaming.

The desperate family had paranormal investigators called in, and some interesting things were found out on the history of the land the house sat upon. For instance, investigator Tom Cuniff found that not only had the area once been the site of a battle, but also that it had once been used as the town gallows, and that hundreds of people had been executed here. In particular, there was supposedly a Cluniac monk who had met his end by hanging here, after being found guilty of raping and killing a young girl around Diane’s age back in the 16th century, and Cuniff believed that this was the spirit haunting the home.

Strangely, despite all of the intense paranormal activity that permeated this home, it would all one day suddenly cease just as abruptly as it had started. The weeks would go on with the family bracing for the Black Monk to rear his sinister head yet again, but it was completely quiet for no apparent reason, as if he had just gotten bored and stopped. The Pritchards would nevertheless eventually move out, and the house would go on to be a popular destination for paranormal investigators, several of whom would apparently uncover the fact that indeed the Black Monk was still around and as active as ever, perhaps perturbed by new trespassers to his domain.

A very well-known and harrowing investigation of the premises was carried out by seasoned paranormal researchers Nick Groff and Katrina Weidman, of the TV series Paranormal Lockdown, who recklessly decided to actually spend a few days locked up inside of the home, and almost as soon as the doors closed there were purportedly strange goings on. It started with a sense of an indefinable dread and a door being slammed shut almost immediately, which could have been attributed to a draft if it weren’t for what would transpire over the next 100 hours. Groff would say of his initial impression of the house thus:

Right when we stepped on the property it felt different. There’s an energy about it. When you take a step into that location it’s haunting, it really is, without anything really even occurring you just feel it, you feel the energy and the sense that something is there lurking in the shadows.

They would go on to be woken by slamming or banging noises in the house, and the next day they actually reached out to the entity, called it Fred, and asked if it would move a ball. Sure enough, the ball apparently began rolling across the floor of its own volition. It all almost seemed rather playful at first, but then things started to get knocked off of stands, thrown across the room, or broken, and a clock dropped off the wall. When Groff reached out to ask the spirit “Do you need a lot of energy [to move things]?,” it was captured in an EVP recording saying in Latin “desperata,” meaning “hopeless.”

On top of this, whenever the team asked the entity something it would remain silent, but the room temperature would drop dramatically. In addition, a shadowy figure was allegedly filmed moving across a room, and the nighttime noises occurred with increased amplification. To make it all even more menacing, a knife was inexplicably left on the stairs, and the crew began to complain of being pushed or shoved by something, with the co-host Katrina actually claiming to have been held in place, attacked, and scratched. Groff would say:

We’ve captured this solid figure moving past one of the doors, things moving on their own. My co-host Katrina, she got scratched too at one point so it got really scary as it escalated through our investigation of a hundred hours. When I was living there for 100 hours there were moments when I was terrified, like when I was sleeping and I was really deep in sleep. And anybody, I don’t care how strong you are or how big you are, you will be startled in the darkness, and you’re all alone, and something bangs really loud in the room and the door opens on its own, and you see an apparition – you’re going to get startled.

Other researchers have had similarly bizarre experiences on the property, with numerous instances of the ghost’s voice caught on tape and quite a few pieces of photographic evidence as well. Many of these investigators have expressed shock at the sheer magnitude of sinister paranormal activity at the residence, with some even claiming that they actually feared for their lives while there, and the Black Monk has earned a reputation for being one of the most violent and evil poltergeists around. Another pair of investigators from the TV show Ghost Dimension said:

When we arrived at the house I had been so excited to finally be filming at 30 East Drive. I had heard so many stories about what went on here through the 60s and seen so many photos of monk-like figures. We had never experienced so many paranormal happenings going in one place and in such quick succession.

The house itself was purchased by a man named Phillip Pritchard and later sold to the British advertiser and film producer Bil Bungay, who turned it into a sort of macabre tourist destination. He would later have the story made into the 2012 horror film When The Lights Go Out, directed by Pat Holden, and which is loosely based on the real events. The film crew apparently had quite a few paranormal experiences making the movie, which was supposedly partly filmed on location, and to this day it has remained a hotspot for debate, discussion, and investigation.

There have of course been plenty of allegations that this was all a hoax or a publicity stunt, and that there was never any haunting at all. However, this ignores the fact that the whole town knew of this haunting, and it was witnessed by numerous people, including neighbors, friends, police officers, and at least two priests. So concentrated was the haunting and so violent, that the case of the Black Monk of Pontefract has gone on to become one of the most well-documented and aggressive hauntings England has ever seen, with the house this day said to be ground zero for all manner of strange happenings. Whatever is going on here, be that an expansive hoax or a very angry and vehement spirit, the case has never been solved.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “The Cobra and the Curse” (Rated PG13)

Kurt travels the desert alone, entertaining the masses from bazaar to bazaar, accompanied by his loyal golden cobra, which he carries wrapped around his arm as opposed to in a basket the way most snake charmers do. People say he is searching for a rare jewel that can break a powerful curse he suffers.

But that’s only a portion of the truth.

The rest is far more heartbreaking than that. (2280 words)

A/N: This is a rewrite, and namely because I have always wanted @sunshineoptimismandangels and @riverance to read it. If I continue it as a longer story, it will probably be for K*urtbastian or as an original work. Warning for angst, curses, and snakes.

Read on AO3.

The sun made its appearance earlier than usual and refused to be ignored. By noon, the tiny marketplace baked beneath its relentless glow so that the ground cracked, and any drop of moisture sizzled immediately and evaporated away. Undeterred, the bazaar teemed with the unwashed masses, haggling their way through their daily shopping. Vendors tried to outwit the heat by constructing makeshift tents, basic wood frames covered in light fabric to protect them from the fiery sky, but all it succeeded in doing was trapping the heat, turning what was once uncomfortable to truly unbearable.

Kurt sat alone on his intricately woven carpet, a gold veil covering his face, shielding all but his blue eyes. He sat removed from the bustling mob, tucked strategically in a shady corner. He set up his rug at a distance to avoid the persistent scorching white light and mind numbing stench, but close enough that airy strains of music from his flute lured passing treasure hunters to stop and watch and listen … and hopefully pay.

Most passersby only absently regarded the snake charmers. Snake charmers weren’t unusual in the marketplace, but Kurt and his cobra drew a bigger audience than most, even on brutally hot days, which greatly outnumbered the cool, overcast days now that the full force of summer had set in.

His alluring music trapped the unsuspecting, but it was the gorgeous, venomous creature under his complete control that hypnotized them, and they paid Kurt handsomely for the honor of its company. New to this bazaar in particular, Kurt showed up to the same spot day after day, and as his popularity grew, so did suspicion from local authorities, who couldn’t understand the appeal of one vagrant flute player and his pet snake compared to the rest that their town had to offer.

It wasn’t too long before they decided to find out.

“And what do we have here?”

The crowd in front of Kurt’s carpet parted to let the chief of the guard and two of his men approach. The sour looking man in the lead, haggard from the intense heat, stopped right in front of Kurt. He was a rotund man, with piercing brown eyes peeking out from narrow slits, and a full beard covered in the ash that drifted through the air from the many food tents. The remaining onlookers dispersed quickly, leaving Kurt to face the three law men alone.

Most foreign visitors to the marketplace were wary of law enforcement; even innocent people kept their distance.

Kurt, however, was far from impressed.

“May I help you gentlemen?” he asked with the pretense of civility. “Or did you come to hear me play?”

“I came to ask you a few questions,” the chief guard said, gruff in tone. He wiped an ocean of sweat from his brow with one meaty hand, then dried that hand on the leg of his pants, depositing a swath of murky brown onto the camel-colored fabric. Kurt cringed beneath his veil in disgust.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I was just packing it in for the day.”

Kurt clicked his tongue and the snake turned to him. The men stepped back, watching in horror and in wonder as the dangerous reptile launched itself at the man’s outstretched arm. The chief almost yelled a warning, but Kurt flashed stormy eyes at him, and he froze. The snake slithered up Kurt’s arm, winding itself tightly as it went, until its entire body was but an ornament on Kurt’s sleeve. Only a bit of its scaly form and its spread hood stood erect. Eerily following their movements, the snake kept its black eyes fixed on the three shocked men.

“Do you not have a hook to control that creature?” one of the lesser guards said, eyes wide. “Or a basket to transport it in?”

“Why?” Kurt asked innocently. “I’m not in any danger.”

“I’ve heard of you,” the third man put in.

“Have you?” Kurt returned nonplussed, but listening intently.

“Yes.” The man eyed Kurt cautiously. “People say you travel from bazaar to bazaar, looking for a rare jewel that will help you break some terrible curse.”

Kurt smirked and rolled his eyes.

“Really?” Kurt rolled his rug and tied it. “I would think an intelligent official like yourself would be more selective about what he believes.”

“They say you and this … this creature … have an unnatural relationship.”

“Do they now?” Kurt chuckled, standing with the cobra wrapped possessively around his arm. “Would you like to take that up with him?”

Kurt moved swiftly forward. The men scuttled back, the two behind their chief almost crowding behind him to get away, and Kurt laughed softly at the look of fear on their faces.

The guards watched Kurt gather up the remainder of his things. Kurt cooed at his snake as if they weren’t even there, kissing it gently on the hood like an old friend. The chief didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. This man was no ordinary snake charmer, no matter what he wanted them to think, and the chief would feel much more at ease once he packed up his rug for good and moved on. He tried to think of a way to make that happen sooner than later, but apart from having the man dealt with in the dead of night, the chief could come up with no other solution. Kurt tucked his rug under his arm, tossed his flute over his shoulder by its leather strap, and paying the three guards no heed, walked away.

“You’d better watch yourself, snake charmer,” the surly man spat at Kurt’s back. “I’m not sure I like your kind hanging around my marketplace.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kurt returned as he continued on without a glance back.

Kurt walked the vacant stretch of desert outside the boundaries of town, out beyond the first dune to the nomad camp where he had been lent a tent to occupy. On his journey north, a clan of travelers had come across him. They were drawn to him first by his unburnt pale skin, strange for people living in those parts, and his sea blue eyes. After taking audience with him, watching him charm his impressive reptile, and seeing the imposing beast eating patiently from his hand, the elders of the clan took finding him as an omen, and offered him their protection.

Kurt bowed in salaam to the men standing guard, and they returned the greeting to him, as well as to his snake. Kurt walked through the encampment toward his lonely tent, bowing to those he passed who spoke blessings to him, smiling demurely to those who showered praise upon him. At the entrance to his tent, he turned his attention to the sky, and saw the sun sinking low. He hurried in and shut tight the heavy flaps, rushing to prepare. He left the cobra on its carpet with its dinner. Kurt lit oil candles and burnt incense. He quickly bathed, scenting his hair and skin with perfumes. He put on his finest clothes, ones that rarely saw the light of day as of late. His stomach swooped with such excitement that he didn’t eat a bite of his dinner, instead drinking from a flask of wine to calm his butterflies.

A voice, soft and rich like fine velvet, stirred them up again.

“I appreciate all the trouble you go through dressing for me, darling. It’s such a shame I’m just going to tear your clothing off of you.”

After ten long years without hearing it, that voice of pure seduction sounded like the answer to a prayer, the fulfillment of a dream. Kurt couldn’t speak in its presence, so he didn’t. He turned and launched himself at the incredible creature, only partially human for the moment since the sun hadn’t fully set.

Blaine.

Kurt’s one and only true love, the two of them victims of an evil, sadistic curse that kept them apart for all but one night every ten years. And tonight was the night they had been waiting for – their one night together.

Kurt ran his hands down Blaine’s body of smooth, golden scales, feeling them shift and reform beneath his fingers as they became human skin. Blaine backed away sorrowfully from Kurt’s kiss, not wanting to touch him with a serpent’s tongue or accidentally bite him with his fangs, but Kurt insisted, claiming Blaine’s lips with a famished moan.

“I think we are getting closer, my love,” Kurt said, kissing the hood that still surrounded Blaine’s head. “At least they’ve heard of us here. Someone might know something. But you have to be careful. But the officials are suspicious. Please … be careful.”

“I will,” Blaine hissed, shutting his inhuman black eyes to absorb the feeling of Kurt’s tongue licking around the shell of now human ears. When he opened his eyes again, they were golden hazel eyes. Human eyes.

Blaine gazed upon Kurt’s face with these eyes for the first time in a decade, and smiled.

“Ten years,” he whispered, his forked tongue rounding out and his reptilian hiss gone, “and you don’t look as if you’ve aged a day.”

“But, I have,” Kurt said sadly, taking Blaine’s scaled hand and holding it to his heart. “In here. In my heart and in my soul, I grow older, weaker.” When he looked into Blaine’s eyes, they were shimmering with tears. “I’ve lost ten years so far. You’ve lost twenty! I … I can’t take this much longer! Please … please tell me you’ll find it? Please promise me you’ll succeed where I’ve failed?”

“You haven’t failed,” Blaine said softly. “You got us here. You’ve kept us alive. We’ll find the gem that breaks our curse together. I can feel it.”

Kurt nodded, but he didn’t look all that hopeful.

Blaine sighed and pulled Kurt close, his transformation still far from complete.

“What can I give you, my love?” Blaine asked. “What can I do to ease your burden?”

“I only need you, my love. I need the soothing cool of your body to keep me sane, your mouth on mine to help me forget … for just this one night.”

“Don’t you want to wait until I’ve completely changed?” Blaine asked, but he was already burning with want, with need, his hands on his lover’s body, helping him disrobe.

“No,” Kurt said with a stern note of finality. “I don’t want to wait to have you a minute longer.”

Blaine leaned in for another kiss. “Then let’s not wait.”

Nights in the desert during the summer aren’t long enough for those lingering under a curse. Kurt knew that. He cursed it every day. But it’s all they had, all they were going to get, a blessing that, after all this time, was almost too cruel to be thankful for.

The nomads were lulled to sleep by a symphony of moans and felt contented, knowing that the gods they harbored were pleased with the hospitality given them. But those moans turned to sobs when the first light of the sun touched the horizon. All too soon, a slightly shorter man, dressed in plain clothes but wearing a blue veil, emerged from the snake charmer’s tent. The nomads bowed to him without alarm as gods are known to change shape from time to time in order to hide from the dangers of the mortal. The man headed back to town with a carpet tucked beneath his arm, a flute dangling from his shoulder by a leather thong, and a magnificent blue cobra, glittering like a sapphire beneath the merciless light of morning, wrapped around his bicep.

The man set up in the shady spot. He took his time laying out his carpet and tuning his flute. The bazaar was far from bustling yet, so he had a few moments to spare. Besides, earning coin wasn’t his goal for the day. He had a feeling that something was forthcoming.

And he was right.

This time, the guards arrived early.

The smug chief stepped up, prepared to harass the mysterious vagrant, but stopped short when his eyes fell upon the man’s covered face. Even shrouded by his blue veil with barely an inch of skin to be seen, the chief knew the man had changed.

“What happened to you?” the confounded chief asked.

“I have no idea what you mean,” the snake charmer said, nonchalantly disregarding the chief and his guards.

“Where is the man who was here yesterday?”

The veiled man looked up, then looked around, finally meeting the chief’s gaze.

“Who?”

“The snake charmer …”

At this, the veiled man looked down at his cobra, then at his flute, and back up at the flustered guard with sarcastic humor in his eyes.

“The other snake charmer,” the chief groaned with frustration. “The one with the pale face and blue eyes. He had a cobra just like yours.”

“There is no cobra like mine,” Blaine remarked sourly.

“He carried it the same ludicrous way, too,” the chief said, ignoring that comment, “only his was a brilliant gold. A gold like … like … like priceless jewelry.” The chief stuttered to explain himself, looking around to find something he could compare the color to. Then he stopped, squinting inquisitively into the veiled man’s face. “A gold exactly like … the color of your eyes …”

Blaine smirked. He looked to the blue cobra wrapped around his arm. The animal slithered closer to his face and nuzzled its head against Blaine’s chin. Blaine sighed wistfully, his eyes beset with a tremendous pain.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”