#i keep convincing myself its not bad enough for that and they would just think im being stupid

[the-most-sublime-fool]

I'm a complete hypochondriac but I also have social anxiety and hate going to the doctor, so I just have to live with the irrational certitude that I'm currently afflicted with like seventeen rare and debilitating conditions and I cycle through the 5 stages of grief whenever I, like, discover a new birthmark

[ot3]

The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere

What is it, and why you should read it.

(Art by purple)

The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere is a currently updating webserial by author Lurina. It's one of my favorite things I've read in a long while and I'd like to convince you all to give it a chance.

My elevator pitch is this: A time-loop murder mystery directly inspired by Umineko, with a lot of similar vibes to the Locked Tomb Trilogy - partially due to it's meditations on grief and mortality and partially due to it's far-future magical sci-fi world where we follow a fucked up lesbian necromancer on a task she is determined to see through to the end. A deeply complex, unique, and believable world that plays hosts to one of the best interpersonal dynamics I've read.

In a future so far-flung that it is past the heat death of the universe, humanity has constructed a new society that is post-scarcity but not post-stratification. Utsushikome of Fusai is one amongst a class of prodigious young medical arcanists (essentially grad students) who are invited to visit a recently legitimized conclave of top-of-the-line researchers studying immortality. Accompanying Su is her best friend Ran, a fellow arcanist. Over the course of the novel we begin to slowly unravel exactly what ulterior motives have brought them to this conclave and how events in their childhoods and years of working toward their shared goal has warped their relationship into what we now see. This relationship is the crown jewel of Flower's narrative, and getting to peel back the layers of it as you read is a delight.

Like Umineko, Flower is a murder mystery that prevents itself with in-universe Rules that dictate the murders' parameters, meaning there's a lot to chew on for anyone who likes solving mysteries. For those that don't, like myself, Flower offers instead a richly developed world and plenty of open questions about the sociopolitical and metaphysical implications of its own worldbuilding.

Below the cut, I'll go into more detail about the series (without spoilers!) for those of you whose interest has been piqued.

The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere is currently ongoing, updating every few weeks. It's several hundred thousand words, so if you're looking for something substantial to keep you entertained, you've got it. As you might expect from the length, the pacing is decently slow. I don't see this as a bad thing at all, because within this pacing Lurina dripfeeds the readers enough new and interesting information at a regular rate that it never feels like your time is being wasted. But if you can't handle slow burns, I wouldn't recommend this one for you.

If you enjoyed the Zero Escape series and liked that they stopped solving murder puzzles to infodump about fringe science, I think you'll get a lot out of Flower. Characters are frequently interrupting their life-or-death scenarios to have lofty, philosophical and political discussions. It's a ton of fun if you like reading characters argue.

'People have to sleep.' 'People have to work.' 'People have to die.' But those were just vague rules, phrasing I'd used because it had been easier in the context of that conversation. What really mattered, on the day-to-day level, was the idea that it was all for something. If someone invented a elixir that made people not to need to sleep, it would, in retrospect, recontextualize all nights everyone ever wasted sleeping as wastes of time. Not something that occurred for some inherent purpose, but whims of circumstance, a tragedy of when you happened to be born. If you accepted that all unfair things in the world could be removed, if only someone knew how - fatigue, labor, death - then to exist in the world we had now, with all its grotesque imperfections, was to know that you had been violated by fate.

Along those lines it's just got a sense of humor I really enjoy. Pretty dry and cavalier. It manages to keep the mood light without feeling like it's undermining it's own stakes. I'm particularly fond of Su's penchant for telling incredibly depressing suicide jokes that just Do Not Land.

The peer pressure cut into me like a hot knife. I hesitated a little, biting my lip. "Well, uh, okay. I'll just tell a quick one." I swallowed, my mind quickly scrambling. "Okay, so, there's a woman who runs a dispensary for second hand goods. She sees a man come in who's a regular customer. He's kind of a mess-- Has a big beard, a bad complexion. He buys a razor, and tells her he needs it to clean himself up, because he has a date." I could see that I now had Ophelia's attention and that Kam was looking pleased with herself, but Ran was watching me, too. I could see the look in her eyes. It screamed at me, with such vividity that it could be sold at an art gallery: You better not be telling a suicide joke right now, or we're going to have a talk. But it was too late. The wheels were already in motion.

As I mentioned up top, the relationship between Ran and Su is just one of my favorite interpersonal dynamics ever. Period. The author is playing some insanely complicated 5th dimensional yuri chess and I am absolutely here for it as someone who likes characters who are deeply devoted to each other in a way that is deeply deeply fraught. I cant emphasize enough how obsessed I am with what they have going on.

Additionally, as stated, the worldbuilding in Flower is top tier. The author clearly understands how every part of her world functions, which makes the moral quandaries and politics presented all the more impactful because they're very believable. It's hard to talk about Flower's world without spoiling too much of the specifics that get slowly revealed, but it doesn't fall back on any typical sci-fi standard fare and feels like a breath of fresh air amongst recycled and repetitive worldbuilding tropes.

A lot of really fun side characters. Strong voices for all of the supporting cast (♥♥Kamrusepa♥♥) and even though not every character gets their own arc, they all clearly have plenty of interiority. Once again, another thing that makes Flower feel very believable despite it's absurdities.

Autism

"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with anyone?" She eyed him. "Anyone who seemed tense?" "Saoite, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but half of our class is so autistic that they constantly seem tense. You might as well ask me to find a specific turd in a sewer." "Just answer the question, please," she replied flatly.

Guys it's really good just trust me I don't want to spoil you for the more intricate plot beats but they're doing some crazy shit here. It's never a bad time to support an independent author's project. If you're sick of corporate mass-media and stuff needing to be marketable, getting into independent works owned and supported by individual creators is a great way to push back against that. I highly recommend it.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for bitching about fics I dislike on my blog?

as a foreword, this is kind of a non-issue and no one's ever told me to stop, but I'm curious what other people think of fandom etiquette.

the fandom: a fairly small one. 2.4k fics on ao3 small. I recognize most people posting in its tumblr tag small. if I tell you the name of the source you'd almost definitely be able to find me small.

the source: pornographic, which means everyone involved is or should be an adult. it's BL with a switch MC, but the fandom overwhelmingly prefers bottom MC/top LIs (love interests), to the point where I've had people be astonishingly rude to me because my favorite character is a bottom LI and some of my friends have been outright harassed for the same. I used to not care about sex positions in the slightest, but now when I see bottom MC fanworks I can't help but remember how poorly I was treated.

the fics: wildly and inexplicably popular, even though they are, frankly, poorly written. it's eternal bottom MC turned up to 11, complete with copious amounts of OOCness in order to turn every ship into the worst ye olde yaoi gender roles dynamic you can imagine. it's things like MC, canonically a 23yo plank of a dudeguy, being written as a big titted milf in his 40s (which is made more confusing by the fact that one of the LIs is already a big titted milf). it's also things like the MC being written as disliking sex and having to be coerced into it when one of the most charming things about him is that he's a hilarious sex pest, or writing the LIs sexually harassing the MC when they really would never do that. I've likened it to replacing the characters with OCs that share the same name and my friends have agreed with me. I'm honestly convinced that the author and his readers don't actually like any of the characters if they feel the need to change everyone so thoroughly.

why I might be an asshole: it's assholish to hate on free fanworks, and I've bitched about these fics on my public tumblr blog. the fandom is small enough that there's a non-zero chance of it getting back to the author and a reasonable chance that fans of the fics have seen my bitching. I'm probably projecting the hostility I've received onto someone who's done absolutely nothing to me, and I am absolutely just straight up jealous that their fics get better stats than mine. I may also be being an asshole to myself, because being critical of other people's fics has made my hypercritical of my own.

why I don't think I'm an asshole: I think everyone has the right to be bad at things, but I also think everyone has the right to be a little hater. I don't put the fandom tag on these posts; they stay on my blog and my blog alone, and if later on I feel like I was unfairly vitriolic I'll delete the posts. I only post on tumblr because I'm certain the author in question only uses twitter, which dramatically lowers the odds of him stumbling across my posts. the fics are so popular that it's definitely possible that their fans would see my posts, but I think it's unlikely that they'd bother looking at my blog because 99% of my posts are about one of the bottom LIs. I have never and would never leave comments on the fics themselves, and I generally try to keep the bitchy posts to a minimum; it's far from a constant thing.

tl;dr - I publicly bitch about fics that (in my opinion) are poorly written and extremely OOC, under the assumption that it's unlikely the author would ever see it. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[mrwavellswaps]

Swap, Hypno, TF

Henry Cavill, Ryan Gosling, Jake Gyllenhaal

Another great set of options here! But I think I already know who I’m swapping with.

Jake Gyllenhall. Like come on it’s gotta be. That man is just so fucking gorgeous. I’ll be honest though it’s a very close call between him and Ryan Gosling. I adore both of them and if Jake hadn’t been there I absolutely would’ve swapped with Ryan no question. It’s one of those that’s so close that my mind could change depending on the day but right now I’m dead set on Jake and his incredibly sexy looks.

That said I think I’ve just gotta go with another technology based swap for this. A special pair of headsets perhaps. How I’d get Jake to put it on is the tough part. I’d need to find a way to get close to him first. Maybe I use this device to switch bodies with multiple other people who are close to Jake. Every switch getting me closer to him until finally I’m in the body of someone he trusts deeply. Enough that can convince him to put the device on for a laugh when the two of us are alone. Slipping one headset onto him before slipping the other onto myself and without a second thought, activating the device.

Both my face and Jake’s going slack as the swapping device does its thing. Transferring everything that made us who we were through the currents flowing between the two helmets. Slowly flooding my consciousness into Jake’s mind and vice versa. And of course both of us getting massive erections in the process which seemed to be a common side effect when switching bodies with men.

It would’ve been a long and tiring process to finally get this far but it’d be well worth it once I finally had Jake’s body. Immediately throwing off the headset as soon as the swap was complete and standing up to get a good look at the body I’d been striving towards. Meanwhile the real Jake would be too confused and dazed by what had just happened to even make sense of the situation. Only looking up at me in horror as I tested out my new voice and felt up the new body I had hidden underneath the suit he’d been wearing. The newfound bulge in my pants threatening to break out at any second as I reach down and rub a hand across the outline of Jake’s thick cock.

Of course I need to take care of the original Jake somehow but I don’t think that’d be too hard. Once he finally processes what’s happened, he’ll probably start to panic at the sight of his imposter feeling himself up and slowly undressing. By this point I’ll have already stamped on the headset to ensure it can’t be used again before letting him know that the swap can’t be undone now. Giving him the choice to either keep quiet and I’ll make sure he has an easy life from now on or I’ll find some other way to keep him quiet. And since I’d just stolen his body, I don’t think he’d doubt my threats.

Moving on however I then need to hypnotise someone. And I think you all know who I’m going for. Ryan Gosling of course. And now that I’m in Jake’s body it shouldn’t be hard for me to get close to these other high end celebs like myself. As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I’ll lace a drink of his with a hypnotic potion that’s got my new body’s cum mixed into it. And as soon as he drinks it, he’ll become a complete hypno slave to me.

Can you imagine? Ryan Gosling kneeling at the feet of Jake Gyllenhall. Willing to do anything he’s told. A former straight man being turned into a gay slut. Always eager to let me ruin his tight and once virgin hole at any chance we got. Practically begging me to cum inside him every time as each load I bred into him with Jake’s cock only drove him further under my control.

With Ryan being so attached to me I doubt he’d ever want to leave my side for long. Telling the world that the two of us have decided to become a couple would be inevitable in the long game I imagine but that wouldn’t be all bad. The publicity would probably do wonders. I’d have to make sure Ryan acts as normal as possible when we’re in public though… but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let a few of his new slutty elements shine through the cracks from time to time. Maybe with him telling a reporter that I really “opened him up” to a new world of possibilities with a quick wink.

Lastly though a TF is in order and we still have Henry Cavill on our list. I’ll be honest I had no idea what to go for TF wise at first but I think I’ve finally figured it out.

Once again getting close to Henry at some point or another shouldn’t be too hard thanks to my new body. And as soon as no one is looking I’ll whip out an ancient spell. One that if performed correctly will immediately begin to transform Henry’s body. Or rather force it to shrink away into nothing. Or so you’d think at first glance.

As his body seems to vanish, his clothes would fall to the floor in a heap. But there would be something left underneath those clothes. I’d pull apart the heap and reach into Henry’s crumpled pants only to pull out Henry’s cock and balls!? It was the only thing left of his body though at first glance it would certainly be mistaken for a dildo. However upon closer inspection it looked and felt very real from the way the balls swayed to how the cock reacted to the slightest touch.

Now for the real test though.

Assuming I was alone where nobody could walk in on me, I’d slip the disembodied cock into my mouth and started sucking. Feeling as it swiftly began hardening in my mouth. Being sure to use every dick sucking trick in the book until Henry’s cock finally blew a load in my mouth. And as soon as it did, the suit I was wearing started to rip.

Henry’s body and soul essence had all been trapped inside this dlido-like form of his cock. However this meant that anyone who drank his cum would gain his strength and muscle mass albeit temporarily. Hence my suit tearing a fair bit after I swallowed thanks to my body bulking up quite a fair bit. And naturally I didn’t waste any time checking out the results. Loving the look of an even bigger and buffer Jake Gyllenhall staring back at me.

Needless to say I was gonna be using Henry’s cock a lot. Thankfully it replenishes itself endlessly as far as I know so there isn’t a real limit. I can drink from it as much as I want and bulk Jake’s body up whenever I please. Hell I might even let Ryan drink from it as well. Lord knows it’d be hot to see him hulk out with some extra muscle as well. Giving Ryan and even thicker muscle ass for me to dominate! But I think I can say for certain that I’ll be the one using it’s power most of the time. All the extra muscle is bound to feel addictive. And who know? Maybe my body will start to adapt and hold onto some of that extra size even after the effects wear off. Only one way to find out I guess.

Now this one was fun to type up! Also wanted to give a quick shout out to an old story by @fantasyvessels called Trading Places With Gyllenhall which definitely inspired me a little here. Glad I was able to track down where they got those images from and make a hot gif outta it. Go check that story out as well if Jake is your thing!

[pastorpresent]

Just Let Me Adore You.

[ you can't watch what their doing to him any more. He's overworked. Exhausted, and pumped full of pills to keep awake. ]

TW: mention of drug use, vomiting, blood, mild sexual content.

Elvis/YN, or Austin!Elvis/YN if preferred

"Where is he?"

Your voice is sharp, demanding, and Vernon looks fearful almost as he takes a small step behind the colonel.

"Don't get all twisted up, sweetness. He's resting, was a big show tonight."

You didn't think you could hate anyone quite as much as you hated the man in front of you. From the minute he stepped into the picture, he only had one intention: bleed Elvis dry for everything he had.

It didn't matter how much you tried to warn him. Elvis saw him as a second father figure of sorts, and refused to say a bad word about the old bastard.

You had no such qualms.

"I want to see him, you twisted monster," you spat, glare hardening.

The ridiculous show schedule they had him on was taking its toll. Tonight more than ever. He looked awful up there, even if he did sing and perform just as perfect as ever, but even that made your chest ache. He would kill himself before he would let down his fans. You could see it backstage, between songs, where he would all but stumble to the waiting chair, letting them slip him pills and needles and shoving his face in ice water until he was gasping for breath, hurriedly reapplying his eyeliner before the next song.

He was dead on his feet. A puppet on strings doing everything he was told, consequences be damned.

"Now listen to me-"

"Let her in," that was Vernon's tired voice cutting in, avoiding your face, but you could see the guilt there anyway. "She might be able to settle him down," he continued, even softer, and you felt your concern grow worse.

Parker huffed, muttering something incoherent but stepping aside away from the door to the penthouse. You kept your posture tall, giving him a brief nod before pushing past and locking the door behind you.

There was silence for a few moments, and then a half moan, half sob. It was unmistakably him.

You followed the noise to the bathroom, and found your lover on the floor covered in vomit, sobbing dejectedly over the bathtub.

"Elvis, sweetheart," you gasp, dropping to your knees. He recoils almost, curling in on himself miserably.

"You need to go, mama. Can't- Can't be having you 'round when I'm like this," he moaned, burying his face away in his legs.

"No, baby. This is exactly the times I should be around," you say, moving close enough to wrap your arms around him. His reaction is almost automatic, even if he does try to fight it. His arms curl desperately around your waist, face buried in your chest as he cries, begs for unnecessary forgiveness.

"Hate myself, baby. I'm- I can't- I need to let you go, mama. You need'a run. Run far a'ay, you hear me?"

You shook your head, rocking him and pressing kisses to his damp hair, running your fingers over his back.

"Don't say those things. Please, Elvis. Don't say those things. You're amazing, baby. You did so well up there tonight," you knew it was what he needed, ultimately. He was so terrified of failing, of disappointing those flocks of people who scream and cry for him, as if he ever even could. You were convinced he could sit and talk for a few minutes about the blandest topic in the world and they would still go wild.

It was his greatest fear. That's why he let them fill him with drugs and take half his money. Consequences be damned, as long as he was making the people happy.

He all but mewled against you at the praise, slumping further into your warmth, mumbling a broken "you rea'ly think so?"

It shattered your heart, and you nodded, kissing his forehead.

"So good baby, but you need to rest now, for a little while. Till you're all nice and better, sweetheart."

Predictably, he shook his head, although anything he planned on saying was cut off with a harsh gag, and he was pulling away from you quickly to cough up a sickly mix of bile and blood over the tile floor.

He was pale, skin clammy, and while you winced in sympathy you couldn't help but be slightly relieved at the ejection of those horrible pills from his body.

He was apologising again, words slurred and body wracked by violent shakes.

"'Nother show, a-at t-ten. Colonel said demand was enough for it, I'm gettin' two shows a night," he sounded proud, despite being half dead on the floor like a weakened animal, eyes half shut and muscles tense, twitching incessantly.

"No," you spoke firm, leaving absolutely zero wiggle room for compromise, "you can't go back out there tonight. A few nights, maybe even a few weeks. You're going to kill yourself," it was brutal, perhaps a little harsh, but what else could you do? How else would he ever come to accept how bad the situation was, if not even one person in his life could be honest?

"If it's how I go, it's how I go."

Anger fluttered in your stomach, and you pulled him up to sit against the wall, sitting directly in front of him, hands clamped on his shoulders. You watched his eyes drift and struggle to focus on your face despite the close proximity.

"Don't you dare! What about Lisa, huh? You gonna have me explain to her where her daddy's gone? Want me to tell her how he loved them more than her? The Colonel, the fans, whoever the hell else! And- and what about me?! You just- you just gonna leave me, like that? After everything?!"

You didn't realise quite how worked up you had gotten, nor the tears streaming over your face, until he lifted a hand to cup your cheek, trying to thumb the wetness away as if he could make it all better just by cleaning up your hysterics.

It was him pulling you in this time. You wanted to fight. You were so damn furious, still - but his hands left you powerless, reducing you to a palatable mess who sunk against him in a bone heavy heap, hiding your face in his neck.

"Sorry, mama. Sorry. Not leaving either of yas, what kinda man would that make me, huh? What kinda daddy, or husband? Needa look after ya better, don't I? Look after my best girls."

You nod against his damp skin, a mix of tears and sweat as his body struggles. Your breath hitches when you feel how shaky his hands are running through your hair, and you pull back enough to wipe at your eyes.

"Let's get you to bed, baby. Let me look after you this time," you say quietly, running your thumb over his jaw. He blinks at you, a small smile tugging his lips, even if it is a little forced.

He looks pained and so, so exhausted. You never thought yourself capable of violence, but you wouldn't hesitate to kill Tom Parker for what he's done to your man. You remember those early days, back in memphis, back when his momma was alive. He was so bright then - so happy and carefree.

The years since had only served to beat him down. The shows and the fame and the fucking colonel- they only ever served to break him, and here he was now. Broken. He would never again be that nineteen year old starry eyed boy you first met, but that was ok. You loved him no matter what, just like you always swore.

You help him to his feet, and between yourself and the bathtub he makes it up on trembling legs. You wrap your arm secure around his waist, and you notice his slight wince, an insecurity spurred on by those awful pills. You tighten your grip, kiss his cheek to reassure him you don't care in the slightest.

It's slow, but you get him to the bed. He all but collapses into it with a groan, eyes already fluttering shut.

"Let's get you some clean clothes, baby," you encourage, and he obeys so easily as you strip him out of the soiled jumpsuit, tugging on some briefs in its place and some softer sleeping pants.

"Shirt, mama?"

It's not cold in the room, and the vulnerability in his eyes makes the shattered pieces of your heart burn.

"Don't need one, baby. I promise. You're gorgeous. All my gorgeous man, daddy," you assure, kissing his collarbone all tender and letting your hands move careful over his sides.

He shivers, squirming a little on the bed under your touch.

"You sure baby? Not quite as pretty as I useta be," he mumbles, and you huff a little, continuing to kiss downwards, on your knees all but worshipping every piece of visible skin.

"So gorgeous, daddy."

"What'd I do to deserve ya, huh?" Elvis whispers, and you chuckle a little against his skin, and his smile this time feels much more real.

"Somethin' diabolical, I'm sure," you tease, pushing him gentle until he lies down.

"Think I must'a been a saint or somethin," he drawled, and you smile.

"Or somethin."

You dip to press a kiss to his forehead, which still feels awfully hot. You decide a cold towel might help, but as you go to grab it he grips your hand.

"Where ya goin?"

He's giving you those puppy eyes, fingers linking with yours.

"Gonna get a towel, try to cool you down some. You're burning, baby," he shakes his head, whimpering a little, pressing his lips to your hand.

"Stay, mama. Ya all I need, you'll fix me right up with ya pretty lips. Just wanna hold ya, is all. Ya my medicine," he murmurs, and you sigh softly, perching on the bed and running your fingers through his hair.

"I'll only be downstairs, baby. Just one moment, ok?"

Reluctantly he loosens his grip, pressing a weak kiss to your thigh as an almost wordless agreement.

You rush downstairs and search for a towel, wetting it with cold water. You grab a bowl from the kitchen incase the nausea hits again, and a glass of water. You're just gathering up the things to take upstairs when you hear voices from the bedroom.

You quickly grab the supplies and go up, only to find Elvis now half sitting, struggling to get all the way up, breathing rough like he's panicking and trying not to cry. The colonel stands at the foot of the bed, cigar between his lips puffing clouds of smoke, arms folded over his chest as he watched, almost bemused.

"What the hell are you doing?" You spit, almost dropping the glass in your haste to reach your man. You place the water on the bedside, the bowl on the floor, and ease the towel around his neck, whispering reassurances as you direct him to lie back down. You can see in his eyes that he doesn't necessarily want to, but his body is far too weak to fight your guiding hands, and his head lands back onto the pillow with a soft thump.

"He's got a performance in a half hour. We need him downstairs for sound check and wardrobe," Parker states, voice void of any sympathy. He's looking at the sick man with something akin to frustration and anger, and you can see how it hurts him, can feel him try to sit again under your hands only to be physically incapable.

"He's not going on that damn stage," you growl right back.

"It's none negotiable, little girl. He signed a damn contract, he honours it!" Tom hissed, getting into your space.

You didn't back down, grabbing your lovers hand to assure him you were ok when you felt him try to struggle to his feet again.

"He's half fucking dead, you dimwit! You're working him to death, can't you see that? He's a human being! You can't just stuff him with drugs and push him onto a damn stage night in night out! He needs rest!"

The Colonel shook his head, chuckling. He looked at Elvis, who was glaring up at him now.

"You letting your girl fight your battles now? Letting her make the rules?"

He glances your way, tightening the grip on your hand.

"She's right. It's too much," it felt almost relieving to hear him finally say it. "Tell them I'll resume I'm a few days but not tonight."

You hoped you could convince him for a little more than that, but it would do for now.

The colonel seemed to of realised he lost, storming out with a promise to make us both pay.

The door slammed, and you climbed onto the bed immediately, wrapping yourself around him and kissing his lips sweetly, letting your hands draw patterns over his bare arms.

"I do good, baby?" He hummed quietly, and you nod, the tension melting from your body as he nuzzles into you, linking your legs and bringing his arms around your waist to tug you closer.

"The best. I'm proud of you," you murmur into his hair, peppering his face with gentle kisses.

You both lie like that for a little while, and eventually you can feel him snoring softly against you. You let yourself drift off too, feeling impossibly safe in his arms.

[enduringmoth]

thoughts on marvin's abuse, care's existence and paul's transness

taking a break from my usual bg3 posting to talk a little bit about my newer hyperfixation through the lens of queer allegory

necessary author's note: i am an afab transmasculine nonbinary person. obviously, while i do believe my transness does lend my opinion authenticity, at the same time, being trans myself does not mean i can't be transphobic -- so if any of the contents of this post set off alarm bells, please tell me.

trigger & content warnings: child abuse, kidnapping, torture, general petscop badness. obvious spoilers for petscop in its entirety, as well as references to the recent youtube deepdive by nexpo.

TL;DR -- perpetuating the idea that someone can force someone else to be a different gender than they are is harmful to trans people. however, all things involve considerable nuance. to pretend that marvin's actions could not have influenced paul's sense of self in the slightest discredits paul's lived experiences, and i believe a more trauma-informed dialogue about paul could be worth exploring as a community.

my preferred theory explaining petscop is that marvin tried to make care more like lina through abuse and "failed". after this, care would eventually end up in lina's home, and transition to paul.

(simply to make all of this less confusing, i'm going to call paul pretransition "care", though i will avoid pronouns. this is not me trying to invalidate paul, it's just so i don't have to keep saying "paul before he transitioned" or similar phrases.)

it is not a result of marvin's "failure" that care transitioned to paul. but i do believe there is a link between paul's perceptions of self and the trauma he endured pretransition -- and discussing these things gives us a deeper understanding of paul and his history.

obviously there is no "canon" answer to petscop. but im seeing this theory discussed a lot within the tags, and i personally agree with it -- i just feel some of those who are saying we cannot consider marvin's actions are not necessarily accurate, either.

what i am positing is that while marvin certainly did not make paul trans and i would never claim that he did, we understand that marvin's abuse of care -- his cruelty towards care, his warping of care's perception of appearance and self-worth -- is certainly a factor in how paul must see himself.

marvin's treatment of care was poor enough that paul struggles to recall that time of his life. he thinks they are different people -- and in a way, they certainly are (and i've seen DID theories for them which i also enjoy because of this) -- and has clearly repressed what it meant to be marvin's child.

marvin locked care in a basement for six months. that is no small amount of time, and it likely had no small amount of affect on paul. we can assume based on the implications of some school scenes that marvin was trying to convince care to be more like lina during this time. care escaped, and returned home -- though eventually, we know from belle's dialogue that paul would find his way to lina.

"do you remember the day you were born?"

paul's "birth" occurred after marvin's abuse, and though it was not a result of it, there is something almost poetic about following the thread of paul's life from care to his authentic self that plays as a foil to the heinous rebirthing practiced by marvin and rainer.

contrasted with what happened to belle (and seemingly others), paul chose (a form of) rebirth -- transition. marvin tried to make lina be reborn through care. instead, care resisted -- and he would eventually become paul, and that strikes me as so narratively compelling. it's not to spite marvin and please don't think i'm saying that, as care was naturally always paul -- it is simply self-discovery at its most raw and beautiful, and i love it.

the above is why i love petscop as a queer allegory. taking ownership of one's future and selfhood, even when others are trying to tell you who to be.

and that's why i think saying marvin made his afab child transition in rejection of martin's quest for lina -- or that marvin tried to make his amab child transition to care/lina, as nexpo posited -- is so wrong, and harmful.

yet, paul's trauma is real. it happened. and it's a part of him that should be able to be discussed for what it is.

as someone with extensive trauma history, i can tell you that my gender expression and personal identity are in some way connected to pieces of trauma, because those pieces are part of me. i am not trans because of my trauma, but my gender and my trauma are parts of me at the same time -- i am not each of my pieces, but a sum of my whole.

the point i'm trying to make here is that while i think nexpo genuinely missed the mark here with this whole "care never existed, marvin tried to make paul a girl" thing, i do think there needs to be room for a trauma-informed discussion around paul.

i hope that all made sense. if any of this is harmful/transphobic, please let me know. i genuinely love this game and i think it's so fascinating to discuss. /gen

[sannasruins]

bad flirt

denki x reader

type: hurt to comfort/ fluff

warnings: jealousy, self consciousness, implied f!reader

a/n: this is me combating writer's block, i have nothing to say for myself, sorry in advance <3

word count:1.5k

 Kaminari Denki was always a bit of a flirt, calling all the girls in your grade “sweetcheeks”, “sunshine”, and “cutie”. You weren’t in his class, so you didn’t receive the brunt of it but whenever he came by the support classroom to get his disks adjusted or his costume tinkered with, he would always seek you out to do it. Sitting and talking to you as you worked, his words often came off awkward and inexperienced, he was trying to be cool, but he was still learning. At first you were annoyed with him, interrupting your other work, forcing you to divide your attention between him and his tech, unless you wanted him to start whining in an even more annoying falsetto. 

“If I had a go-en* for every time I saw someone as beautiful as you, I’d have 5 yen.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, keeping your eyes down and focused on the disk you were fiddling with, tightening a screw fully before you humored him with a response. 

“I heard you say the same thing to Yaoyorozu Momo last week in the lunch line, so you would have at least 10 yen.”

His face flushed in embarrassment, and he reached up to scratch his neck as he let out an apologetic laugh, “ah I better start learning more lines then, shouldn’t I?”

You looked up and at him, “maybe you should stop flirting with so many girls, or get better at it, because you kinda suck at it.”

He laughed in earnest this time, “aha yeah, though I’m just playing around, its nothing serious l/n.”

Oddly enough that sent a weird pang to your heart, you weren’t sure why, but you decided it wasn't important enough to give any thought to. 

You hummed in response and directed all your focus back onto his gear, oblivious to the pair of gleaming yellow eyes watching your every movement. 

Denki’s gear seemed to be getting broken or needing adjustment more and more recently, and every time he made his way to the support classrooms, he was always seeking you out. Interrupting conversations you were having with other male classmates, sliding into whatever space he could that was next to you, and spouting ridiculous pickup lines.

“Can you take me to the hospital? I think I just broke my legs falling for you so hard!”

“Cupid called; he told me to tell you he needs my heart back.”

“I seem to have lost my phone number, could I have yours instead?”

“I was wondering if you had an extra heart, because mine was just stolen!”

At first it annoyed you, his frequent and rudely impromptu interruptions, but you slowly found yourself looking forward to his visits, to hear his cheesy lines and chitchat with you. Along with that though, you found this uncomfortable feeling making its home in your gut every time you would overhear him talking to another girl the same way he talked to you. Using the same kind of stupid flirting techniques, he used on you on the way prettier girls from class 1A and B. You didn’t like it, in fact you hated the way it, and that stupid blonde, made you feel. 

It all came to a head on an overcast, regular day, nothing in particular caused it, in fact the day had been peaceful, and you were allowed to stay late by yourself with the promise of locking up after yourself since you were convinced you were close to a breakthrough on a new technology you had been working on. Maybe it was just the line, maybe it was the way he had come sliding into the spot next to you with no regard for your personal space, maybe it was the way you couldn’t even escape his words after school hours.

“Sorry, can you help me? I think there’s something wrong with my eyes, cause I can't seem to take them off you.”

It wasn’t an especially offensive line, not his worst by far, but something about it caused you to be pushed past your limits, the last screw holding together the damn snapping and opening the flood gates. You stood up from your workstation, leaving him sitting there and looking at you with a confused smile on his face.

“Will you just leave me alone Kaminari? There are so many other girls in this course you can go harass, I’m so sick of your shallow meaningless flirting! You should understand there can be weight behind your words! You can’t,” you sigh exasperated, running both hands up your face and through your hair, “You can’t just go around with your sweet words and sly smiles and stupid cute face and expect it to not work!”

He watched you with wide, electric eyes, and pink slowly blooming across his cheeks.

“You, you think my face is cute?” he stammered.

His stupid question only agitated you more, is that the only thing he had heard you say as you poured out your grievances. Tears of frustration welled in your eyes, threatening and fighting to spill over and ruin the image of strength you had desperately tried to present in an attempt to be taken seriously. 

The tears won, and now you were standing in the middle of your empty classroom, crying in front of the bewildered boy who had no idea that there were consequences to his actions. 

He stood, arms out in front of him, hands open, as if he was trying to approach a feral animal, “hey, hey, hey, ‘m sorry l/n, I didn’t know.” He slowly made his way closer.

“I wouldn’t have said those things if I knew.” He reached you, and when you didn’t make any move to push him away, circled his arms around you in an embrace, pressing your face close to his heart with one of his hands. It was beating fast.

You bounced your fist off of his chest weakly as you cried, mumbling about “leading me on” and “playing with my feelings”. It took about 5 minutes for you to wear yourself out, to calm down and run out of tears, but he was still as a statue. He stood and listened to you, never releasing you from his warm embrace. 

When you had finally silenced, he pulled away slightly, ignoring the small damp spot on his shirt of tears and snot, and looked at your reddened face. 

“Are you done?” he inquired. You nodded. 

He led you over to your workstation and pushed you down into your chair, before turning around and rummaging through his school bag, pulling out a water bottle and offering it to you. 

“I haven’t drunk from it yet, so it’s clean.” he informed, tilting it in your direction, enticing you to take it with a quivering hand, and sip from it slowly. 

When you had had your fill of the refreshing water, you screwed the cap back on, feeling much more composed and a little embarrassed of your earlier outburst. You scrubbed your face with the back of your sleeve, wiping away the salty streaks that had smeared themselves across your cheeks. You offered him an apology and excuse.

 “I’m sorry about that Kaminari, I don’t know what got into me.” 

He shook his head, dismissing your words.

“I’m really sorry too l/n, I didn’t know my talking to other girls like that would hurt your feelings so bad, I just, I don’t want you to think I didn’t mean them when I was saying them to you.” He paused, eyes flitting across the room as they avoided looking at you. 

“I know it’s not very convincing, saying that the same things I say to others have no meaning but when I say them to you, they do, but it’s true. In truth, I was practicing what I wanted to say to you, all those times you overheard me, because,” he coughed awkwardly, face flushed a bright red, “because well, I really like you, and I didn’t want to screw up with what I say to you.”

You let out a bemused and astonished huff of humor.

“Yeah, kind of ironic now,” he continued, “but I’ve always been really awkward around girls, especially the pretty ones I like, like you. And, well, I figured practice makes perfect.”

It was your turn to flush now, heat rising to your face at his confession. 

“I’m sorry I made you think I wasn’t serious, or made you feel like I was just playing with your feelings. That really isn’t what it is. I would love if you would let me prove that to you.” He took one of your hands into both of his. 

“I really like you, l/n y/n, please let me make it up to you, could I take you out this weekend?”

You wiped at the reddened skin of your face once more, as if you could rub away the blush that had made its home on your cheeks. You nodded, snuffling against your sleeve.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that, Kaminari.”

“Call me Denki.” he pressed.

The ghost of a smile graced your lips. “Yeah, I think I'd like that Denki.”

*go-en is the five yen piece

[erosuguru]

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI, Bully gojo x female reader, reader is a teacher at jujutsu tech, 1k words, little proof reading

CW: DUB CON (gojo bullies reader here), spanking but only once, gojo makes you keep a secret

Notes: scared of posting this because its yk dark content, this is the first time I'm posting sth like this as well so yeah please scroll away if you don't consume dark content in general. Understand that this is PURELY FICTIONAL AND IS IN NO WAY ENDORSED OR ENCOURAGED OUTSIDE OF FICTION.

The moment you see a pair of dark shades contrasted by white hair, panic fills you, Satoru Gojo made it a daily assignment to corner you somewhere and terrorise you until he was satisfied. On some days they were meaningless comments thrown your way haphazardly either overtly sexual comments about your appearance or comments poking at how weak you were compared to him, other days he would trap you in an empty classroom with him and watch you grimace, knowing what's coming.

"Wimpy, let's fuck lots today~ 'Kay?" That demeaning nickname he chose for you, it was insulting and in situations like these, gross.

Satoru was convinced you enjoyed his bullying deep down, otherwise, you wouldn't be letting out moans and whines muffled by his lips as he fucked you on one of the desks in the vacant classrooms. His hands pinning yours down and welding his fingers between yours, a romantic gesture mocking the cruel undertones of your situation, separating from the kiss, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips and yours snapped. "You like this," he panted between slow and harsh thrusts. "You like me." He emphasised his point by driving his cock harder into you, Satoru smiled as he saw you bite down your bottom lip and try shake your head, you're such a cute liar.

"I don- ah!.. I- aahhnn.. hate..!" You couldn't complete your sentences, any coherent thought you had melted as your mind kept thinking of how the strongest was balls deep inside you, he only laughed as you stopped speaking to continue moaning through the pleasure, vision blurring you could still see his shades clearly.

"What's that? Speak up, baby~" Satoru mocked you, you couldn't be bothered to hear him, focusing only on surviving his merciless pounding, his hands slipping under your uniform harshly and feeling every part of you, slowing down his thrusts you assumed the torture would be over, however that thought was quickly discarded as he suddenly and rapidly rubbed at your clit causing you to let out a noise that crossed between a squeak and a moan, the jerk had the gall to laugh.

"Yeah? You like that, dont'cha?" He lowered his voice, bringing his face closer to yours he kissed your messily, saliva coating your lips. "You love having my attention," he began. "You're so fucking weak, it's so cute. Wanna keep you all to myself.."

Satoru's cruelty knew no bounds, whenever he had the chance to fuck you he would humiliate you and force you to hear claims of how you loved his attention, you loved having his eyes on you, his hands on your body, his cock inside you–

"Sensei! You okay?"

You straightened, eyes snapping up noticing the familiar faces of your students look at you in concern, Nobara tilted her head in confusion. "You were talking about how you knew Gojo sensei in school, why'd you stop talking?"

"Oh... right, sorry‐ just uhm.. some unpleasant memories, nothing much!" You waved it off, Yuuji piped in. "About Gojo sensei? Was he a bad guy in school?"

You grew quiet, trying to think of the proper words to explain the phenomenon that is Satoru Gojo, Nobara and Yuuji took your silence as anticipation for a bigger revelation while Megumi watched with an uninterested expression, not caring enough to listen.

"Well... Gojo was–"

"A nice guy who doted on his juniors, of course!" Satoru appeared at the door, you couldn't see his eyes beyond the blindfold but you knew he was examining the scene to make sure you didn't say anything that would ruin his students' perception of him.

"Yeah, I doubt that!" Nobara responded and Yuuji shot back at her "I can see it, He's nice to us, right? He was probably the same in school!"

Megumi squinted in confusion at his friend's logic "yeah.. but I doubt anyone can stay the same for years, Nobara's probably right."

The group's back and forth was stopped as Satoru stepped into the room and clapped to bring everyone's attention to him. "Alright kiddies! Yaga gave me the OK and we're all goin' on an assignment together! Take this as a valuable learning opportunity, alright?" Satoru turned to you. "You don't mind if I steal them from you for a bit, right?"

You shook your head, the initial surprise of his appearance now gone. "You can go ahead, we were just chatting anyway."

"Okay! Everybody out! I'll catch up in a sec~" Satoru turned back to his students. "Me and Miss (name) here have a little faculty gossip to catch up on!" Ignoring his fake excuse, Nobara and Yuuji got up, Megumi stood up straight from his leaning position on the wall, and the three headed out while chatting among themselves about the previous topic.

As you watched them leave, Satoru stood closely next to you, leaning down near your ear. "So, did you snitch on me?~" his tone was playful, but you knew better.

Shaking your head no, he hummed and examined you for any signs of lying– similar ones that he would look for when you two were students, he rubbed your back almost soothingly "good girl~ remember, it's our little secret, 'Kay?" He may be older and smarter now, but the obsession with you hadn't dwindled over the years.

You turned your head away from him, clasping your hands at your front. "You should go, Satoru." He frowned at that, "you shouldn't keep the students waiting. They'll get mad at you."

"... hmph, so cold to me.." his hand stopped at your waist. He could see you growing flustered. "But just remember who's the weak one here." His tone had a firm warning to it, telling you not to get ahead of yourself.

You insisted on silence, but you hadn't anticipated his large hand coming down to spank you on your ass once, elliciting a shocked yelp from you, he walked away pretending as if nothing had happened, as if he wasn't just threatening you to know your place.

"This assignment won't take long, so let's fuck lots when I get back, 'Kay wimpy?" He tugged his blindfold up slightly, one of his piercing eyes drinking in your flustered state before he would leave with a newfound motivation to finish the mission, bestow his knowledge on his lovely students then return to this very same classroom to fulfill his promise to you.

[breeofbree]

Middle of the night

Gaara x F!reader

(Seeing as Gaara and Itachi already have a strong lead in the poll, I will be releasing this fluffy one shot early as I have a few Gaara fics on standby that I wasn’t ready to post. Itachi will also be dropping within the week)

Summary: two insomniacs in love. Gaara watches reader at night when she returns from missions. Reader gets home late to finally catch him, FLUFF

The sand village was always near silent when I returned. The dark sky cascaded against the twirling sand in the wind, creating sparkling masterpieces under the street lights. It was peaceful, serene even. After being away so long in the leaf village to help proctor the chunin exams, it was bittersweet to admit I had missed the sand sneaking its way between my toes when I walk. Or how it would always find its way in to my hair just to be washed down the drain in the shower. 

“You’re going to miss your stop if you keep day dreaming, Y/N… And I thought Shikamaru was bad.” Temari chides, bumping me in the direction of my door. I can’t help but smirk when turning slowly to her,” I just missed the sand.”

“Sure. Say that to me again during the next sand storm.” Temari grimaces, already shaking light brown speckles from her shoulder. 

“You just want an excuse to go back to the leaf and see Shikamaru.” I arch my brows as I watch the tint of red creep like a vine up her neck and her failure to turn away in time,” as if. His intelligence hardly makes up for his lack of motivation... Don’t even get me started on how he thinks everything is a drag.”

Temari crosses her arms and hops down from the stone doorstep,” besides, I don’t have time for anymore men. I already have to make sure my siblings didn’t burn anything down or die of starvation. Such a drag.”

“Ha! You’re even starting to sound like him. Admit it, you’re in love.” I gasp almost a little toodramatically at her turned back, causing her to stop in her tracks as the anger bites in her words,” goodnight Y/N.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow Temari.” I finally give in, turning to unlock my weathered door and mumble a slight victory,” she didn’t deny it.”

My little apartment was dull from my time away. Empty and dark except the golden sand pooled into little masterpieces at the door from blowing through the slight crack, leaving its unique mark and greeting me back home. Taking my time to light the candles to avoid turning on the lights and brew some tea, I lose track of time. Finally I find myself draping across the couch, glancing at the clock on the wall saying it’s almost two in the morning, but my mind and body say it’s barely noon. After cleaning up and getting my training clothes washed, I finally trudge up to the bedroom to convince myself I’m tired. 

“I could’ve swore I closed all the windows before we left.” I mumble to myself skeptically, deciding ultimately to leave it open and let in the cool breeze for the night. Early spring drafts were heavenly, but they came and went too fast before the desert heat of summer dragged in. As I lay down in bed, I can’t help but face towards the window, watching the moon peacefully laze around in the sky and the clouds drifting slowly. After several moments, the soft wisps of sand dancing against the window frame catches my attention. The breeze was low, not even enough to pick more than a few grains of sand up, let alone strands. My feet carry themselves to the window in a sleep drunk stupor, then my body moves on its own to climb in to the frame, looking around. If anyone were to break in, they would’ve used the easy route of the balcony door, literally two feet from the window. I finally turn to look on the balcony, seeing the all knowing flash of vermillion, trying hard to conceal themself against the shadows on the wall.

“For Kazekage, you’re horrible at hiding yourself.” I yawn, jumping the distance from the window to the balcony railing, perching myself in perfect view of the moon and letting my feet dangle in the open air.

“I just wanted to be sure the two of you made it home safely.” Gaara mutters out, taking his time to walk up and slouch his arms over the railing next to me.

“Gaara, Temari and I have been back for hours. What are you really doing outside of my house in the middle of the night?” I ask, draping a hand on to the top of his head. He careens into the touch, his whole body following the inward tilt of his head at the feeling,” I wanted to make sure you got to sleep alright.”

I can’t help but chuckle, caressing my fingers through his locks as he sighs peacefully,” do you do that for all the sand shinobi returning home?”

“Only you.” He admits sheepishly, finally allowing his head to drop in my lap and his arm to wrap over my legs in exhaustion. 

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or concerned for my safety.” I huff out jokingly before continuing,” seems like you do it an awful lot Lord Gaara.” 

“Y/N. I believe we’re at a level of friendship where you can drop the Lord. And you aren’t the most attuned with sleeping normally.” Gaara sighs out, burrowing his head deeper against my legs in comfort. My other hand dances lazy circles against his tensed back, instantly relaxing his posture and causing a sigh of relief. 

“I think you’re the last person who should be scolding me on my sleep schedule. I also thought we were at the level of friendship where you use my front door instead of stalking me from my own balcony.” I say in answer, feeling as his body tenses again.

“That’s not- I was only- I didn’t want to bother you.” Gaara stumbles out, shooting up quickly to defend himself as he fumbles backwards and lands against the balcony floor. He slopes his arms over his legs, curling in on himself in defeat and embarrassment. A yawn sneaks it’s way out as I push his legs down and take my turn to rest my head in his lap,” I was only joking y’know? I don’t mind. It gives me a sense of safety, honestly.”

His arms curl around my frame, pulling me upwards in to a tight and what felt like a much needed hug, head nuzzling comfortingly in the crook of my neck and his arms refusing to let go.  I melt around him, giving in to the needy touch, letting our inner children heal with every second of embrace that we both were robbed of for so long. 

“I can’t bring myself to rest when I can’t feel your presence in the village. It’s as if you keep my demons at bay. I can’t help but to make sure you get to sleep every night before I can finally rest myself.” He whispers, wavering tears present in his shaky voice. His words make it seem like I was gone for years and not days, and in his touch, it was starting to feel that way. Our closeness had come on suddenly after last summer. Kankuro had pestered Temari on not having friends so much that I was the unlucky stranger she dragged home for dinner after training. Awkward dinner conversations revealed trauma within one night, we all realized our similarities in not having stand up parents, but persevere regardless. 

“Y/N?” Gaara asks quietly, shaking me lightly to make sure I’m still conscious,”hmm?”

I can only manage to mumble against his tight grip even if I am fully awake.

“Do you feel any sort of affection towards me?” He continues shyly. I weakly attempt to catch the laugh that bubbles up my throat,” if I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here right now, Gaara. I wouldn’t subject myself to you and your siblings at one dinner table at the same time. The question is, do you like me… or do you find comfort in me?”

“Is it selfish of me to say both?” He questions, raking a hand gently through my hair. I shake my head softly,” as long as you come to bed with me, I might forgive you for keeping me up so late.”

Without another word, he lifts us both effortlessly from the patio floor and ushers us through the door. His gourd clanks against the door as he tries to shut it, causing him to wince slightly. He never once lets go of me, even wrestling with the bedding. Even when he slides the gourd off his back, and shuts off the light. Gaara is stiff as a board beside me, causing me to climb on top and rest on his chest, listening to his frantic heart beat slowly become steady,” let’s get what sleep we can before your sister busts down my door in the morning.”

“If I had to stay awake for eternity to usher the moon and sun across the sky, just to make sure you slept and lived peacefully, I would without question. A night without sleep is nothing new to me, neither is my own sisters temper.” Gaara speaks lowly, finally relaxing. His arms find their way around me once again, resuming the grip that felt as if he let me go, I’d blow away as easily as a piece of paper. I lazily lift my head to place a chaste kiss to his lips that’s broken by another ebbing yawn,” you’re sweet… but you can speak poetically in the morning, after we’ve both woken up.”

My tiredness finally overcomes my strength, drooping further down and giving in to the clenching hands of sleep as his chest becomes a rhythmic melody to ensure my rest was peaceful. 

Sleep was never the problem. It was the disorientation and grogginess of waking up that bothered me, the crashing reality of all of life’s regrets hitting all at once as the sun burns your eyes and the heat drys your throat. This morning was different. My mind was alert with full clarity, a glass of water also sat waiting for me. Then the anxiety of the thought of oversleeping hits. My body spasms, shooting upwards in a panic to reach the dresser before Temari has the chance to reach for the spare key in the cactus pot by the door. My heart clenches as the arms that subdue my panicking body snake around my torso, stopping the race against the clock. Red hair brushes against my shoulder as Gaara rests his head against me in a groggy yet, still alert haze,” Y/N, take a moment to look at the time. Temari won’t even be up for another hour.”

My fingers wrap around his own that rest just above my naval in a protective embrace, breathing deeply before sighing,” force of habit.”

“I guess we both have habits to break.” He yawns, squeezing tighter. 

“Maybe that’s something we can do together?” I question, leaning my head back to rest in to him.

“I wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way.” He answers in a whisper, broken by the familiar scuff of a foot against the window frame.

“It’s not usual for you to leave a window open for anyone to sneak in, i thought you were trained better than that. I noticed it last night and hoped it would be open for a rude awakening.” Temari chides, looking at the empty bed, most likely assuming I’d still be asleep. Gaara doesn’t release me, only turning us so he can face his sister,” and here I thought we agreed as a family, it was best not invade others privacy, Temari.” 

“Please, I hope you know the open window wasn’t the only thing I noticed last night. You truly are awful at camouflaging yourself for someone that’s supposed to be Kazekage.” Temari scoffs back, dropping effortlessly from the window sill to saunter smugly over before glaring at me and continuing,” and you give me shit about Shikamaru.”

“S-Shikamaru?” Gaara asks in disbelief as Temari shrinks in embarrassment,” as if! I have full grown adult brothers to worry about who still think they have to sneak out of the house to go anywhere, let alone creepily wait on a poor girls balcony to watch them sleep!”

“Shikamaru?” Gaara says again, finally releasing me as Temari turns so red, the sunset would be jealous of her new hue. He slowly stalks towards her, sliding his gourd on to his back as she clumsily retraces her steps back to the window in horror,” Gaara, let’s calm down here. We’re obviously both at a misunderstanding here. We’re adults now. We can talk this out.” 

Her leg stretches for the window, not wasting a second to clamber out and jump for the nearest roof as Gaara quickly follows,” Temari!” 

“Adults…Still kids if you ask me.” I yawn, diving ungracefully back for the bed, knowing I’d lucked out in not having to train today. They’d be chasing each other around the village for hours. Or so I’d thought, until a brief guest of wind signals one of them dropping back through the window. Gaara hastily plants a kiss against my forehead and huffs,” family dinner same time as usual tonight.”

“Got it.” I mutter, tossing a pillow at him as he quickly reaches for the window once again as i giggle to myself, enjoying the moment.

Life isn’t about happiness, it’s about finding the happiness in mutual struggles and awkward situations with others. It’s about finding peace in something that was once deemed hateful and soulless. It’s about creating a future in something you’d never thought had a chance. It’s about coming to peace with the demons you no longer fight alone in the middle of the night. 

Most of all, it’s about enjoying siblings that chase each other across a village so you could get another half hour of sleep. 

[beauty-and-passion]

I think I perfectly know what you’re talking about, so let me tell you some trivia.

When someone acts very defensive about something, in Italy we say that they have “la coda di paglia” (which can be translated as “they have a straw tail”). This saying comes from an old tale of a fox, whose tail was cut off by a trap. The animal was so ashamed, that its friends decided to give it a straw tail, so beautiful that anyone could never have suspected it was fake.

But one day a rooster let this secret slip away and once the peasants knew about the straw tail of the fox, they lit fires near the chicken coops, so that the fox could no longer steal their chickens anymore: straw catches fire very easily and so the fox was forced to stay away.

From this story comes the expression “having a straw tail”, which means fearing any kind of criticism for a behavior they are well aware of. If you have a straw tail, if you have bad behavior or did something wrong, you know it. And so, you act defensive to hide it.

Thomas is doing exactly that. He’s getting very defensive over simple questions, he’s making childish excuses in a desperate attempt to show how good he is, but all he’s doing is showing us he knows he’s in the wrong.

So here are the tweets you (probably) wanted me to talk about and yes, I will talk about them both (special thanks to @transfemlogan​​ who posted them on Tumblr first).

Those are both very recent tweets, but let’s start with the first one dated October 2022:

Okay, let’s recap everything Thomas did wrong here.

1) That person was not pressuring nor threatening him. They asked a simple, genuine question and they did it very politely and very calmly. This wasn’t an angry fan. And yet, Thomas went in full passive-aggressive mode, as if that person was insulting him. This is the best example of what “having a straw tail” means.

2) “Keeping people posted” means giving real updates, not a vague “working on the script” written months ago. It means telling people how much has been written, if he’s close to the end or not, how long he thinks it will take to reach the end, what his plans are, even if he’s just working on the actual script or not because he’s doing other stuff. Those are updates.

3) “Updating to the extent that I feel comfortable doing” is just a more convoluted way to say “I do not have any real update, so I am giving you crumbs, because this is all I have”. But he’s hiding it behind the excuse of “I’m taking care of myself”, which could’ve worked years ago, but after three years it’s not so convincing anymore.

4)  Pressuring someone to deliver content is not healthy nor productive, but if someone is clearly doing nothing, some pressure makes the work done. As a writer, I learned long ago that, if I want things to get done, I have to do them. I won’t enjoy the whole process and there will be times I don’t really want to do it, but it’s the only way to do stuff. You can’t wait forever for the inspiration to come because, flash news, it won’t magically fall from the sky.

And sure, taking care of yourself is important too, but using your well being as an excuse to always postpone is just laziness.

5) Since Mr. Sanders is thirty-three years old and not five, I think he is old enough to accept someone asking him what is going on with the season finale and not overreact like he did. I could understand if he was a teen, but when you’re 33 you’re old enough to deal with something as simple as a question.

Oh and since I’m here talking about this post and since Mr. Sanders didn’t do it, I would like to formally apologize to the person who wrote that question. You did nothing wrong, dear. Your question was valid and polite and I am sure that another, more mature person would’ve given you the proper reply you deserved.

And if any of you is curious, would you like to know what the real answer to that question was? “The season finale is not here at all, because I am barely working on the script. And I am barely working on the script, because I don’t know how to handle it. And I don’t know how to handle it, because I am not a writer - but I want to write it anyway”. Here’s your answer, you’re welcome.

Believe me, I hope to be proven wrong, but this is what I got from Thomas’ over-the-top reaction. And if any of you think I am too hard on him, then sorry again, but it pisses me off to see a grown-ass man whining like a child because someone just asked him something he doesn’t want to talk about.

And here is the second tweet, dated December 2022:

Not only this is another textbook example of what “having a guilty conscience” means, but Mr. Sanders’ reply is - if possible - even more childish: I work very very hard! See how hard I work? I am right and you are wrong! And If you keep saying these bad things, I will tell mom.

In addition to that, he wasn’t even clever enough to turn the topic away from him. That person said that his supporters got nothing in turn and are more excited than him? He could’ve said that this was offensive towards his supporters, because if they are trusting him it’s not because he’s forcing them to do it, but because they like what he’s doing and want him to create these things he’s passionate about. But nope, he was too butthurt and he clearly knew that person was right, so he overreacted like a child.

This also proves that, sadly, he doesn’t believe his supporters are following him out of trust or because they like everything he’s doing. He’s probably very aware that the reason most people are following him is Sanders Sides - and that puts him in a difficult situation.

Why? Because he’s not able to handle the series. And he's aware of it: he knows he’s taking too long with the script, he knows there are no real updates, he knows he has nothing to give. And yet, this series is his main income: there are people, merch, contracts. He can’t just drop or cancel it.

And so he keeps everything as vague as possible. If everything is vague, people will still trust him, they will think he’s working on the series and patiently wait for the next episode.

This can work with kids. But when kids grow up or teens grow tired, they start to rightfully ask questions. And if you don’t have answers, you end up replying like this - thus involuntarily showing how aware you are of your situation.

And now, let’s take Sanders Sides out for a moment, because this isn’t about the series, but about him.

This behavior is very, very disrespectful. Adults should be an example for younger people, they should be someone the next generation will look at and take inspiration from, to grow into even better adults. We can’t pretend kids are better than us, if we are not the first to show them how to be better.

Thomas isn’t just an adult, but a public figure, so he’s not just an example for his friends or relatives: he’s an example for a lot of people. He should show them what a proper, mature, adult reply is. What he did instead was attacking with a lot of passive-aggressiveness an innocent fan who just asked a question and a more sarcastic one, who just poked him.

Do you know what he could’ve done instead? Not reply at all. Or just grow a pair and reply like an adult. He could’ve thanked the first fan and said that, unfortunately, there are no real updates on Sanders Sides for now, because he’s working on other stuff - and added that he hopes they will like this stuff too. While to the second person, he could’ve said that people are following him for more than just Sanders Sides and that he’s sorry that person thinks he did nothing, because he worked on different things. Was it so hard to do?

This is not a good way to handle criticism. And I hope he will grow up a little: all he did now was showing us how long his straw tail is and how easily it catches fire.

[statelysapphic]

Letters to Emily

Emily Prentiss x Reader

Summary: When Ian Doyle takes away the one person you love, you find solace in writing her letter.

Warnings: Typical talk of Emily being dead. Hurt. Let me know if I missed something<3

A/N: Hi friends! It’s been a while. I’ve been working on this for a while, and idk how I feel about it. I very lightly edited this. Feedback is appreciated as always. Ao3 Link. Enjoy!<3

July 26, 2011

Emily,

I accepted the job. I’m not sure what would piss you off more though: the fact that it’s a desk job or the fact that it’s in Phoenix and I’m leaving Quantico. Leaving the team. I know you’d tell me that I’m making a huge mistake but it’s just too painful.

JJ brings me coffee every morning, just like you did, and even though I know she means well, it’s a painful reminder that you will never bring me coffee again. When I look up from my desk in the bullpen to see the empty one across from me, I’m reminded that I won’t be able to watch you work anymore. I loved watching you pour over files, watching the gears turn in your head. Putting the pieces together and catching the bad guy. You were brilliant.

Emily paused as her vision blurred, the burning sensation of tears threatening to spill catches her attention and shifts her focus. She was angry. Angry at Doyle for forcing her into this mess. Angry at JJ for not telling her that you transferred. Angry at Hotch for even approving your transfer request. Angry at Derek, Spencer, and Penelope; Did they even try to convince you to stay? She took a deep breath, and then another. As she felt her heart rate return to normal, she wiped the tears away from her cheeks and continued reading.

Everything here is a painful reminder of you. Everything. I walk past a framed photo of you every single day and it guts me. Every single time. I can’t keep doing it, so I’m running. I know you’d be so disappointed in me. Virginia isn’t home without you, Em. It stopped feeling like home when JJ told me you “never made it off the table.” I don’t think I’ll ever find your feeling of home again.

I’m not sure how to tell the team about the transfer. Maybe I’ll buy them a round after this case and break the news to them then. Booze and karaoke should soften them up, right?

I don’t think they’re going to take it well. I just hope they skip the guilt trip.

I hate to end this on a sad note, so I will say that I think Arizona will be good for me. Lots of sunshine and wide open spaces. New people, new experiences. I actually think I’m excited, even though I feel guilty for it. I suppose that will get better with time. I don’t know if I’ve told you this, the one item on my bucket list is to go rockhounding out west. Maybe I’ll treat myself once I get settled.

I miss you so much, Em. But I love you even more. Always.

Emily refolded the letter and slid it back into its envelope. As she placed it on the coffee table in front of her, she finally allowed herself to cry. She had done everything in her power to protect you from Doyle and her past. Although you were physically safe, it was clear from your letters that the emotional toll was severe. She was only about halfway through the stack that she found in your bedside table, and she still had three months worth left to read. She knew she wouldn’t finish by the time you got home, but that was okay.

The raven haired woman sighed, picking up the next letter in the pile.

August 12, 2011

Emmy,

Fuck I miss you today. I wish you would’ve been here to ground me though that. Or kick some ass for me. The movers were nice enough to break my bed frame while bringing it up the stairs and then denied doing it. I watched him drop it, babe. I wasn’t even mad until he denied it. Don’t worry, I called the manager and received a full refund for the trouble.

I wish you were here to cuddle on this couch with me. I miss the way you’d hold me. I felt untouchable when I was in your arms. I think you’d like this new apartment though. The master bedroom has a killer view AND a balcony. It also has plenty of south facing windows for my houseplants, and room for many more. My collection has grown exponentially since you’ve seen it last. As odd as it sounds, they’ve helped me through this.

Sorry for the short letter today. Who knew moving halfway across the country would be so tiring? Could’ve fooled me. I love you, Emily. Always.

Emily chuckled lightly at your sarcasm, but soon felt the tears return.

Sadness began to fade within Emily, and anxiety soon took its place. She was unsure of how you would react when you came home after a long day at work to find your not-actually-dead partner sitting in your living room, reading your private letters, no less. Sure, they were technically addressed to her, but she knows you never thought anyone would read them. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to do this, but Emily vehemently rejected all help that the team offered. Hotch offered to call your Supervisor to have them sit you down to talk you through it. JJ nearly begged Emily to help in some capacity, already feeling immense guilt over the situation. Though, she almost let Rossi accompany her when he offered, and she was beginning to regret not doing so.

The regret faded almost instantly as Emily heard a key in the front door. Her heart rate increased and her chest became tight. The reality of the situation had settled in for Emily, and the uncertainty was paralyzing. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a sorry attempt to calm her nerves, as she braced herself to face you. She heard the door shut, followed by footsteps that grew louder and louder until there was silence. Emily didn’t dare look up. Even as she heard the loud clatter of what she assumed were your keys colliding with the hardwood apartment floor.

“E… Emmy?”

~

[scarletwritesshit]

🍰 Blade x Kafka 🍰 Companionship's Immortality

Upon hearing the strangest of gentle sounds behind him, Blade turned around to face Kafka, who he could’ve sworn meowed at him seemingly out of the blue. He looked at her, blinked a few times, yet could not discern anything out of the ordinary, relatively speaking. He turned his back again, but once he did, he heard another faint mew seemingly coming from Kafka. It could just be nothing more than her playing a most unusual prank on him, as Kafka did make a habit of toying with Blade. Eventually, he decided to pay no mind to the strange meowing, though he was still somewhat in disbelief over what he was precisely hearing. They sounded a bit too high pitched, even for Kafka to make.

What purpose did toying with Blade in such a manner even hold? Usually, if he stopped paying her mind, she would eventually get bored of attempting to get his attention. However, the mewing continued to persist, with each noise varying in tone from the last.

"Kafka," Blade said with a slight growl, "why do you insist on meowing at me?"

"Oh, I think you are quite mistaken, Bladie." Kafka said.

Blade turned around, confused, to see that Kafka was now holding a most unusual creature. The outer shell of the creature appeared to be shaped like a cake that he had seen on the Luofu, with the inner part of its body resembling a rather round feline. It had huge golden eyes, and its tail and one of its legs were wrapped in worn bandages.

"It looks just like you," she said with a smile.

He studied at the strange pastry-cat that Kafka was holding up to him. It stretched itself upwards, then bounced back to its normal shape. It seemed to have some sort of rubbery, gelatinous consistency to it, and Blade was almost tempted to poke it just to find out. However, he resisted the urge to satisfy his curiosity, and instead merely looked at it with displeased eyes.

"It looks absolutely nothing like me," he said.

"Someone’s in denial," Silver Wolf commented, still paying more attention to what was on her phone screen.

The strange cat stretched and bounced back once again, making an odd squeaky meow sound.

"And it sounds absolutely nothing like me, too." Blade emphasized.

"But you’re both absolutely adorable. Don’t you agree, Silver Wolf?"

She held up the weird cat so that she could see it and Blade side by side. Kafka was enthralled by their similarities. The outer shell of the creature was black fading into red, colored just like Blade’s hair. They were both wrapped in bandages and adored with the same gold leaf, and even their eyes shared that same ominous shine.

"I see it," Silver Wolf said, looking up briefly from her phone, though not too keen on agreeing with the “adorable” part.

"See? Even Silver Wolf agrees!"

"…Never mind that. Where did you get that thing, anyways?"

"Oh, I might’ve been just a tad bit unable to help myself when I saw them during a little visit to the Herta Space Station."

"So you just up and took one?  It’s bad enough that we have the Xianzhou Luofu and the Astral Express Crew keeping their eyes on us; we don’t need to make even more enemies with whatever these things are!"

"Oh, I don’t think you have to worry yourself, Bladie. These poor creatures act as if they haven’t seen another soul in such a dreadfully long time. I don’t think anyone is going to be missing just one of these pitiful creatures any time soon."

Blade sighed deeply as the unusual creature jiggled once more in Kafka’s hands, mewing softly.

"It serves us no purpose. Why did you even feel the need to take one?"

"Well, if you saw a whole group of them, you’d understand why. You wouldn’t be able to say no."

"I can’t say no to you in the first place."

"Precisely, Bladie. You don’t have much of a choice, darling."

He really didn’t. Blade couldn’t turn down Kafka’s orders no matter the importance, whether it be a matter of life or death or the acquisition of a small critter.

Taking Kafka’s few but convincing words into account, he poked it with a finger and watched it bob like a gelatinous substance. The odd cat simply blinked at him with its large eyes, showing no signs of protest nor discomfort. He poked it again and again, watching it bounce back every time.

"See, Bladie? It’s absolutely adorable, just like you!" she said, taking the cat in one hand and pinching Blade’s cheeks with the other.

He could not resist, though truthfully, he did not want to. Kafka was enjoying the little cat too much, and though he didn’t want to admit it, Blade found his feline lookalike to, indeed, be rather adorable.

Once Kafka freed him from her pinch, he stuck out his finger to the cat to gauge just how friendly it really was. He meant no harm to the creature, even if its reaction was hostile. The cat’s tiny paws grabbed his finger, with a sort of sorrow and yearning that felt all too familiar.

In the moment, Blade could feel what was left of his heart melt with genuine empathy for the poor thing. For the little paws it had, the creature’s grip was rather strong, as if it had just found its reason for carrying on, all while fearing the loss of purpose yet again. He genuinely couldn’t decline Kafka now. Not with how the poor creature longed to find something to hold onto in its unfortunate life. Not with the way its adorableness made Kafka so happy.

The creature was admittedly cute, yes, but he could not help but feel a form of sorrow for it. If this individual felt such a way, then the others might as well, and Blade felt a tinge of desire to lend a hand to…just one more.

He couldn’t take Kafka’s partner all for himself. She seemed all too happy to take responsibility for it. Perhaps, maybe he could sneak back to the Herta Space Station and grab one for himself? If she loved this one so dearly, arguably more than him right now, then he could hardly see a reason for her to say no to a second.

“Where did you even find those things anyways?” he asked.

“Oh, I found the poor little critters thrown away in the space station laboratory,” she said. “A pity that I couldn’t take them all with me, so I simply adopted one that reminded me of you, darling.”

He had a feeling that if she scouted for a creature that resembled Blade, then there could be one that looked like Kafka as well. No guarantees, but Blade was going to attempt to seek one out behind Kafka’s back anyways.

Once he had a break from her watchful eye, Blade made a solo trip to the Herta Space Station’s Special Purpose Lab to investigate the disposal area and locate the creatures. He was greeted by quite a large variety of them, all sharing the same cat like appearance, yet varying greatly in color and adornment. Some had green outer shells, others were a vibrant orange, The “fillings” had immense range as well, and even the characteristics of their eyes were quite diverse. After some looking (and petting a few sad critters to hopefully cheer them up), Blade eventually scouted out a creature that resembled Kafka; a violet and white individual adored with a spider web and sunglasses on top. He crouched down and gently held out his bandaged hand. The little creature seemed rather hesitant at first, but it eventually grabbed one of his fingers with its paw, showing Blade that it was at least accepting of his affection.

Blade picked it up the critter and gave it a gentle squish.

Kafka was right, these creatures are squishy, he thought, gently squishing and stretching its outer shell.

He watched the creature carefully as he played with it, making sure that he was not causing it any discomfort. No one was around to see him, so he spared the creature an ever-so-little smile to return some of the joy that he was feeling. It was an adorable cat-like creature resembling his beloved Kafka, how could he resist allowing himself a little smile in the secrecy of the lab?

He realized that perhaps, he should be making his way back to regroup, lest Kafka becomes concerned with his absence or he finds himself bringing even more critters along for the ride. Hiding the creature wasn’t going to be his problem; the main issue was dealing with Kafka’s teasing once she finds out he gave in and adopted one of his own. She was as sharp as a dagger too, and he physically had no way he could lie his way out of telling the truth.

He was indeed unfortunately correct about it being a short-lived surprise, for she did not hesitate one bit once she heard the slightest mew being uttered from under Blade’s robes.

Hidden away, or at least what he attempted to hide, was one of these critters whose appearance was reminiscent of Kafka.

[agent-cupcake]

Dramaturgy

Ah yes, another commission to fund my gamer lifestyle from the incredibly lovely and patient @novcaine (thank you <;3)

Pairing: Vampire! Claude von Riegan x f!Reader

Synopsis: Trying to cope with the sudden death of your eccentric father, you fall down a rabbit hole of conspiracy, curses, and your very strange (and very tragic) family history, leading you to the small town of Old Derdriu—and its darkest secret.

Warnings: explicit smut, dub/noncon, kidnap, drugged sex

Tags: horror elements, urban fantasy, blood kink, very unhealthy romantic dynamic, overstimulation, "orgasms make your blood sweeter" trope

Word Count: 27.3k

Notes: I read a few horror stories in an attempt to get the tone right for this one which, as I'm sure you'll notice, heavily influenced me while writing. I really got caught up in lore crafting for this one as well, although the real fun was matching up the serious stuff with Claude's personality.

Act 1

“Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge, 

Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies.”

I.

9th day of Verdant Moon 

As long as I can remember, it’s been just us two. Me and dad against the world. Explorers, adventurers, wanderers. Rogues who chase the horizon to keep the sun close, that’s what he says. Said. There’s always been somewhere new to go, we never stayed anywhere long enough to cast too long of a shadow. 

That’s, more or less, what I said over his ashes. Not that there was anyone around to hear it. A eulogy for nobody. But it was true. It is true. 

Once upon a time (that’s what people say, right?), it must have been when we spent a summer in Arundel living out of a camper trailer because we didn’t have an air conditioner and spent most of the time outside, I asked him why. I don’t know why I remember it so well, but the air smelled like bug spray and pine and campfire smoke. Not ours though, we hardly ever have fires. Dad claims it’s ‘reasonable’ caution. Claimed. 

That night, I don’t know what compelled me to ask, but I did. I asked, “Why do we move so much?” 

He said to listen carefully, and I did, because he never sounded so serious. He said that we have bad luck. He said that it was like water, that it’d pool up around us like a puddle if we stayed still. And I asked why, of course, because that was a confusing thing for him to say. 

And he said, and I’ll never ever forget this, “it’s in your blood.”

I think. Back then, the distinction between ‘your’ and ‘our’ was virtually nonexistent. And maybe, just maybe, my memory is faulty, and he didn’t switch from a collective pronoun to a singular one. I could be seeing ghosts that aren’t there, convincing myself of untruths to explain some of this. It could have been ‘your’, and it could have been ‘our’, but the point is the same no matter how I split it apart. 

I’ve got bad luck. It’s in my blood. I try not to think about that because I don’t want it to be my fault somehow, I don’t even know what I would do if it was. 

But I have to know.

II.

“Excuse me, are you Cheryll Bates?” you asked hopefully, standing at the side of a table where an older woman in a bright pink cardigan sat. Nose crinkled and mouth slightly open in the way only people of a certain age could mimic, she adjusted her blocky red glasses higher to peer up at you. The lenses magnified her small, dark eyes like a bug, not helping the discomfort you felt beneath her unwavering gaze as she scanned you from head to toe. 

“You’re the Macbeth girl?” she finally asked. It took you a moment to realize what she meant. Macbeth, your mother’s last name—a name you only learned of, along with the woman herself, a month previous.

“Uhm, yeah, that’s me,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as immediately unsettled as you felt. “May I sit?” 

“Be a waste of time if you didn’t,” she said with a slight tinge of an accent, gesturing to the opposite seat with a plump hand. It was the wooden kind with a quilted cushion and long skirt, matching the borderline stifling cozy atmosphere of the cafe. The kind ripe with this musty, dusty, patchouli and tea leaf smell you associated with old women and antiques.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” you said as you sat down, anxiety making your movements awkward. Although Cheryll Bates wasn’t your blood relative, knowing you were related at all was surreal. Throughout your entire life, you’d never heard a single mention of family, of a mom or uncle or grandparents or even a stray cousin twice removed. You should have felt excited, and a part of you was, but you couldn’t stop messing with the cardboard sleeve on your tea, your eyes flitting around the small cafe every few seconds. 

The answers that had gotten you this far had only served to unravel the very fabric of your existence, but you sought them all the same. You had to. Dad used to say that knowing was often uncomfortable, but ignorance was an agony like no other. He said all sorts of wise things, although you learned recently that the truth was not one of them.  

Cheryll’s mouth worked like she was sucking on something, fine lines fanning out around her lips. The sluggishly swaying Tiffany lamp above cast her in an odd, unflattering light, her dark eyes that much more unnerving beneath the shadows. 

“I liked your mama, she was a sweet girl. How much did Indy tell you about her?” 

Indy, as in, your dad. The man who raised you, who cared for you. It was a nickname he had earned in school, apparently, after the titular adventurer and archeologist from an old movie.

“My dad never told me a single thing,” you said, trying not to sound too affected. If you thought about this all as some sort of research project, it was easier. If it wasn’t your life, you could view it dispassionately. So that’s what you tried to do. “I am… aware of what she did though.” 

“It was a terrible thing,” Cheryll said gravely. “Of course she’d already left you in Enbarr with Indy at that point, came home crying that she had a baby girl, that she couldn’t trust herself to even hold you. Nobody had any idea of why she was so upset, we thought she had lost her mind. And then your daddy came to try and bring her back and… well. I can’t imagine how a person could do such a thing.”

Something within you twisted in sympathy of that statement. Even reading an abstract report made your stomach churn. Self immolation as a means of murder suicide wasn’t very common, mostly because it wasn’t practical. The report had no answers for the hows and the whys, only dry facts.

“Do you think it was postpartum depression?” 

Again, Cheryll stared at you with that sour purse of her lips, almost like she was sizing you up. “It was that family of hers,” she said. “I’ll tell you straight, the Macbeths weren’t quite right. Not to say it was their fault, what happened to them, but I won’t glorify the dead, neither. I don’t believe in it. I never wanted my Liv to marry that boy, I knew only bad things would come of it.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“Didn’t you read about what happened to them?” Cheryll asked, an edge of indignation in her voice. “One after another…” She didn’t finish that statement, closing her eyes to visibly, even theatrically, shudder. Then again, having seen the string of death certificates, you didn’t exactly blame her. “I went to a psychic when Liv told me she was getting married to that Macbeth boy, and do you know what they said? Don’t let it happen. But I did. I let her marry into that family, and I’ve had to live with that every day since.”  

“But none of it was on purpose, was it?” you asked cautiously. “The fire was an accident.” 

“An accident,” Cheryll scoffed. “An ‘accident’ that happened right after the two of them had a baby girl. Just like the ‘accident’ that killed your mama’s baby sister. Do you think what happened with your mama was an accident?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, trying to remain calm, wiping that thought from your head and your palms on your jean-clad thighs, “that my mother committed suicide.” 

“All that girl ever wanted was to be a mama. I’m telling you, there was something wrong with the Macbeths and she realized it too late. They were cursed, all of them and especially the girls.” Cheryll paused, contemplating her tea. “That’s why your parents met in the first place. Indy was doing research into the families involved with that tragedy in Derdriu and they were the only two he could find.” Cheryll took a sip, frowned, then continued in an even softer voice. “I s’pose your daddy must have been just as cursed as your mama, but I didn’t know him very well.”

“What tragedy?” you asked.

“The Rain of Blood, they call it.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” you said, getting out your diary to write it down. 

“Reign, not rain,” Cheryll said, peering at your notepad. “Like a king, reign.” 

You erased the word, rewriting it. “Is it a story, or something that happened?” 

“It happened,” Cheryll said. “He and your mama always had a laugh about that, said it was why they had such rotten luck.”

“Rotten luck,” you repeated under your breath, more to yourself than to her.

“They thought it was real funny,” Cheryll said, pulling you from your thoughts. “Indy scorned all the ghost stories, he said that it was a matter of history waiting to be uncovered. It seems like he changed his tune as soon as he saw what happened to them.” 

You thought about your dad who got itchy when you stayed in one place too long, looking over his shoulder like he was being chased by something you couldn’t see. You thought about the puddles of bad luck forming beneath your feet. 

“He might have,” you said, not wanting to think too hard about that. “Do you remember what he said happened? In this Reign of Blood, I mean.” 

Cheryll impatiently waved her hand. “You’d have to find a book or something, I couldn’t tell you other than that. The town burned down after. That’s why you’ve got Derdriu and Old Derdriu. They were connected before the incident, but Old Derdriu had to be completely rebuilt later.”

“So Old Derdriu is newer than Derdriu,” you said, unsure if you were understanding her correctly. 

“Oh, except for the ruins, they kept those,” she said, her head tilting as she remembered. “The castle from way back when Leicester had Kings and Dukes and the like. But I couldn’t tell you any more than that, I’ve never been.”

You wrote that down too, tapping the eraser against your lip as you contemplated all of this new information. Cheryll was drinking her tea, obviously wanting to finish this up. 

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, I really appreciate it,” you said. “Is there anything else you can think of about my dad or…?”

“I’m going to tell you what I wish I had told my daughter,” Cheryll said, looking at you head on. “Leave, now. Go spend the summer on a beach in Enbarr with other kids your age. There’s nothing for you here.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah, I… Yeah. I’ll think about it, thank you.”  

III.

21st day of Verdant Moon

Being alone is worse than I thought it would be. Having to do everything by myself, figure out how to buy tickets and schedule stuff and all of that, it’s exhausting. But if I think about that too much I’ll cry and if I cry I won’t stop so all I can do is try to figure out what the hell any of this means. It has to mean something, doesn’t it? Or it’s all just insane nonsense and I’m the unfortunate product of a long line of nonsensical insanity, left to drift through this world with nothing but a payout from a trucking company and ghost stories from an old widow and some undiagnosed madness that was never treated because I had no idea I had a family history of mental illness because I was lied to, over and over again.  

I can’t think like that. 

Earlier, after I left that cafe, I remembered something. It’s weird to have all of these little memories popping up now, things that seemed so insignificant at the time. Maybe they are and I’m just trying to backfill information to explain all of the crazy things I’m learning about my dad and my family. I don’t know. I was just thinking about how during my first year of high school, my dad had a brief stint as a mechanic northwest in Elidure before working through the various little towns scattered around the old border between Adrestia and Faerghus as a construction worker—he even let me borrow the Indech branded pickup truck he’d gotten as a property manager on Lake Teutates to drive to my junior prom. The same truck where I got my first kiss playing spin the bottle with some people I was sort of friends with. I can’t even remember his name. It’s funny, almost. I remember that he tasted like the shitty booze we were all drinking and got way too slobbery and wore a purple tie and that I could see the Big Dipper right above his head but I don’t remember his name. Moving around so much, I guess, I never really bothered to remember things like that. After I graduated, dad and I left it all behind to spend a year on the Rhodos Coast. I liked it there. It was charming. But I always knew we wouldn’t be there long, dad got these twitchy sorts of tics when we stayed anywhere too long.

Anyway, the point is, I mentioned wanting to go east, to Gloucester or something because I heard they had mild summers, and he said no in a completely flat voice, nothing like I had ever heard from him. He didn’t even look me in the eye, just said no. We went to Gwenhwyvar pretty soon after that, and I didn’t bring it up again. Again, it could all be innocuous. It could all mean absolutely nothing. But I wonder.  What if it did? What if there was a reason he wouldn’t take me here? A real, true reason that didn’t have to do with the horrible things that happened to my family? If he seriously thought I was cursed, why didn’t he tell me? What was he hiding? Well, I’ll never know that.

I looked up the Reign of Blood and barely found anything, it’s all some witchy weird occult stuff and ghost stories. The castle itself is called El Dorado, and it’s this sort of icon of superstition, but especially the Reign of Blood which is used as an explanation for why so many people disappeared in the fire. People debate if it happened more than they discuss what might have actually taken place. A part of me thinks that Cheryll was just messing with me, or lying. I don’t know why she would, but it makes more sense than the alternative. Who am I to believe that somehow I’m involved with this huge conspiracy? People who are hurting make up all sorts of weird things to try and come to terms with their pain, I’m just feeding into that. 

I should leave. If dad didn’t think it was a good idea to be here, maybe it’s not. I should move on, that’s what he’d want, right? Keep on moving, never look back, chase the horizon. 

I’ll leave. There’s no point in any of this, it’ll just keep hurting. I’ll leave. Tomorrow. 

IV.

Before you left the city, destination TBD—but that was a lie, wasn’t it? You knew exactly where you were going, you just didn’t admit it because you knew it was stupid and the mark was the last person to admit they’d been conned—you stopped at your mother’s childhood home. It was a white farmhouse style place on the very edge of what used to be a suburban neighborhood but was now quickly giving into the urban sprawl. The Macbeths hadn’t lived there for over twenty years. You could see each of those years weathered onto the house. It was where your aunt died as a young girl. How? You weren’t so sure. Cheryll mentioned illness, but the official record only gave the date of her passing. That was a few years before your grandparents followed. 

If you expected to feel something upon seeing the place, you were disappointed. Not even a twinge of disquiet that’d come with seeing a place possibly haunted by the dead. 

You felt nothing other than a vague curiosity, a pang of regret, or melancholy. Never, not once in your entire life, had you lived in an actual house. The longest you had ever stayed in one place was Enbarr, where most of your earliest memories took place. And then there were a few years in Mozghuz where your dad taught history, and another few in a small Varley town where he worked as a consultant for a local museum. But those were apartments and townhouses and just you and him. No family, few friends. A life of transience, of existing ephemerally, always in a state of maybe or going or somewhere else.

A tingling sense of unease settled through you right then, although not because of the entirely benign house with which you were having an intense stare down. Why were you here? Not only at this long abandoned home, but in Leicester, in Edgaria. What were you searching for other than ghosts? Were you seriously going to believe in the superstition of an old woman who went to psychics and still grieved for her daughter? Bad things happened, sure, but that was true in a lot of families. That didn’t mean anything, you just wanted to assign meaning retroactively because of your pain.

And it did hurt. It always hurt. You lived in a state of in-between and those gaps were yours to fill all by yourself, overflowing with the pain you pretended you didn’t feel. Staring at the old house, you were acutely aware of the in-between. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine him standing next to you, filling up that empty space. 

“Are you lost, Mr. Jones?” you would tease. “I doubt you’ll find the Lost Ark all the way out here.” 

He would groan and ask who told you about that embarrassing nickname, and you would tell him that it was-

Well, you wouldn’t. Because if he hadn’t died, you would never know Mrs. Bates or that you weren’t actually his daughter or that his friends called him Indy. 

The sound of rattling plastic on concrete startled you out of your increasingly dangerous thoughts. The next door neighbor was dragging in his trash bins. He was an older man, his face wrinkled and tan like leather, his posture a little hunched. 

“Excuse me,” you called, trotting over to him. It was a long shot, but better than nothing.

“Huh?” he asked, looking at you with his thick, bushy eyebrows furrowed. 

“Sorry to bother you,” you said. “I was just wondering how long you’ve lived here?”

“How long?” he clarified, his big eyebrows shooting up. “Huh. Gotta be fifty years, give or take.” He laughed, a dry, crinkly sound. “Too long, I say.”

“Did you know the family that lived here about twenty-five or so years ago?” you asked, gesturing to the big white house. “The Macbeths.” 

As soon as you said the name, he tensed up, his friendly demeanor freezing. “Why do you want to know?” 

You raised your hands innocently, surprised by the instant reaction. “I’m their… their granddaughter,” you told him. “I don’t mean to trouble you at all, I’m only curious.” 

His cheeks puffed before he let out a big breath, that defensive posture shifting. “I hate to say that I can’t tell you much. They were always a real private family, kept to themselves mostly. It caused one heck of a scandal, the way everything ended. Don’t s’pose it sat right with anyone, not after-” He cut himself off, thin lips drawing inwards. “No, it’s not my business.”    

“Please, I just want to know,” you said, still placating. “Anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate.” 

He nodded, but his eyes were still cautious. “I’ll tell you this, the missus was very unwell,” he said. “When the youngest daughter died, people spread all kinds of nasty rumors about her involvement. Completely outrageous, what they said. But towards the end, she wasn’t quite right in the head, always talking about some curse. It was no thing ‘sides the agony of a grieving parent, but people took it as an admission of guilt.” 

“It was all an accident though, wasn’t it?” you asked. “Nobody was at fault.” 

“Exactly. If you want my honest opinion, the family had bad luck. There’s nothing more to be said, what with all those little ‘uns involved.” 

Bad luck. The sun beat down on your skin, sweat beading up on your spine and hairline, but you shivered, casting a sidelong glance at the house as if it was somehow watching you, as if talking about these things was dangerous in any way, as if there was a looming manifestation of a bad luck over your shoulder, drooling in anticipation of getting you now that you were the last Macbeth left. 

“I see,” you said, forcing a smile for the man. “Thank you so much for your time and honesty, I really appreciate it.” 

“Of course, have a good day, miss.” 

Act 2

“Who now is plotting how he may seduce Thee also from obedience, that with him, Bereav’d of happiness, thou may’st partake His punishment, eternal misery”

I.

Essar, Hanneman, “Final Look at El Dorado.” 

Excerpt from National Geographic, Vol. 162 

September, 1991

“It was with great honor that I accepted the final invitation to visit El Dorado, the famed yet forgotten home of Leicester’s Duke, and eventual king, Claude von Riegan. The massive, not to mention opulent, castle sits in the cradle between Riegan and Albrecht, kept safe by the steep basalt wall to the south and acres of privately owned forest. For all of its grandeur and majesty, these gilded halls hide dark secrets, secrets that may never be truly known. Historians quibble over the voracity surrounding the chilling Reign of Blood. Was it, as many say, a tragic plague sweeping the population? Could it have been a cult formed following a period of famine? Or, as some fear, does this golden fortress hide a terrifying past of human sacrifice and Faustian bargains? These secrets are what has led to the permanent closure of El Dorado and…

“…For my tour, and indeed, the last ever tour of El Dorado, I was given a set of very specific instructions for the sake of my safety and the conservation of the historic site. The first demanded I stay close to my guide. The second instructed me to only enter rooms filled with natural sunlight. This, I was told, was the surest method of determining which rooms were safe. Truly, health concerns are as much a part of the closure as anything else, it is simply too risky to maintain. I was…

“...Despite the stories of prowling monsters and dangerous curses, nothing came of the tour, save for these beautiful photos I was able to capture in the hopes of memorializing what was once a golden beacon of wealth, nobility, and power. As of today, El Dorado is entirely inaccessible. Trespassers will not only be gambling with their own safety should they wish to enter, they also risk severe jail time and steep fines. As I…”

II.

The Sagittarius Express left Edgaria at nine the morning, and it would arrive in Derdriu around eight that night. Named after the starry archer, it was a fairly straight shot connecting the two major cities. It would be shorter in a car, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get in one of those. After spending the night in Derdriu proper, you would take the gondola up to Old Derdriu.

Settled into your compartment with only two other people—and one of them had been passed out cold ever since you boarded—you continued your research. In general, you were poorly versed in Leicester history. You knew there had been something going on with one of their dukes wresting power away from the nobles to consolidate power and drive out the domineering Church of Seiros, going so far as to annex some of Faerghus’ land, but not necessarily any details beyond that. 

When you looked into the Reign of Blood and Old Derdriu, the castle El Dorado showed as the first result. It was the only structure that remained when the rest of Old Derdriu was razed to the ground. Those were the ruins Cheryll mentioned, the home of Claude von Riegan, duke turned king. Information about the event was sparse. Even when you did find information about El Dorado or the Reign of Blood, to say there was discourse surrounding it was an understatement. And that was assuming you could find historical facts rather than ghost stories. None of this was helped by the fact that, a hundred or so years before the Reign of Blood, King Claude von Riegan mysteriously disappeared. Such a tantalizing yet inexplicable vanishing act gave rise to stories about his occult dealings. Some people said he was cursed by the goddess Sothis for his vendetta against the Church of Seiros. Since El Dorado was his home, his story muddied the waters when it came to researching the Reign of Blood.

As the train pulled out of the station, you pulled up one of the more promising sources you had found: a Xerox of an old Life magazine article penned by some old guy named Hanneman Essar. The quality was terrible, compressed and squeezed dry of detail, but looking at the photos of the once grand castle made you more certain than ever that it was important. Something about the place drew you in, even as you glanced over your shoulder for the cold claws of whatever bad luck your father warned you of. There was no point in asking yourself why, or if you should or shouldn’t—you already knew you shouldn’t—because your course was set in stone. Carved out long before you arrived in Leicester. 

Those sorts of thoughts, the ones that toyed with the idea of fate or destiny, were entertained in the back of your head, the place where you pushed every other unpleasant or undesirable or stupid thought. 

It was better to focus on facts. 

“Are you interested in El Dorado, young lady?” the man sitting next to you asked. You slowly lowered your tablet, looking up at the speaker. A mustached blond man with blue eyes, his eyebrow quirked curiously. “It’s rare to see someone your age taking an interest in history.” 

That bristled you a bit, both his pompous tone and the implication. Even when your father worked other jobs, his fascination with history never waned, and it was the only area of your education that never faltered from constantly moving schools.  

“It’s an interesting place, don’t you think?” you asked in a measured voice. 

“Yes, it most certainly is,” he agreed. “A place most ripe with curiosity and fiction, a paradise for the easily fooled tourists they usher in.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“I should think my meaning is clear. The people in Old Derdriu spread ridiculous stories about El Dorado to stimulate their tourism, all for a place that they have shut off to the public,” he said. “As for the source of my interest, I am Acheron Phlegethon. I don’t doubt you’ve heard of me. I’ve debunked several famous hoaxes across Fodlan, including the fiction of Shambhala’s subterranean civilization. Now I have set my sights upon the legendary vampires of El Dorado.”

“Vampires?” you asked, your eyes widening. 

Acheron squinted at you suspiciously. “I thought you said you had done your research.”

“I only just started,” you said, shrugging in an attempt to hide your ignorance. “I guess that explains why it’s called the Reign of Blood.” 

“Bah, a fiction,” Acheron said, waving his hand. “There is no evidence of the cult they claim existed, let alone of the vampire they insist was the leader. Tell me, if the town or its people were truly cursed, why did retribution stop with a single fire that could easily be attributed to a natural cause? The deaths are the same, nothing more than a result of the violent beasts that are known to prowl that area. As I said, they sell these stories to bring tourists into their town. It really is the most insidious scheme, one that I will not tolerate. My next book will be the most comprehensive look at this scam to date, it’s sure to be a hit.”

“How do you know?” you asked. “Do you have any evidence that it’s a lie?” 

“Evidence?” he asked, baffled. “Why, common sense. There is no such thing as vampires or curses, need I any better evidence than that?”

“Yes.”   

Acheron’s eyes narrowed further, his mustache twitching. “It seems you are too young to be sensible. I recommend you continue to study historical facts instead of believing in superstitious bunk.” He paused, his head tilting. “If you give me your email address, I can add you to the preorder list for my next book. I’ve no doubt that you would find it most edifying.”  

“No, thank you,” you told him. 

“Hm, very well. I shan’t disturb you further,” Acheron said, pulling a pillow around his neck and a set of headphones from his bag. “Oh, and good luck with your research, young lady.” 

“Thanks, you too,” you told him, although he was already pulling on an eye mask and probably couldn’t hear you. 

You turned away from the man to look out the window, your thoughts whirling. If you believed that your family could be cursed, couldn’t you also believe in vampires? The logical side of your brain said no, emphatically rejecting the notion because it was ridiculous. Utterly insane. 

Something in your gut said otherwise. The tight lead ball of anxiety burning in your stomach, the thing drawing you towards Old Derdriu despite everything that screamed at you to stay away. You looked again at the distorted photos of El Dorado, trying to imagine it in its prime. It must have been a sight to behold, unlike anything you had ever seen before. 

It didn’t matter what you did or did not believe. It was just like you told Acheron, you needed evidence first. Rubbing a hand over your face, you returned to your reading. 

III.

24th day of Verdant Moon

I had a dream last night. Sometimes I get these wicked nightmares which I guess makes sense considering what happened but last night it wasn’t a nightmare which almost makes it worse because when I woke up crying, it wasn’t just because I was alone, but because I feel so alone that it hurts, it hurts bad. People aren’t made to be alone. I don’t know how to be anything else than a set, a pair. It was always just me and him and now that he’s gone I have a gaping hole in my chest and I think that if I chase down answers it’ll mean something but I know it won’t, I’ll wake up just as alone as I did this morning. 

My brain conjured this idea of a man just to taunt me, I think. A beautiful man who looked at me like he knew me, and I knew him even though I don’t. I woke up the second before our hands touched and just like that we (we, us) were out in the nothing of Fodlan’s great empty flatlands and there was a high wind warning and a great big semi-truck with Ernest Shipping painted on the side and a “rate my driving” sticker on the back. And then there were squealing tires and creaking metal and crunching glass and so much noise from all sides as the world closed in around me, the cab of dad’s vintage SUV giving way to make room for something else crudely forcing itself through. The wind was screaming, and so was I. But dad wasn’t, he didn’t make any noise as his body got crushed. Dead on impact, the first responders said. And yet, after I wriggled out of the mangled mess of what must have been a car—moments before it caught fire—I was relatively unharmed. A miracle, they said. Lucky, they told me. If dad hadn’t swerved the way he did, it would have been me who died. And it’s not even like I’m traumatized, right? I can write about this all I want, I told it to the police and the lawyer and everyone about it and it’s all fine, I’m perfectly fine, I’m well adjusted and alone and accursed, and I want to scream and be angry and cry until I’m all dried up but nothing, nothing is going to make it stop, all I can do is chase down this fantasy and shove all of this down because if this is what sanity feels like, I don’t want to be crazy. 

In that dream, the man I saw had beautiful eyes. Blue green, like a sea breeze or something else equally poetic and reckless, surrounded by these thick, dark eyelashes. Now that I’m awake, all I can do is ascribe meaning to the meaningless, but it was like he was inviting me to him. I’ll be in Old Derdriu tomorrow and I’m probably just losing it but I keep thinking that it's where I need to be. 

IV.

Old Derdriu was more or less what you expected. Small, quaint, and beautiful. It had the unique mixture of mountainous charm and oceanic appeal, giving the fresh air a green, salty weight. You spent the first day getting a measure of the place, glad for the mild weather. There was some displeasure when you realized one Mr. Phlegethon had checked into a room right next door to your own the day before—he even attempted to catch you in another conversation before you excused yourself—but you were quickly absorbed into your preliminary attempts at researching the small town.  

Although all of it was only a prelude to, or maybe a distraction from, what you truly wanted. After lunch, you rented a pretty metallic bicycle at a place on main street. It fit the scenery, looking a little dated with its tall handlebars and a basket. An uncomfortable reference considering why you were here. All the same, hi-yo silver away, you left town to follow the northeast highway as per the directions on the map you bought earlier. Unfortunately, you quickly realized what you had already known to be true. El Dorado was exactly as inaccessible as Mr. Hanneman explained in his old article. The dirt road turn off was gated and locked, the rusty fence adorned with a large, angry “PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign. Even the famous golden tower could not be seen through the overwhelming barricade of trees.

Standing there on the empty road, the bike propped between your legs and dust and the thick scent of pine filling your lungs, unease worked through you. It came upon you slowly, and then all at once. The world was telling you to leave. Winds quieted, birds hushed, even the sunlight dimmed a shade. But something else beckoned you, calling out so vividly you felt yourself lurch forward a step, the bicycle wheels turning a notch. A wild and insane part of your mind was prepared to abandon it right there and break past the intimidating tree line, damn the consequences or legality. You even thought you could probably find El Dorado yourself, no matter how deeply it was buried, that its call would lead you directly to it. Blood following blood, an innate tracker buried in your DNA that had gotten you this far.

To spite the heavy silence, you laughed at how ridiculous that thought was. A wild, uncomfortable laugh. The trees swallowed the sound whole. 

Turning around, you rode back into town. Only a part of you truly understood the choice you made while standing there in the stillness of the forest, although you knew absolutely that it was the only possible ending. 

V.

28th day of Verdant Moon

I looked it up. People can create false memories, it’s a symptom of trauma or mental illness, our brains are suggestable and weak and we just make stuff up by mixing real things with other information. Other information, like all of this weird shit I’ve been reading about El Dorado and Old Derdriu and the original Lady Macbeth and everything. Witch, wiccan, whatever. Vampires aren’t enough, curses aren’t enough, why not just add in a witch? Why the hell not. 

The dreams I’ve been having, I think it’s something like that. Constructed memories of El Dorado and that same guy, the one with the pretty eyes. It’s weird though, maybe normal, they’re not bad dreams. Just about the castle, and him. It’s a break from feeling like I’m going to suffocate on all of this. They don’t feel real, exactly, just…

I don’t know, there’s no point in dwelling on it, I’m probably doing more damage by thinking about it so hard because then I just remember how alone I am and start tearing up and it’s so stupid. This journal is going to be used as a case study one day. People go wild for crazy women, right? There’s a whole cast of them flowing through my veins.   

VI.

Acheron’s premise that the people in Old Derdriu hoped to make money off of the notoriety of their past was ridiculous. Questions regarding El Dorado were answered bluntly, but icily. Most people seemed like they wanted nothing to do with the dark history, especially not to make a profit off of it. You could say that you understood and respected it, but your frustration only mounted the more you realized how inaccessible the truth was. Your entire life had been built on convenient ignorance of unsavory history, and here you were.

Again.   

That was fine. Your dad faced all sorts of difficulty in his historical research, you remembered him complaining about it on more than one occasion. So you did the thing that wasn’t committing felony trespass and went to the library to gather information. Research. 

The library in Old Derdriu was easy to track down, within a short ride from the inn. What you didn’t expect was what you would find. In the front, it was fairly typical. The reading area and magazine shelves and receptionist desk, even a few computers along the wall. But, behind the front desk was what you could only describe as a tower of bookshelves. The unconventional arrangement had you craning your neck to look up, shocked at how the shelves expanded upwards for what looked like three floors with twisting stairs and platforms providing access to the collection. Every place that could store a book, had a book. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how they were organized.  

A lone girl sat behind the desk in front of the tower of books, the only other person in the front. Her name plate read Flayn, and she twirled one of her long curls around her finger as she idly flipped through a magazine. When you approached, she looked up with a big smile.

“Hello!”

“This is… the library?” you asked. 

“Yes, it is. Welcome,” Flayn responded sweetly. “If you need assistance finding anything, I would be more than happy to help.” 

“I would really appreciate that,” you said, tearing your eyes from the tower of books to look at her directly. “I’m looking for books about the history of this town, specifically El Dorado. I’m not particular, whatever seems the most informative.” 

She blinked, her smile lapsing somewhat. “Of course,” she finally said, standing up. “If you take a seat at a table over there, I will see what I can find.” 

“Thank you so much,” you said with a nod. Slowly, admiring the scope of the library, you walked over to one of the tables and sat down. While you waited, you pulled out your tablet to continue flipping through websites that had mention of El Dorado. This one was old, the kind with a black background and dark red cursive font. There was very little to actually be learned, it was a ghost story that told a risque tale of blood sacrifices and a sex cult.

It was all ridiculous, of course, but one line gave you trouble, made your stomach turn uneasily.

Why was it fire? The author wrote. Not, I think, to rid the town of some undead threat. After all, the vampire was hiding away in El Dorado. No, they chose fire to burn the witches.

“Excuse me,” somebody said, calling your attention away from the unsettling words and up to the narrowed green eyes of an older man.

“Yes?” you asked, trying not to look guilty beneath his piercing glare. You hadn’t done anything, but something about him made you feel as if you had, you just didn’t know what it was yet.  

“From your request, I can only assume you are researching El Dorado,” he said, his voice as stiff and stony as his demeanor. 

“I am.”

“And what, may I ask, is your reason for conducting such research?” 

You floundered for a moment, caught off guard and confused. Finally, you shook your head and shrugged. “Curiosity, I guess,” you said.

“Are you in any way associated with a man who calls himself Acheron Phlegethon?”

“What?” you asked, confusion replacing the discomfort. “No, not at all.” 

“Are you sure?” he pushed.

“Well, I’ve met him. He tried to sell me his books,” you said, frowning. 

“Are you sure that’s all?” 

You realized pretty quickly what this man was actually asking, what he wanted to hear. “I’m here for… personal reasons,” you explained. “This place has meaning to me. Er, it had meaning to… someone very important to me.” 

“I see,” the man said. You could practically see the calculations going on behind his stare, your words reduced down to ones and zeroes as he analyzed them.  

“Is that okay?” you asked. 

“Yes, of course. I would never withhold knowledge from the genuinely curious. I suggest you start with this one,” he told you, setting down a large book bound in green. “It offers the most comprehensive history of Old Derdriu. These,” he set down two more books, “are supplementary material. While I cannot vouch for their factual integrity, they provide further insight as to what researchers have discovered about Old Derdriu.” 

“Thank you,” you said, pulling the books towards yourself, almost afraid he would take them away. There was that feeling, that possessive need. A craving, even.  

His lips thinned out as he considered you, his icy expression locked in place. “I ask that you do not cause any trouble while you’re here. The people who live here have suffered enough harassment.”

“I understand, honestly,” you said emphatically, although his warning made your stomach clench and you weren’t lying, but was it really the truth that you weren’t going to ‘cause trouble’? Did you mean that? Could you? 

VII.

[The following text are segments taken from letters found in the attic of a Derdriu home with other antiques. Forensic analysis can date them as being contemporaneous with the burning of Old Derdriu, however much of the contents have suffered such severe decay that entire sentences and paragraphs are illegible. Due to this, it is impossible to determine the author or glean any further context. Notes have been added in an attempt to clarify certain points, but without support, all researchers can offer is speculation.]

“My dear sister...discovery, but I fear I will not…seems that my death is inevitable, all I can do is…she offered me a chance, a slim hope that is buried beneath the earth…” 

“...sister… bad news… if something good came of it, does that make it right?... better left buried lest we… believe in such stories?... truly be Claude? [this is possibly a reference to Claude von Riegan. The mysterious circumstances surrounding his disappearance have long been a point of interest for those interested in the occult—See page 127 for further information]... put my trust in legend, or… risk my soul for… shall sleep, tomorrow we will return to the site and search for…”

“…I know nothing of the truth, it is obscured by… can trust, she claims… of the Agarthans [The “Agarthans'' are another popular yet unproven occult group based upon an ancient civilization. Artifacts supposedly associated with them were found in El Dorado]... and Lady Macbeth hopes to… blood and soul, I…” 

“...forgive me… of my selfishness and hubris. I am frightened… a blight upon us… she will suffer the curse of Seiros [The goddess of the Church of Seiros, who has historically been used as an occult figure following the purge of faith from Liecester]... and yet it is too late…” 

“He is awake. The Reign of Blood has begun.” 

[This line is one of the most contested within these letters. Since it is on its own page, with this single preserved sentence written in a shaky hand, there are those who argue it was included in order to bolster the cult and supernatural narrative surrounding El Dorado and the burning of Old Derdriu. If these letters are accurate, it is the last communication documented from any of the 257 people who disappeared, likely perished in the fire that reduced the town to ash.]      

VIII.

“Hold on a moment, young lady,” a familiar voice called. You paused, turning to face Acheron as he hurried down the hall, stopping you from entering your room. 

“Yes?” you asked, more than a little suspicious. With the key in the lock to your room, at least you had a swift method of escape. 

Acheron came to a stop, dramatically swiping at his shiny forehead. “I have a proposition for you.”

Your jaw dropped a little at the blunt statement. “I-I don’t think-”

“We have the same goal here, no?” Acheron asked, steamrolling over your obvious conclusion without the slightest shred of self awareness. “To discover the truth behind the infamous El Dorado. And yet we are waylaid by these pesky townsfolk at every turn. I have had enough of it, I say. It’s time to take action.” 

“What do you mean?” you asked hesitantly. 

He looked around the empty hallway before leaning forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority that the castle’s security is not as good as they would have us believe. If one knows how to circumvent it, that is.” 

You considered him for a long moment, chewing on your lip and refusing to openly indulge your immediate excitement. “What are you saying?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Acheron asked. “I would see the famed El Dorado for myself.” 

“It’s dangerous to go inside, people get sick,” you said.

“Bah. The stories about any sort of lingering sickness within its walls are wildly exaggerated. The local youths brag about having visited as a rite of passage. If those scamps can make it in and out, I see no reason to believe I should be capable of anything less. I, of course, am extending the offer to you only out of courtesy. You hunger for the truth as desperately as I, do you not?” 

You considered him for a long moment, wondering if this was some sort of setup. 

“When do you intend to go?” you finally asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Acheron told you. “I would quit this dismal town as quickly as possible. All I need is good footage and photographs of the inside.” 

“Do you have the right gear?” 

“Gear?” he asked, frowning. 

Of course it would have been too much to think that a man like him would think this through. “Yes, gear. Flashlights, a map, the right kind of clothes—”

“Is all that really necessary?” he asked, cutting you off. 

“Have you ever done something like this?” you asked, omitting the fact that you hadn’t. But, unlike Acheron, you had common sense and some experience with night hiking. “You can’t just rush in unprepared, you’ll get hurt.” 

“Hm.” Acheron’s mustache twitched and you could tell he was thinking up some way to argue with you. But, eventually, reason won out. “Very well, I shall procure whatever is necessary tomorrow.” 

“If you buy this stuff town, they’ll know what you’re planning.” 

Acheron’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then I shall make a trip into Derdriu and return in the evening, we can meet at the road leading to El Dorado upon my return.” 

You wanted to argue, to deny your interest on the basis of not wanting to break the law. The risk factor was far too high, you were a fool to go along with it.

“I found a book today that has the plans for the inside, I’ll find a way to make a copy of them,” you said, anxiety and anticipation going wild in your gut because you knew how wrong this was, but you also knew that it was what was bound to happen from the start, something you couldn’t change or control. “Let me give you money, I’ll make a list of what we’ll need.” 

Act 3

"The monstrous sight

Strook them with horror backward but far worse

Urged them behind: headlong themselves they threw

Down from the verge of Heav'n" 

I.

31st day of Verdant Moon

This will only end in the hallowed halls of El Dorado, an owed price for the folly of Lady Macbeth, damning her bloodline, bringing a curse to us all. 

Yeah. Like this is some sort of fucking movie or something. I wonder if insanity is a legal defense for criminal trespass. I don’t think I’m insane, but isn’t that what crazy people all say? Yes officer, I only broke into this blocked off historical site because I had a dream where a beautiful man told me to. Also, incidentally, I had to figure out if I’m cursed or not so I can decide if I’m the cause of my dad’s death. Oh, and you might be interested to know that my great great great great whatever grandmother was a witch and vampires might be real.

It’s foolproof. 

II.

Acheron was right that sneaking into El Dorado was easy. Too easy. Disturbingly easy. After you got past the gate, there was only a security booth to creep past which should have forced you into the view of security cameras, but a convenient hole in the fence circumvented that obstacle. If you were even slightly more worried about getting caught, or maybe slightly less desperate to see inside, you would have given up right then and there on the grounds that breaking and entering shouldn’t have been as simple as ducking through some trees and making a tense, but relatively short, trek through the woods.

All sense left you when you broke the clearing into what used to be the grand lawn of El Dorado, the vague threat of getting caught by angry landowners falling far to the wayside as you stood in front of the grand majesty of King Claude von Riegan’s personal castle, staring down the centuries old castle with equal parts trepidation and excitement. 

Other than the cicadas and frogs and slight wind, the night was very quiet. Acheron fiddled with his camera, getting ready to take footage of the inside. All you had to potentially take photos with was your phone, although you weren’t inclined to gather evidence of your crime. It was enough to watch, to look, to commit this sight to memory. 

And what a sight it was. Nothing like you had ever seen, except in dreams that were not dreams but you didn’t dare call memories. Overgrown with thick, possessive greenery and fallen into a state of dull disrepair, the castle was truly a breathtaking spectacle, the years of ruin only added to the sense of tragic mystery. It was nothing like the stout fortresses of the west, or the elaborate Imperial complexes in the south. Terrible with its jagged maw of an entrance, the intimidating golden tower looming above. Beautiful, the result of long lost artistry. Foreboding and alluring. 

No longer were you looking over your shoulder out of paranoia, but staring down each window and shadow of the castle’s aged, inscrutable countenance for some sign of the life you could practically feel thrumming from within. But, even suffering from the hyperactive state of distress, you knew you couldn’t leave. It wasn’t interest or curiosity, it was a fixation, an urge, a compulsion. 

You had to go inside. 

You had to get away.

“Wait, before I forget-” You pulled out the set of walkie talkies you had brought. They were the ones you and your dad used when you went hiking. You didn’t want to think of that. “Testing, testing, one two three.” Your voice, crinkling through the static, exited the other walkie talkie. 

“What is that?” Acheron asked, raising a thin eyebrow. 

“Walkie talkies,” you said, handing him the second. “In case we get separated somehow. There’s no cell service out here.” 

“Do you intend on making a private excursion?” he asked.

“No, but…” you looked at El Dorado, uneasiness once again sinking through your gut. It was as if the castle itself was watching you, the eyeless windows winking in the moonlight. “Just in case.” 

“Hm.” Acheron clipped the walkie talkie onto his belt, and so you did you. It was too bulky for your little sling bag. “Well then, after you.” 

“What?”

“You have had more time to familiarize yourself with the layout, it’s only natural that you should lead the way.” 

You wondered if Acheron was scared. It was difficult to tell if he was any more pale than usual, and he wore the same blustery confidence as usual. It didn’t matter. If he got scared and bolted, you would do this alone. You were getting used to that, right?  

“Okay,” you said. You weren’t scared. Maybe you felt a little nervous. But you weren’t scared. 

Staying vigilant for any strange movement or sounds, you ascended the cracked, overgrown steps, telling yourself over and over that you were not afraid. There were no such things as vampires, ghosts, or curses. And if there were, you would know for yourself. Answers. You would get answers. 

The large door was mostly intact, but it was stuck in a perpetual state of half-open. Almost like an invitation. A horror cliche. There was a pinch in your bladder and your heart thudded too heavily in your chest and the animal part of your brain didn’t want to breach the shadows and go inside. You were propelled not of your own free will, but of some existential force that tugged you forward. Step by step by step until you were inside the breezeway, the central entrance hall of El Dorado. 

The general plan that the two of you had discussed before sneaking into the private estate was to get into the Golden Hall, the three story vaulted ballroom off of the northern wing. It had been the jewel of the gilded paradise of El Dorado, but nobody had seen it for decades because of the infection that supposedly filled the inside of the castle. The path there would take you through the breezeway, the atrium, the courtyard, the pleasure plaza, and the dining room. Not into the heart of El Dorado, but deep into its rotted guts. 

A very quiet, but incredibly persistent, part of your mind pushed you there with the hushed notion that it was where your dreams took place. You had to confirm for yourself that it was completely different in real life, that your mind was making things up. Even if you gleaned no further insight from this misguided exertion, settling that fact would go a long way in convincing you once and for all that you weren’t cursed, just a little mad. At least one of those problems could be solved with medication.  

Broken glass littered the breezeway, hidden like little jewels within piles of leaves and refuse and the broken bits of castle that had wilted to the ground. You tried to imagine El Dorado’s beauty in its prime, shining gold and inviting, sunshine filtering in through the dome ceiling and high windows, wind playfully teasing the long curtains. But you couldn’t, it was too dark. Darker than you might have thought, darker than the thickest section of the woods, so dark that the places outside of the range of your ThruNite seemed to be physically encroaching shadows rather than void of light. 

Hanneman had been told to only go into rooms where the light touched, that it was the only way to stay safe, but that didn’t seem factually sound, did it? Surely that wasn’t the most accurate method of determining which areas were safe. The only thing that actually feared sunlight, if myths and legends were to be believed, were vampires. There was no sunlight now, and you doubted vampires feared LED’s. 

Gripping your light in a sweaty fist, you forced yourself forward, the ground crunching beneath your boots. The terrible, heavy dread got worse with each step. It sat like a weight right behind your sternum, beating behind your eye. The other part of the feeling, the insidious part, was the familiarity. 

Bad. Bad. Bad. 

You wanted to explain the feeling as nothing more than animalistic paranoia and some malignant fear of the dark, but it made the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, your breathing picking up. All across the breezeway—throughout most of the castle, really—balconies lined the halls and rooms. You couldn’t see what was above, there was no light coming in, not even diffused moonlight. Somebody could have been watching from above and you’d never know. 

Keep going. It was fine. Everything was fine. 

“I told you that this place was safe,” Acheron said, startling you. “If it weren’t, this level of upkeep would be impossible. I have little doubt that they hire people to ensure the roof doesn’t cave in for occasions just like this.”

 You exhaled, looking around with that thought in mind. He had a point, the place did seem a little too well maintained for the number of years that had passed. Then again, maybe it was just good construction. Or maybe something that still lived here. Something ancient, something immortal.  

The two of you left the breezeway, entering the main atrium hall. Hanneman had featured many many photos of this room in his article; he had been fascinated by the intricately carved stonework. It was too dark to see much of that now. In fact, you very badly wanted to get out of the atrium as soon as you entered it because of how unnervingly dark it was. Two tiers of balcony circled around the ground floor, shadows lurking ominously right behind what was left of the railing. Every little sound echoed, rippling through the motionless air. High above, a chandelier caught the shine of your flashlights, moving with some breeze you couldn’t feel.  

Something made a sound, a scuffling. To your right, on the stairs. You flicked your flashlight to it quickly, your hands shaking with adrenaline. 

“Did you hear that?” you asked breathlessly, nervously holding the light on the steps as if to keep them from moving. But there was nothing, just the large stone staircase and decaying walls and long-abandoned artistry memorialized and forgotten in some old Life magazine article.   

“Hear what?” Acheron asked. 

You exhaled harshly, looking away from the empty stairs and kicking yourself for being so jumpy. It could just be a stray animal. That’s what you told yourself. Rats, racoons, birds, any number of things could have made El Dorado their new home. 

“Nothing.” 

There was some relief when you entered the courtyard, even if the scent of overbearing foliage and vivid green rot was nearly suffocating. At least there was more air, and you could see the stars twinkling above. Full, or almost full, the moon draped the open space in silvery light. Ignoring the overgrown shrubbery, flowers, and grass, you looked around at the balconies wrapping around the second floor. The construction of El Dorado was almost made for someone wanting to spy on guests. Or intruders. Acheron was talking to the camera but you weren’t really listening, too busy focusing to hear any sign of movement, trying to find what was making you so uneasy.

Vampires in El Dorado. Lurking in the dark, in the moonlight, waiting for ignorant fools to wander in. A missing king, a goddess’s curse, a burning witch. The Reign of Blood. You could almost smell it, the tangy iron of blood and the thick smoke of a town burning to the ground.

“Are you coming?” Acheron called. 

You shook your head in an attempt to cast out those thoughts before scurrying to catch up, passing the large stone fountain that had once been the featured centerpiece of the courtyard before the ripe overgrowth took over. The standout piece was a large, intricately carved deer. Once, it must have been a magnificent beast, but now its head was cracked in half, the prongs of one set of antlers sticking out of a murky film covering the stagnant water settled in the basin. Something dark grew over the broken statue, starting on its fragmented head and dripping down to give the gruesome illusion of blood. It watched you pass with the remaining stone eye, forever frozen in a proud, alert stance.

A breeze trembled throughout the courtyard. The castle taking in a breath. You shivered, pointedly forcing your gaze forward.  

Acheron lagged behind to force you to take the lead under the pretense of messing with his camera, leaving you to enter the so-called pleasure plaza first. Careful to not get caught by the jagged row of broken glass and wooden teeth attempting to bar your entrance, you stepped into the decaying mouth of El Dorado’s recreation wing. This was the place where Leicester’s elite once came to enjoy themselves, a yawning space that time had seen to shambles. Because of the many doorways and hiding spots, this room was even more unnerving than the atrium. You would have to cross it to get where you needed to go. 

If you were being entirely honest, you weren’t sure you had any desire to see the Golden Hall anymore. Rather, you weren’t sure it was worth the stress of getting there. Considering the unreasonable fear you felt going through areas you knew to be safe, you worried what you might find in a place nobody had seen for so long, worried about what secrets were better left to die. And that pulsing, pounding, beating of familiarity just kept getting worse, harder, closer. Louder. 

You needed to get out.

You needed to know. 

Inhaling the sweet scent of rot and age, you continued onward, your footsteps hollow against the sinking floor. Each sweep of your flashlight caused the shadows to move, to crawl away from you as if to hide. It hit each object without any subtlety, erasing details and making the darkness that much darker.

You forced yourself to carry on. Carefully, cautiously, unafraid. That’s what you kept telling yourself. Show no fear and all that. Although, that began with the presumption that there was something around to see your fear. 

Your skin erupted in painful prickling chills almost as soon as that thought came to you. And then, in the same moment or before or after or so close you couldn’t tell the difference, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye. You flashed your light quickly around the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of a rat or some other disgusting but inoffensive animal to reassure yourself that you were safe because you still had hope that this was all innocent, that you were the crazy one for believing in ridiculous stories of the supernatural. 

Something retreated behind the doorway. 

Your stomach sank with freezing cold ice and panic. That was no rat. 

A person? It certainly seemed human sized. Those were footsteps too, weren’t they? Disguised beneath the sound of your own? And if it were somebody with authority, somebody who wanted you to leave because you were trespassing, they wouldn’t be lurking around watching you. So that meant it was somebody doing the same thing that you were. But, somehow, you didn’t feel as if it were another trespassing explorer. You felt it in your gut.

“Acheron, hold on,” you said quietly, stopping. 

“Yes? What is it?” he asked loudly. Too loud, bumbling around with his footsteps echoing against the walls as he turned to face you. You winced, holding up a hand to shade your eyes from the glare of his light. 

“We need to leave,” you told him, speaking softly and calmly. “Now.” 

“But we’ve hardly seen anything,” he said. You couldn’t see his frown, but you could hear it. 

“I’m telling you, we need to leave,” you said softly, desperately trying to remain calm. “We’re not alone.” 

“Someone is here?” he asked loudly, shining his light in a large circle, catching it all on camera. “Show yourself!”

“Acheron!” you hissed. 

“Don’t you want a head start?” an unfamiliar voice asked. No. Not unfamiliar. Jarring though, because you didn’t recognize why you would know it. What memory was attached to that disembodied sound. 

Acheron let out a high pitched sound of terror which scared you nearly as bad as the voice, almost causing you to fall over.

“Who is that? Show yourself!” he demanded. No answer. Of course there was no answer. No sound, not even the faint echo of footsteps. 

“We have to leave,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Acheron, your voice an octave too high with stress. “We have to get out of here.”

“It’s nothing. I told you that the local youths often come here, did I not?” he asked, maintaining that feigned sense of control. “I demand you show yourself!” 

“Acheron, please,” you begged, tugging at his jacket. He kept his camera fixed on where the voice had come from. It was from the hall branching off of the entrance out of the pleasure plaza and into the courtyard, essentially barring your most direct route of escape.

“You really ought to listen to the lady,” the voice said, just as casual, just as playful, just as recognizable. You hadn’t really been aware of a distinct echo beforehand, but the room was large enough to cause the voice to bounce around, to obscure the speaker’s location. Not only disembodied, omniscient. And you were stupid and crazy but you were acutely aware of how dangerous this was, it was a primal instinct to recognize danger. 

Freeze finally ran its course, returning some semblance of sensation to your numb limbs to take flight. You didn’t think, you ran, turning away from the voice to bolt in the opposite direction. Right then, you didn’t care whether or not Acheron decided to follow. Since you couldn’t leave the way you came in, you picked the nearest door. Terror thundered in your chest, a compliment to the sound of your footsteps on the rotting floor. You, with Acheron right on your heels, entered into a music room or another sitting room, or some other area where the wealthy and powerful whiled away their hours of excess. You shouldn’t have looked behind yourself, but you did and you could see, silhouetted in the moonlight from the courtyard, the unmistakable form of another person. And then you were pushing Acheron further into the dark with a fistful of his jacket, driven only by the need to get away. The door was intact enough for you to throw it closed behind you, and the sound rattled through the air.

The scent of wet rot was stronger back here, but you didn’t even think about stopping. The door didn’t open as you both scrambled through the room and into the hall, but you knew from the plans that there were other ways in and out of most rooms in the castle. If not directly, then from above, or even from below. 

“This is the wrong way,” Acheron told you crossly, although his control was fraying with his labored breathing. 

“Just run,” you told him, pushing at his back. You could have let go and run past him, but you were too scared of being alone, of having to navigate this dark, creepy place by yourself. 

He didn’t argue. Or maybe he did, you didn’t even know, couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your heart and harsh breathing, your body synthesizing musty air into iron-tanged rasps that cut up in the inside of your throat. You had no idea where the hallway you ran into led, but it didn’t really matter. Away, that was what mattered. The hallway was narrow and stank of humid rot, entirely dark save for your flashlights, but the room at the end had windows, filling it with blessed moonlight. Slamming the door behind yourself again, you continued forward, stumbling to keep up with Acheron. 

Until you were yelping in surprise, the floor giving out beneath your feet. There was a brief moment where gravity hooked beneath your bellybutton and yanked, and then the floor hit, and it hit hard. Although you instinctively tried to fall in a slightly upright position, the momentum dragged you into an awkward roll, your body curling so as to protect your head. For a miniature eternity, there was no air, there was no thought in your head, there was no light save for the blinding radiance as impact blazed white hot agony through your head. Gasping, writhing on the cold, hard floor, you blinked teary eyes, staring at the hole that had just eaten you with some vague idea that you were dreaming, that this was all a made up fantasy. It was unreal, and it was painful.  

A moment later, a beam of light hit your face. So bright, like a little sun. You sucked in a lungful of air, tasting blood. Then, almost unconsciously, you jerked sideways and lurched around onto your knees. The pain enveloped you in a mad rush all once, your empty body dry heaving with nausea. Only, there wasn’t enough air to expel the sour bile in your stomach, leaving you to choke and suffocate on nothing instead. That tapered off into a few pathetic coughs a moment later, your entire body shaking and clammy. 

“Oh dear,” Acheron said, his voice thin with fear. “Are you hurt?”

All you could manage in response was a groan, and then a broken sob. But fear was a good motivator to get moving, and adrenaline shocked your system enough to force you upright. Now that you could remember, more or less, how to breathe, the worst of the damage was where you had initially landed on your hip, your shoulder hitting nearly as hard a second later. It sent violent, lurid pain straight down your arm and leg, the entire left side of your body alight as if from a branding iron.

“I’m fine,” you croaked out, not knowing if it was true but knowing that it needed to be true. 

“Thank goodness,” Acheron said, his voice heavy with relief. “I don’t suppose you see any way to climb back up?” 

You couldn’t see anything outside of the hot spotlight from above, your ThruNite had gone dark and skittered away somewhere into the shadows. At first, you only felt panic at the realization, terror that you were stuck in the darkness. It took you a long moment to think past the pain and the dark and the fear to remember that you had a backup light. After a few tries of fumbling with the zipper on your sling bag, you got your sweaty fingers around the yellow plastic base of your second flashlight. It was nothing so good as the hefty ThruNite, emitting a buttery yellow glow, but it was something. You waved it around, although you knew it was a lost cause before looking. The hole you had fallen into was rotted all the way through, leaving a few jagged boards around the edges, some of which you had brought with you on the way down, and parts of which were embedded in your hands and knees. There was no way back up. 

“No,” you said, painfully staggering to your feet and brushing yourself off as best you could. “I’ll have to find the stairs, I think… I think there’s some in the southern wing. Meet me there and we can—” 

“And stay here?” he demanded. “Are you mad? No, no, I simply cannot. I shall… I shall run and send help. Yes, that is the best course of action.”

You squinted against the blinding beam of his flashlight, mute with confused shock for a long, silent moment. 

“Acheron, you can’t do that,” you said softly, more bewildered than afraid. 

“You cannot expect me to retrieve you myself,” he said defensively. 

“No, no. You can’t just… just leave me here,” you said weakly, panic closing in around your heart, ice fizzling out like bubbles in your head. 

“I will not put myself at risk for your own carelessness,” he told you harshly. “If you remain there, the rescuers should find you quickly.” 

And that was it. His light disappeared, leaving you blind and blinking up at the hole in the desperate hopes of seeing his face, of seeing some sign that you weren’t actually alone. 

“Acheron,” you called, unable to keep your ragged voice soft. “Please don’t leave me here.” Nothing. You called out again, and nothing. No footsteps, not even the sound of doors opening or closing, although the violent rush of blood could have covered noises like that. And then there was only your heavy breathing and the sour bite of vomit in your throat and the creaking sound of the castle’s breathing in time with your own. 

With shaking hands, you got out the walkie talkie. It took you two tries to find the button, and then the sound of static. “Acheron?” you asked. “Do you copy, Acheron?”  

You didn’t get an answer. At least, not from the walkie talkie. You heard something. From far away, up above, you heard this howling, like an animal, but very distinctly human. Your guts lurched, a shiver slithering down your sweaty back, all the way through your body. 

You quickly pressed the button down again. “Ah-Acheron?” you asked, looking around the empty room. The shadows of decaying furniture followed your yellowy light, almost mockingly avoiding it. “Acheron, are you alright?” 

The speaker let out a little burst of static, startling you. “Sorry, he’s pretty busy right now,” a crinkled voice on the other side said. “Can I take a message?” 

You paused, your chest clenching. “Who is this?” But you knew. You knew very well, you just didn’t know. 

“Your guilty conscience. Trespassing is a serious crime.” 

“Where is Acheron?” you asked. “What did you do to him?” 

“Do to him?” the man asked, sounding like he was offended by the question. “Nothing. He ran off as soon as he saw me, so now we’re playing a little game of hide and seek. Sorry, no girls allowed this round. You and I can have a match when I win, okay? Okay, so you’d better start looking for a really good spot.”

Your mouth was open, gaping with no sound coming out. You felt nearly as winded by this as you did from the fall, unable to think, to formulate any rational reaction. “I-I don’t understand.”

“You’ve never played hide and seek? Oof, your childhood must have been a real bummer. The point of the game is that you hide and I seek. Simple, right?” 

“I’m not… not playing,” you said. “I just want to leave. Please… Whatever this is, I… Please stop.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of sportsmanship? Even this coward is giving it a chance.” He paused, and then raised his voice, calling out to someone else. “Isn’t that right? Why don’t you tell her what a good time we’re having?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... We’re sorry, so please don’t… don’t hurt him,” you begged, your voice wobbling with tears and panic.  

“I’m not sure I get why you’d defend a guy who was willing to abandon you here. I mean, who knows what could happen to a girl like you in a scary place like this. It’s practically falling apart. Not to mention all of the creepy and dangerous things that could be lurking around.” 

You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Please,” you said, although you weren’t sure what you were pleading for. 

“I’m in a good mood tonight, so I’ll give you some advice. First of all, the basement is no good. There aren’t very many escape routes, you’ll definitely get cornered. And, I don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve heard that it's haunted.” 

“Please stop,” you begged. “I’ll leave, I’ll leave and-”

“Hey, hey, don’t panic,” he said soothingly. “You’ll need to save up all that energy for running. Oh, and you might wanna ditch the walkie talkie, it’s a dead giveaway.” 

All this time, you had worried about vampires. But it made more sense that some lunatic would use this place as hunting grounds. Preying on the stupid and reckless and your delusions that you were somehow cursed and connected to this place. You were cursed alright. It was the worst curse of all—blind naivety. 

“Please stop,” you begged again. It wasn’t that you wanted to talk more with the potential lunatic, but hearing his voice was better than not hearing it because at least it meant you weren’t entirely alone down here in the dark. But there was no answer, just some static. “Hello?” You asked, your voice even weaker. “Hello?”

No answer, over. Over and out. Ten-four. 

You stood there for a long moment, sore and sweaty and trembling, your body all at once wrung out and over energized, your heart beating way too fast. The light didn’t reach far enough, it was like the shadows were gnawing at the edges of it, attempting to retake their territory. A little part of your brain understood that you weren’t capable of thinking rationally, the part that recognized the insanity of all of the actions that led you here. But knowing that and overcoming blind, animal panic were two different beasts entirely. 

Escape. That was all you could do. At first you thought about searching for your fallen ThruNite, but you were afraid to linger in here too long. You had no idea where it had ended up, there were too many places in the room it could have been hiding. That left you with the weaker incandescent light and, if that failed, your phone’s flashlight. 

Your past self was a lot smarter than your current one, thinking to bring some water. That cured the rancid tang of metal in your mouth, settling you somewhat as you considered your options. Rather than abandon the walkie talkie, you shut it off. It was stupid, but you couldn’t just abandon your sole source of connection to any living beings. You checked your phone as well, but the same NO SERVICE bar sat at the top. 

There was no other way than forward. The room that you fell into didn’t have doors, only dark, decaying holes where doors might have once been. The one on your left was the source of the dank, rotting scent. It was completely flooded, the water covered with an inky, oily film, your light reflecting off of it unnervingly. When you steeled yourself to venture forward, you realized that the hall was slightly flooded as well. Not more than an inch or so, but enough to make your boots wet, and enough to make each footstep splash and squish, rendering stealth impossible. Then again, the light made that impossible anyway. Shining your light both ways, you debated which way to go, trying to remember the castle plans. The trouble was that you had no idea where you might have fallen. Everything was dark and creepy and awful and you just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. To close your eyes and imagine your way out of the situation, to stay right there without ever moving and escape. 

After a second of despair and terrified self pity, you went right. 

If you followed the hallway, you would find a way upstairs. That made sense, there had to be some practicality to the design of this forsaken place. Or, that was all you could hope for. In reality, the dark and uncertainty threatened to turn your guts inside out, vomit biting your throat as you skirted along the wall. It was so quiet, unnaturally so. In the silence in the absolute void of light, your mind conjured noises. Extra footsteps, the sound of breathing. Echoes where there shouldn’t have been. 

You were afraid to blink, that when you opened your eyes something would appear in the beam of your flashlight. But you didn’t want to see anything, either, it would be better to face death ignorant to its face. You wanted to shield yourself from whatever horrors might exist. 

Staying in place was a death sentence, going any further was uncertain terror. The man said the basement was haunted. By what? Ghosts? Witches? Vampires? Murderers? 

Did it even matter?

Each open doorway you passed came with the anticipation that something would jump out at you. Or, worse, that you’d look in and see the dark silhouette of something inside. Somehow, that thought was almost as terrifying as being assaulted. Animals attacked on sight, true predators were the ones who were patient enough to lurk, to wait, to watch, to toy with the fear of their prey. And that’s what you were. Prey.  

On and on. Down the deep dark hall, your footsteps squelching on the damp floor, down down down to the corner where you turned, your light terrifyingly weak, nothing more than a pathetic glow against the all consuming darkness. The moment you saw a set of stairs, you could have wept with relief. Maybe it was stupid because it wasn’t as if they would lead you anywhere good, but those stairs were the best thing you’d ever seen. You gave into the spine tingling fear and ignored the pain of your body to run to them, splashing out of the water and taking the steps two at a time. 

There was no door at the top, just a sharp bend leading into a wider hall, the stairs tucked away and likely used by the servants. You didn’t care. This hallway wasn’t flooded, and the scent of death and decay wasn’t nearly as strong. It left you with the same problem though. Where did you go from here? Where were you? 

Relief soured into dread. Now that you were upstairs, the game had begun. 

It would have been smarter to shut off your light, but without any source of ambient illumination, you would be completely surrounded by the darkness. You stayed very, very still, straining your ears in an attempt to hear any stray sound, anything out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. The castle creaked and groaned, and your heart raced, and your ears rung faintly. 

Indecision and fear nearly paralyzed you. Like drowning, you had no idea of which way was up, you were merely thrashing in the blind darkness, hastening your own demise in your desperation to live. 

You found yourself walking without thinking about it, clinging to the wall with some idea that it would protect you. Just keep going. There was a sharp turn and then you realized that there was a light ahead. At first you thought it was a trick of your imagination, but you switched off your flashlight and blinked fast to adjust to the darkness, eventually making out that it was light. Soft, pale moonlight. That meant outside, that meant escape. 

Continuing to cling to the wall, you hurried towards the opening, eventually turning to the corner and finding yourself within your originally stated destination. At least you knew where you were. Nowhere near the exit. 

What rotten, twisted irony. You could almost laugh if you weren’t so close to tears. The Golden Hall, now flooded with thin silver moonlight, was exactly as beautiful as the name suggested. You knew it not from the second hand descriptions—they didn’t even begin to accurately describe the sweeping, luxurious ballroom—but because you had seen it before.

Far above, the cold moon observed you through panes of broken glass. So close, yet impossibly far. Taunting, tempting, representing an unreachable whisper of freedom. Your knees almost buckled, giving into the pain and exhaustion as you considered having to brave even more of the castle if you were ever going to get out alive. The Golden Hall echoed your own personal despair, a decaying corpse of what it once was, its profoundly decadent construction fallen to ruin. But you could imagine—remember, it was a memory, constructed or otherwise—how it looked in its prime. Shining, lustrous gold. And a man, one with entrancing eyes and a sly smile. His hands had been cold but the feeling was so warm, your own heat igniting you both. 

“The point of the game is to hide, you know,” someone said from behind you. In your despairing trance, you had gone further into the ballroom. Now you whirled around, clutching your chest in terror. “Although I am impressed you found your way up. Even I get the creeps going down there. Somebody really ought to do something about the flooding.” 

Shaking hard, you flicked your flashlight on, illuminating the man in its weak, yellow glow. He didn’t shy away, looking at you head on. His footsteps were slow and measured, impossibly graceful. Yes, yes of course. So obvious, so brutally, painfully blatantly obvious that it would be him. In the dim glow of your light, the most you could make out was the gold wink of his earring, but you knew without seeing that his eyes were that lovely shade of green, tinged with the romantic oceanic blue, so striking against his tan skin and black eyelashes. You knew that as surely as you knew the creases of your palm, or the constellations in the sky. 

“I admit,” he said, breezing past your silence, “I do have a slight advantage. You hurt yourself when you fell, right? I could smell your blood all the way from the catwalk. I’ll let you know if it tastes as good as it smells.”

“Stay away from me,” you demanded, surprised at how clear the words sounded despite the saliva pooling on your tongue. 

“I mean it, you smell really good,” he said, ignoring you and continuing forward. “Hey, why don’t you make this easy for me and put down that light? Nobody likes a sore loser.” 

“I told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, stay away,” he said flippantly. But he did stop, tilting his head in consideration. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you? Fine. If you’re going to run,” he gestured behind himself at the exit into the dark hall, “now’s your chance.”  

You didn’t think about the cheeky smile he wore, or the mocking tenor of the offer, or the reason he might let you run in the first place. You just did it, just ran, not looking back. There was blood in your throat and your entire body ached and you weren’t entirely sure you knew where you were going, but you didn’t pause. 

Step after pounding step, your heart racing, your breath coming out in sharp little gasps. Through the hall, which spanned miles and miles and miles, into the dining hall with its dust and cobwebs and ruined finery. You hit your bruised hip on the doorway which nearly sent you tumbling onto the ground. The red hot pain was so intense you had to stop and lean on the wall, your body physically refusing to go forward. 

Could you hear him? Were those his footsteps coming down the hall or your own telltale heart with its madness inducing beat? 

There was no time for your pain. If you couldn’t get away from here, you would die. That was a fact. Rubbing your sweaty palm on your hip as if to soothe it and sobbing dryly with all the pitiful disgrace of a child, you took off again. 

When you burst out into the pleasure plaza, the place of that first confrontation, hope reignited in your heart. It didn’t matter that there was still a significant dash to the exit, at least you knew where you were. Ignoring all else, you retraced your original ill-fated steps out into the courtyard. The moon was hidden behind the golden tower, peering into the front of the castle and leaving the courtyard nearly as dark as the halls. It didn’t matter. You raced across, blindly passing the one eyed deer in his long night vigil.

Until your toe caught on a loose rock, and you launched forward onto your elbows and knees, skittering forward across the ground. Once more, your flashlight was flung from your grip and landed somewhere ahead in the dense foliage. A harsh yelp left your mouth and you collapsed, completely boneless and exhausted and in genuine, insistent agony. Everything ached and the terror was relentless, pain consuming every panicked thought and infecting every inch of your body. You were doomed. Damned. Dead. 

Footsteps approached from behind. Easy, casual, measured. You flipped onto your back, wincing at the weight it put on your bruised hip. Your pursuer didn’t look dangerous. The outline of his messy curls gave him an innocent silhouette, and his hands were empty of any weapon. 

“Ouch, that must have hurt,” he said. “You should be careful, you could injure yourself if you don’t watch where you’re going.” 

“Stay away from me,” you got out between gasping breaths. 

“I bet you’re tired from all that running, huh? That’s fine, I think we’ve had enough fun for the night.” Without pausing, he dropped down onto his knees, one between your legs and the other astride your hip. You cried out in protest, getting your trembling arms beneath yourself to crawl backwards, but he caught you by the strap of your sling bag, and then with a fistful of your shirt to keep you in place, caging you in with his body. You couldn’t see the color of his eyes, they were only dark as he leaned down over you. 

“Stop it, please,” you begged, weak and trembling, tears sliding down your flushed cheeks, mixing with the sweat. “Just let me go, please.” 

“I’m sure you get this all the time, but you smell unbelievably delicious,” he said, his nose brushing your sweaty neck. You could feel your pulse jump against the thin skin there and you held completely still, a million thoughts slamming into each other all at once in your head. Vampires, murderers, insanity—anything and everything but most of all was just the mindless, irrational terror and despair. You were going to die. In a final spasm of rebellion, your back arched and legs kicked, but your body was caught between the jagged ground beneath and the firm press of his body above, pinned flat. And your hands weakly pushed at his chest, but it was a lost cause, and he wasn’t listening to your constant mumbling pleas to stop. 

Another pathetic sob hiccupped in your chest. You wanted your dad, you missed him. You needed him. And then you went limp because, now and forevermore, you were alone. 

“Come on, you don’t need to cry,” he murmured sweetly, a smile in his voice. You didn’t respond, staring up at the starry sky above. They were cold and without shape or form. Indifferent to your pain. 

The touch of his lips on your neck was shockingly cool, you almost wouldn’t have believed it was a mouth until you felt the needle-like puncture of fangs. That made you jump, squealing, but he held you in place which was probably a good thing because he was biting your neck and that could get dangerous fast. The pain sharply worked down through the rest of your body, the unnatural intrusion of something beneath the skin sending you right back into high alert. And then his lips closed around the created wound to suck.

A little whimper left your mouth, almost confused because even with the unambiguous pain of being bitten, there was something more. The wet release of sensation that followed the bite bloomed out from the point where his fangs pierced your neck in a flizzling wave. He sucked hard for a moment, but then went stiff against you, pulling back with a sharp intake of breath to stare into your eyes. 

He looked shocked, almost innocent if it weren’t for your blood smeared across his mouth. “You’re…” He breathed out that word faintly, reverently. There was meaning there, a meaning that you understood. Letting out a little laugh, a bubble of genuine exuberance, he released your shirt so that hand could delve into your hair, so he could pull you into a kiss. 

His skin was impossibly cold, unalive, and you could taste your own blood as he licked between your lips to part them. While his eyes were squeezed shut, dark eyelashes resting on his cheekbones, yours were wide open.

The kiss wasn’t violent, it was amorous. And familiar. He held you, practically cradled you against him. He felt it too, he understood what you had known from the moment you saw him.  

There was no way to escape the violently seated weight of your own body, of every sensation and feeling he inspired within you. Although, in another situation, the kiss might have seemed sensual, it was only grotesque and terrible. A display of affection in a moment of horror. You didn’t want it, your body thrummed with fear and pain, but you also felt yourself giving into the overwhelming wave of defeat. Even with all that was unnatural and terrible, this man’s kiss was imbued with some sort of cosmic sense of belonging. 

If the pain weren’t so sharp, you probably would have relented. 

Instead, you used it as an opening, as your final chance to reject this twisted insanity. Your hand scrambled out to the side, blunt nails scraping the ground and open wounds packing with dirt. But you found what you were looking for. Stray rubble, forced up and broken by the relentless roots of new growth, nature overcoming manmade structure. You wrapped your bloodied fingers around the chunk of displaced stone and swung at his head, thrashing against his grip at the same moment. 

It was enough to displace his body from on top of yours, maybe out of surprise because you certainly didn’t feel any human give of flesh and bone beneath the weight of the rock. You didn’t stop to consider that, or anything. He grabbed the strap of your sling bag as you scrambled away and you unclipped it without thought, refusing to let it catch you, to keep you trapped. It didn’t matter, you didn’t need it. You needed to escape. You were little more than a wild animal, the taste of your own blood on your lips, blood dripping down your neck, fear infecting every cell of your being. 

“Wait a second,” he called. Disgruntled, not pained. 

The first few steps, you were practically crawling, your back hunched like a beast as you used pure momentum to carry you into the atrium. And from the atrium to the breezeway, your back painfully straightening out, hip screaming in agony. You didn’t think about it, you just continued forward. Ran out into the night, ran through the woods, sticks and foliage catching your clothes and skin, ran down the dirt path to the road. There wasn’t a single thought in your head to get help, just to get away. And then you were flying through the night on your silver bike, your body pushed past the point of weary, into some territory where you weren’t even sure you were actually alive anymore, just acting because you had to act. Although it seemed to take hours of cycling down the dark road, there was this vague impression that no time at all passed before you were coming up to the inn, the bicycle’s wheels crunching across the gravel alley before you ditched it. 

Your room’s window was still open, the way you left it so you didn’t have to sneak in and out the front. The lights were on and they were warm and bright, inviting. You scrambled in, bloody and filthy and sweaty and shaking, and slammed the glass pane shut so hard it rattled, pulling the blinds shut to protect you from the night. 

And then you wept, and you retched, and you waited for sunrise.  

Act 4

“Die he or justice must; unless for him Some other able, and as willing, pay The rigid satisfaction, death for death.”

I.

1st day of Horsebow Moon

It’s all real. There is something living in El Dorado. He got Acheron, I waited all night and he never came back and they’re saying that he left yesterday but I know he didn’t. I left him there. I abandoned him there. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. 

If you find this, it means he came for me too. 

II.

A woman sat in the waiting room of the police station when you entered, her legs crossed as she casually read the paper. There was nobody else around, not even at the desk. A lazy fan swiveled in the corner, whirring loudly but not doing anything to cool the room so much as it just pushed around the warm air. It made the high necked shirt you were wearing that much more uncomfortable. Trying very hard to hide your limp—your hip wasn’t seriously injured, but you’d have a hell of a bruise for weeks—you walked up to the desk, peering into the back to check if anyone was there. No luck. It was almost eerily quiet. 

“Are you here to talk to the police?” the woman asked, looking at you over the top of her paper. 

You opened your mouth to respond before settling on nodding instead. 

She turned to the next page, her attention drawn back down. “What about?”

You hesitated, not knowing how to answer, or even if you should. Before leaving the inn, you hadn’t thought very hard about how you would present your story. The only evidence you had was your sore body, but you had to do something for Acheron. Even if he was annoying and rude and unpleasant, that didn’t mean he deserved to be dead and forgotten. 

“I know all of the folks on the force,” she explained. “I’m sure I could help you out.”  

“I… I’m here to give a statement, that's all,” you told her, aware of how hoarse your voice was. You sounded and looked rough, there was no hiding it.  

“Well, they’re at lunch right now,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and wait with me?”

You looked at the empty desk, and then at her, and then sat down, once again trying not to wince at the way your hip complained. Really, your entire body complained. You used practically half a bottle of Bactine trying to clean up the mess of shredded skin on your hands, elbows, and knees. Not to mention the bruising. 

“I’m Judith, by the way,” she said.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said. 

“I take it you don’t know who I am,” Judith said, a hint of amusement in her eyes. That perked you up, just a bit. Not in a good way. So lost in your own miserable anxiety and fear, you hadn’t really considered how off putting her demeanor was before now. 

“Should I?” you asked. 

“You might be interested, at least. I’m the owner of El Dorado and the surrounding property.”  

You felt the blood fade from your face, your empty stomach twisting with guilt and fear, the sore muscles clenching uncomfortably.

“Don’t make that face,” she said, folding up her paper. “I’m not here to report you.”

“I-”

“That’s not to say I couldn’t,” she said, cutting you off, “but I figured I’d give you a chance to do the smart thing first. It’ll save both of us a lot of trouble if we agree that nothing happened last night and move on with our lives.” 

You froze. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Do you know the punishment for felony trespass?” she asked. 

“Acheron’s still in there,” you whispered, adjusting your high necked shirt again. “They have to save him. Somebody has to do something.”

“I heard your friend left town,” Judith said. 

“No, I saw him. He was real, and he got Acheron,” you insisted, tears welling up in your eyes. The words didn’t make any sense, even you weren’t entirely sure how much of it you meant. What you thought, what you felt, what you believed. Your head pounded with a violent headache, your entire body sore and clammy. 

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but hallucinations are a side effect of things like black mold,” Judith said, her eyebrow arching. “It’s dangerous. There’s a reason that place stays locked up.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Could that be true? Maybe Acheron had left after all, you weren’t exactly in the clearest of mental states. He could have escaped, it was what he intended. And the rest of it, the man who stalked, taunted, and attacked you, maybe there was some other explanation for that. Maybe you really were losing it.

“You can go ahead and make a report, if you want,” Judith said. “It won’t matter. All of the evidence points to your friend packing up and leaving. Without a body, the only crime here is yours. They’ll bury you in whatever charges they can make stick.” She paused, giving you a sideways glance to make sure you were listening. “None of that has to happen. No report, no paperwork, no crime. You go back to your inn, pack your bags, and leave town. Everybody’s happy.” 

A couple of answers came to mind, and then a couple of complaints. Eventually, you just nodded. 

“See? I knew we could handle this peacefully.”

“I’m scared,” you said softly, the pitiful admission leaving your mouth without thought. 

Judith sighed, looking at you with a disapproving mixture of compassion and pity. “Don’t worry. Even if there was something there, I promise you that it’s not getting out any time soon,” she said, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. That passed quickly and Judith stood up, tucking her paper under her arm. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you. I’d say that I hope to see you later, but-”

“I’m leaving soon. Tonight if I can,” you said quickly, getting to your feet as well. 

“I thought that might be the case. Well, then. Have a safe trip.” 

III.

1st day of Horsebow Moon

I took a nap earlier, while the sun was still out, and dreamed of him. He wants me to go back. Maybe I should, maybe it’d be better if I did. When he kissed me I… I don’t know. I think about it and I’m not scared, I just want to cry. My heart hurts. Why? 

I wish it had been me too. I really do. We could have gone out together in a blaze of glory, us rogues. At least I wouldn’t be alone, I wouldn’t be thinking that when he touched me, I didn’t want anyone or anything else, and I felt-

I can’t think like that. 

The past is written in ink and stone and blood and ash.  

I’m leaving tomorrow morning, it was the earliest time I could find to get out of here. I’ll have to get back in a car. Thinking about it makes me sick, but there’s no choice. She says it’s not real and I know that’s a lie. The bite on my neck is real, I couldn’t have made that up. She’s lying. They’re all covering up for this, that’s all I can think.  Earlier when I ordered food, the delivery guy acted so strange, like he knew. It’s insane to think, but I swear, everybody in this awful little town is in on it. 

I put the note from earlier under my mattress, just in case something happens tonight. For some reason, I keep thinking that it will, jumping at every little sound. The walkie talkie keeps bursting out static, like it’s connected to the other one, but that’s impossible because Acheron had the other one and the range isn’t that long. I could have sworn I heard a voice from it while I showered too. Maybe it’s connected to another channel. Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I’m going to die. Maybe he’ll come for me. 

Death doesn’t scare me, not really, but I don’t want to die alone.

Act 5

"And should I at your harmless innocence

Melt, as I do" 

I.

Fiercely clawing your way out of the heavy shackles of sleep, you shouted yourself fully awake, thrashing in an attempt to escape an unknown threat, sickness churning violently in your stomach. Being awake hurt. Why had you been asleep? Everything hurt. Fear was more potent than pain and you forced yourself to breathe, to focus on your confusion and make sense of the world around you. Unfamiliar, although that in and of itself wasn’t dangerous. You had always existed in a state of ever-shifting unfamiliarity. What was wrong, what was dangerous, was that you knew where you were. Rather, you had a feeling. 

“Woah, woah, easy,” he said, backing away with his hands up. You blinked rapidly, panting, trying to fight your way out of the haze. The tide of unconsciousness threatened to consume you once more, lapping at your heavy head, urging you back down. It was nearly more than you could take to keep your eyes open, but you fought it. Something was wrong, you needed to be awake. As your vision brightened bit by bit, you met a pair of green eyes, and your blood turned to ice.

“It’s you,” you said, your voice soft and close to breaking, mushy in your mouth. Nearly inaudible. Everything was sore and stiff and painful, and it was so unbelievably hard to keep yourself from drifting again. It had to be a drug in your system, but you couldn’t think properly to know how or why. “You… You’re-”

“I usually go by Claude,” he told you with a winning grin. And it was a smile you knew. Intimately, honestly, a smile so familiar you ached. 

You blinked hard, shaking your dizzy, heavy head in frustration, unable to accept what you were seeing and hearing. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t remember the last thing you’d been doing before you woke up here, the squishy bit of brain behind your eyes pounded at the effort. And that name. You knew it, you had long attached it to the man in your dreams no matter how little sense it really made.

Or maybe it all made perfect sense, and that was why you were so scared. Claude von Riegan, resident vampire of El Dorado. 

“I… What happened?” you asked weakly, tearfully. “Why do I…? Dizzy…” 

“Don’t worry, that’s from the little concoction I slipped into your food before that kid dropped it off,” Claude said. “It’s not poisonous or anything and, trust me, I would normally never use such underhanded tactics, but I couldn’t have you ruining things by making a big fuss. It’ll wear off soon.”

“No no no,” you muttered, your words bordering on incomprehensible with the effort they took to get out, “this can’t be happening. This can’t…” 

“Would you feel any better if I told you it wasn’t?” he asked nonchalantly, sitting on the sofa across from the bed, his arms spanning the back in a casual position. 

With blurry vision, your eyes took in the room around you. It seemed normal enough, if lavish. Big bed, large furniture. The smell though, that was distinct. Not rot, but old. Aged. 

“You have been having an awful lot of weird dreams lately,” he continued thoughtfully. 

You exhaled harshly, going still. Then, slowly, you met those playful green-blue eyes. They danced with candlelight and mirth. Enticing, exactly like in your dreams.

“I hope you don’t mind, I got bored while you were asleep and had a little peek at your diary,” he told you. “I’d love to hear more about that strange, beautiful man who haunts you in the night. He sounds intriguing.”  

Had you written about those dreams? You couldn’t remember what you might have put down, usually you just went in and dumped as many thoughts onto the page as possible. The invasion of privacy was like a knife to the bone, but you couldn’t think of what you should do about it, the world was too abrasively heavy to know what to do with anything. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. Tears! Like you were going to cry! It seemed impossible to fight, like you were just as helpless to yourself as you were to what was going on.  

“It was fascinating to see how much you pieced together. I’m glad you’re smart, I really am. It’ll make this a lot more fun.”

You shook your head again, which didn’t help the dizziness. “I want to leave,” you said, “I don't want to be here, I can't…" Your voice slurred a little, like you weren’t in complete control of your body. Your thoughts too, they kept getting away from you, slipping out from your grasp. 

"Out of curiosity, where would you go?" Claude asked. 

You sniffed pathetically, your thoughts falling to an abrupt halt against the question. "What?"

"If you left town right now,” he said, “where would you go?"

You stared at him, unable to figure out what he meant. 

"You don't know, do you?" Claude asked, but his tone was all-knowing and smug. "I thought as much."

"I do, I just…" you said. But you didn't. You had no idea about anything. What you would do, what you were doing, everything was a confused mess and you just needed to get out of here, get away. Your breathing was picking up, your heavy head spinning with it. 

“Shh, calm down,” Claude said gently, switching from the couch to the bed. It dipped with his weight and you didn’t think to move away, just stayed where you were and looked at him, attempting strength but only managing desperation as you tried not to break down completely. “I can tell you’re scared, but I’m not going to hurt you.” He paused, smiling non-threateningly. “And, you know, I wouldn’t have had to do any of this if you didn’t play hard to get last night. So why don’t we agree we were both in the wrong and move on? Forgive and forget, no harm done.” 

“I-I want to-to leave,” you insisted, taking inventory of yourself to figure out if you were even capable. Everything was so foggy, disoriented, your body unbelievably heavy. It was getting better, but slowly. You weren’t sure you could leave the room, let alone escape. 

"Sorry, but that's not gonna happen," Claude said, and it wasn’t a threat but the casual way he spoke made the statement that much worse. He was simply telling you something that was. A fact, a forgone conclusion. 

"Someone will… will come looking for me," you said with more confidence than you actually felt, grasping at straws to make your case because you didn't have anything else. 

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Claude said. "They still think that I'm too weak to leave, seeing as the Macbeth bloodline has completely died out and all." He smiled at that, meeting your eye knowingly, unflinchingly. "Without the blood that roused me from my accursed slumber, there's no way I'd have the strength to steal somebody all the way from town and back."

Pieces began to shift into place. Slowly moving, scraping together as your fogged brain did its best to comprehend what he was telling you. The vague outline existed, but you couldn't quite pin it down, couldn't quite see the whole. 

"My blood…" you mumbled, pressing your hand to the puncture wounds on your neck.

"But," Claude continued, ignoring you, "let's say that they know you're here. It's not impossible. Are you really going to place a bet on complete strangers risking their lives for you when they can't even be sure you're still alive? Personally, I wouldn't."

Your breathing, already unsteady, was only getting more out of hand the longer this conversation went on, the pressure behind your eyes mixing a headache with the threat of tears. A hot flush worked its way through your body, a sure sign of genuine panic, some potent mixture of terror and the effect of whatever drug he'd given you. 

“Hey, calm down. I'm not trying to scare you,” Claude said, “but I'm not gonna lie to you either. So let’s get to know each other a little. I’m sure I’ll surprise you.” 

Surprise you? The enormity of what was happening finally settled somewhat. He had kidnapped you, presumably by drugging you. He had killed somebody. Many people, maybe.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice trembling and small.

Claude huffed, slight irritation wrinkling his brow. “No,” he said. “Frankly, I’m offended you’d even ask.”

“You’re crazy,” you said. “You… you killed Acheron, you…” You put a hand to your neck again. The needle-like punctures had bruised, the skin tender and sore. 

“Okay, okay,” Claude said, trying to placate you. “I know I might have gone too far, and I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do that again. I was just a little excited, you know? I’ve been stuck in this place for centuries all on my own, too weak to leave and haunted by the ghost of my terrible, yet sympathetically tragic past.” 

He paused, eyebrows up as if expecting you to say something, prompting you to say something. How could you possibly respond to that? He spoke so fluidly that you could almost miss the way he casually threw around the word ‘centuries’ as if it were normal, as if it made perfect sense.

“Doesn’t that make you sad?” Claude pushed. “Doesn’t your heart just ache for the pain I must have been feeling all this time?”

“You’re crazy…” you whispered again, unsteadily sitting up against the headboard, drawing your legs closer to yourself to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. You couldn’t ignore the evidence that there was something weird going on here, but you couldn’t ignore reason either. A crazy guy with razor sharp teeth living in a castle famous for its vampiric and occult ties hunting and killing trespassers was more reasonable than the alternative, wasn't it? You couldn’t just give up and submit to the fantasy, not entirely. You needed to make this make sense, to find a valid explanation other than the impossible. 

“You already tried that one,” Claude told you. “And, for the record, I’m not crazy. If you think about it, and I know you have, this is meant to be. Who are we to deny fate?"

“Fate?” you repeated. “No, that’s…” Crazy. It was crazy. Everything about this was insane.

“Then why are you here?” Claude asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, actually, don’t answer that. I already know. Oh! Speaking of which…” He stood up to find something, pawing through the mess haphazardly left on one of the tables before straightening up with a phone in hand. 

“That’s mine,” you said, tensing up.  

“Yeah, you left it here. Aren’t you glad I took care of it for you?” he asked, waving it around as if to taunt you into lunging for it. 

“Give it back.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

“Give it back.”

“Ooo, how very charming,” Claude said, oozing sarcasm. But he gave it to you anyway, tossing it onto your lap casually before sitting back down. “You know, if you’re going to break into creepy forbidden castles, you probably shouldn’t take something so important. Especially the thing that has all of the information about where you’re staying, what you’re doing, who might care if you go missing suddenly… Or, actually? You should do that, it makes things easier for me.” 

You clicked the home button, greeted with your familiar background, a flower your dad found for you on the lake. That was last year. Not so long ago, but it felt like a lifetime. You weren’t sure what you were looking for as you swiped the screen to unlock it. There was no service here, you already knew that. The phone may as well have been an expensive brick for all the good it did you. 

“I’m astonished by how much information can be crammed into such a tiny little device,” Claude said. “Although, in your case, there wasn’t very much to find. No friends, no family, no home… I’m sorry about your dad, by the way.” His voice lacked all levity when he said that, almost like he meant it. 

“Don’t,” you said, stiffening. But it was a weak kind of anger. Whatever he had used to drug you sent your emotions way out of whack, fear and anger and sadness getting all knotted up and leaving a lump in your throat.

“Nobody to worry that you’ve gone missing. Nobody for you to miss,” Claude continued to muse. “Nothing for you to leave behind. If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if you weren’t waiting for this exact thing.” 

“That’s… You’re wrong.” 

“Of course, I do know better,” Claude said, ignoring you, “I know why you risked life, limb, and the law to break into my humble abode. Rather, I know why you think you did. You want to know why you’re cursed, and why all of these terrible things happened to you. You think that when the truth is laid bare, it won’t hurt anymore. Once everything makes sense, you won’t feel so alone and scared. You and I are pretty much the same in that regard. I can’t stand not knowing things.” 

You shook your head quickly, refusing to hear his words. He wasn’t right anyway, he was just assuming, just pretending like he knew you for the sake of some twisted power trip. Then again, he was right, wasn’t he? Your brain wasn’t so focused that you could simply deny the truth, deny that you thought answers would make the pain stop. 

“Amateur prose aside, you’re right about almost everything—the curse, Lady Macbeth, Old Derdriu, me. You are cursed, Lady Macbeth was a witch, I am a vampire, and so on and so forth,” he said flippantly, disregarding the supernatural as if they were matters of tired fact. “But I have to say ‘almost’ because you’ve misunderstood something very important. Honestly, your little tirades border on willful ignorance sometimes. I can’t tell if you’re intentionally missing the point or if you’re just that obtuse… Er, no offense. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“No,” you said. 

Claude huffed, frowning. “You’re probably the only girl in the world to come face to face with the literal man of her dreams and still insist that you don’t believe in fate. I’m actually a little amazed right now.” 

“You’re lying,” you said. “You’re lying so I… Because I’m…” 

“You’re not insane, if that’s what you’re going to say,” he told you bluntly. “You’re not weak either. No, you just want a way out, don’t you? There’s nothing for you out there, you know that. You’ve been searching desperately for someone to swoop in and give you direction again.” 

“No,” you said again, refusing to hear those words or to believe them.

“Careful,” he said, “if you lie too much, I might just feel compelled to do something about it.” 

Your breath caught, your body freezing in place. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, tears burning your eyes. 

“Aaaand back to square one,” Claude said, rolling his eyes. “Okay, I see we’re not going to get anywhere like this. Time to move on to Plan B.” He twisted up onto his knees, like he was going to crawl towards you.

“Don’t come near me,” you said with wide eyes, clumsily scooting away, covering your neck defensively. Your body wasn’t moving correctly, your limbs awkward and ungainly. Although, if you were honest, he didn’t look that intimidating in the warm light. No, he looked beautiful. That was the point, wasn’t it? Those green eyes, the soft hair with one little curl flopped over his forehead, the pretty face, the little gold earring, all of it was meant to entice. Vampires were beautiful on purpose, they were both bait and trap. 

“I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you. All I want is to get to know you a little better,” Claude said innocently. “Thing is, I’m a hands-on kind of learner.” 

“Stay away from me,” you told him as firmly as you could manage, watching him distrustfully with this terrible tingling sense of anticipation. Like you wanted him to do something.

“I mean it. Fear and pain makes your blood all sour. Pleasure, on the other hand…” He trailed off with a grin, letting the implication speak for itself. “Well, we’ll get there.”

“No,” you said, winding up your arm to throw your phone at him. It was hard to keep your arm lifted, the muscles were so heavy that they trembled with the strain. Claude’s eyes widened, and then narrowed, his irritation obvious. 

“Oh, come on. There’s no need for that.”

“Stay away from me,” you said again, your voice coming out more like a whine. At this point, your thighs were clamped so tightly together that the muscles ached, your arm wavering from the weight of your phone. Claude reached for your wrist, but you dropped the phone before he could do anything, deciding to make your escape instead. 

There was no surprise that you, unsteady and dizzy and drugged, nearly fell off of the bed when you tried to jump onto the floor. You definitely would have face-planted if a set of cold hands didn’t catch you.  

“I know this is happening pretty fast,” Claude said, gently pulling you against him. You couldn’t do much to stop him, your head spinning, your mind on the fraying edge of sense from the sudden shake up of blood. He was inhumanly cold, but the fabric of his buttoned shirt was soft. The smell was wonderful, clove and orange and something lower, masculine. “Believe me, if I could give you more time, I would. But we have to make do with what we’ve got, right? And I’m…” His arms tightened around you, not that you were at risk of escaping. When you nervously peered up at him, Claude caught your eye hungrily. His throat worked hard as he swallowed. “Honestly, I’m starving.”

“Stop,” was the most you could offer, slurring the word. You realized that there was no heartbeat in his chest. Of course there wasn’t, he wasn’t alive. His cold hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing along the warm, sensitive flesh of your back, to your ribs. “No,” you protested, squirming. His body was unyielding and firm against your own in the most intimate of ways. You had never been this physically close with another person, not like this. 

“It’s okay,” he told you, his nose brushing the crown of your head. 

“It’s not.” 

“It is,” Claude affirmed, unendingly gentle. He was tracing little patterns on your back that made you shiver. You should have been fighting to get away, but the scent of him was intoxicating, and you felt… Not peaceful, there was too much about all of this that was uncomfortable and scary to be peaceful, but you didn’t feel displaced. “You don’t want to be alone anymore, do you?”

Your composure finally collapsed, tears welling up in your eyes. You hid them against Claude’s cold, empty chest, clinging to him because you had nothing else. 

“It’s okay to let it all go,” Claude told you, continuing to pet your skin sweetly. “I’ll make you forget, at least for a while. I don’t want to brag, but I’m the best you’ll ever have. I’ve had a few years of practice to really hone my technique, you know? You won’t remember a thing by the time I’m done with you.” 

Your heart pounded heavy and hard once, twice. 

“What do you mean?” you finally asked, mumbling the words against him to hide your red face because you had a feeling you knew what he meant, the price he’d demand to cure your loneliness. In a way, it made sense. Another piece of a puzzle that would fit in just as it was meant to, as it had been destined to. 

“Wait…” Claude pried you away from his chest, gripping your chin to force you to meet his eye. You tried to avert your gaze, but there really wasn’t anywhere else to go, anywhere to hide. “What do you think I mean?” 

Your thighs squeezed together, heat rising to your face.

“I dunno,” you said, trying to squirm away, overly aware not only that you were in his arms, but practically cradled in his lap. 

“I can’t tell if you’re being coy or not,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way.” 

“What doesn’t?” you asked. 

“I’m talking matters of the heart,” Claude said, letting go of your face to wrap an arm around your waist, his grip impossible to fight even if you weren’t still dizzy and leaden from the drug. “And matters of the body. More specifically, your body.” His other hand delved down, slipping beneath the elastic waistband of your sweatpants to press against you through your panties. You hissed out through your teeth, thighs clamping down around his hand like a vice. Claude only groaned, his palm grinding against you. “I’ve gotta say, it’s awfully cute. You’re so warm and soft.” 

“Stop,” you protested, your voice thin and your face hotter than ever. 

“Pleasure makes your blood sweeter,” he said, the air of his words brushing against your ear. “The more, the better.” 

You shook your head, hiding your face against his chest. “I… I don’t…” 

“It’s a fair deal, don’t you think?” Claude asked, his fingers teasing you through the thin fabric, curling to press between your folds, skimming over the sensitive flesh beneath. You squirmed, your hands weakly tugging at his wrist. “We both get something out of it.”

“I… don’t…” you stammered out again, not sure where you were going with it. 

“And it’s much more respectable than a messy quickie out in the courtyard. Blood as precious as yours deserves to be savored in its finest form,” Claude said, dragging his finger over your clit, the extra friction of the fabric adding to the sensation. You shuddered hard, heat sinking low in your gut. “I think we’ll start with three and go from there.” 

“Three?” you asked breathlessly, your head spinning so hard you had to rest it against his chest.  

“Yeah, I’m going to make you come three times,” Claude said, his tone more than a little indulgently condescending. “To start with, at least. You know, to sweeten you up. It’ll soothe your nerves too. As for what happens from there…” He shrugged, the movement impeded by the way he was cradling you. “I like the spontaneity of figuring it out as I go. It’s more romantic, don’t you think?” 

“Nn…no…” you said, your stomach sinking, sickness and something else—something that was decidedly interested in the proposal—swirling dangerously low within you. Claude hadn’t stopped teasing you through your panties, and you weren’t really pulling at his wrist anymore so much as just holding on.  

“What, are you thinking more along the lines of four? Five?” he teased. “We’ve got more than enough time to kill.” 

“That’s not…” You whimpered, holding tighter against him when he wedged the fabric between your pussy’s outer lips to grind even harder against your clit. It bordered on too rough, but it was working as intended, your clit swelling hot and needy, your hips jumping forward in an unintentional chase for more. “I can’t… do that.” 

“Did I mention how good I am at this?” Claude asked. “Not that I get the impression you’ll be too terribly difficult.” 

You whined in objection, squirming in a half-hearted attempt to escape. 

“That’s not a bad thing. The opposite, actually. Like I said, the more, the better,” Claude said, his other arm wrapping around your waist to adjust you, to make it easier for his other hand to work between your legs. You were too sensitive and you didn’t know how much of it was natural and how much of it was from the drug, only that pleasure was pooling up quickly in your core. 

You swallowed against the excess saliva pooling on your tongue, past the lump in your throat. “I… I don’t…” 

“What?” he asked. “You don’t… something. Sorry, I didn’t catch the last bit.” 

“I…” 

“You weren’t going to lie and say you don’t want this, were you?” Claude asked, his cold lips brushing the shell of your ear. Your hips jerked, your mouth falling open. You could feel the way your body was coiling up tense, desperate to come. It would be a quick flash of pleasure, hidden and tight beneath your clothes, but it was still pleasure, it was still good. 

“I’m—mmm…” You pressed your lips together to stifle yourself, holding even tighter against him. The wave of heat was building too fast, too frantically. Exhaustion, drugs, your general mental degradation, you could pin the blame on any number of external factors so you didn’t have to take responsibility for what you felt. The result was the same though, and it was you and you alone who chased the tantalizing build of pleasure.

“Do you feel that? That’s the sweet, sweet feeling of me being right yet again,” Claude said, saccharine and smug. “Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”  

It was the pet name that really did it. Nobody had ever said something like that to you, and the heavy weight of it in his voice pushed you over the edge with an anxious little jerk of pleasure and a choked noise in the back of your throat, with a hot flash that made your clothes feel too tight, that made your clit pulse beneath his touch, rubbed raw with the friction of fabric. It was awkward and cramped and thin and it was everything, you clung onto him as the fizzles of heat sparkled out, your muscles contracting, your mouth open and silent. 

When it was over, when Claude quit rubbing those evil little patterns over your sensitive clit, you let out a shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself down. Without the distraction of pleasure keeping you on edge, you felt the bite of nausea in your throat. The recognition that this was wrong, and that you had no idea what to do to fix it, or even if that was possible. 

“The thing is that when you come, your body releases all sorts of hormones. It’s a fun little cocktail that behaves in basically the same way as sugar. For me, at least,” Claude explained, unceremoniously dumping you onto your back in a boneless splay. “A couple of orgasms is… It’s like the difference between gnawing on a day-old biscuit and savoring a cinnamon bun with icing.”

“What are you doing?” you asked. You tried to hold onto him, but Claude easily knocked your arms away so he could pull your sweatpants off. They were cast somewhere to the side before he hooked a cold hand under your knee, lowering himself between your legs. “What-”

“I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” Claude explained, looking up at you with bright eyes. He looked so innocent, so sweet. So mischievous. “You don’t mind, right?” 

“Mind what?” you asked, trying to close your legs, to hide yourself from him. The panties you were wearing were old and plain, far from anything even approaching sexy. But the idea of removing them was worse, you couldn’t stand thinking of him looking so forwardly at your bare pussy. The humiliation would kill you. “Please stop,” you said, your voice pinched and small. 

“Oh, wow, would you look at that?” Claude asked, his finger tracing the wet spot soaking through your panties. Your hips twitched, the muscles in your thighs tensing. “It looks like you don’t want me to stop.”

“Don’t look,” you said, squirming in an attempt to get free. 

“Don’t look?” Claude repeated, feigning guilelessness. “So it’s okay if I touch, but only so long as I keep my eyes closed? Good to know.” 

“No, that’s not-” 

He cut you off, his tongue replacing his fingers, dragging over the wet spot with a depraved sort of intensity. And his eyes, as he said, were closed. Already, the sane thoughts of sickness and doubt were beginning to scatter anew, your body responding to the promise of new pleasure. Claude exploited that, continuing to lickyou through the damp fabric of your panties while you squirmed, settling for covering your face in place of fighting him off. Not that he was looking. 

“You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?” Claude asked, hooking his fingers beneath your panties to slowly peel them off. You fought that, but it wasn’t hard for him to wrench the cotton from your grasp, the elastic tearing before he got them all the way down and off. When he ghosted his cool fingertips over the bruise on your hip, you shivered. “I’ve barely done anything and you already came once. Every time I touch you, it makes you twitch. I thought you were just discrete, not writing about any boys in your diary, but the truth is that you’ve had nothing to write about, right? Well, until now, that is.” 

“What are you doing?” you hissed down at him, finally panicking enough to grab his hair, trying to pull his head out from between your legs, shame raging a horrible storm within you. Claude groaned, flashing a grin up at you as he casually tossed one of your bare thighs over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, you can pull my hair all you want. I don’t mind,” he said, his cold lips brushing your inner thigh. You thought of his fangs and how easily they had pierced your neck, falling still as he passed the artery there. But that wasn’t his destination, you realized. Claude separated your outer lips, staring at your bare pussy for a long moment before his head dropped forward. 

You yelped when his cold tongue began to draw relentless patterns over your swollen clit. His fingers kept you spread open for him and you couldn’t breathe, every single muscle in your body pulled taut in preparation for the orgasm you were being enticed into. Disgust and humiliation remained constant, sure, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade your body from the pleasure. 

Even when your thighs closed around his head, certainly suffocating him, Claude didn’t falter. Even when you pulled at his hair, even when your hips jumped against his face, he just groaned, doubling down. He had to have been putting on a performance, considering how loud he was, eating you out as sloppily as possible so you had no choice but to revel in the depraved noises. The rest of it was all you. Your moaning, your whimpering, your gasping. Your body didn’t belong to you, you couldn’t force yourself to stay still, couldn’t stop the noises from leaving your mouth, couldn’t stop the hot coil of pleasure from building and building and building. 

“I c-can’t,” you got out breathlessly, “I-I… I can’t.” 

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Claude said, looking up at you from beneath thick, dark eyelashes. “It’ll make this a fun surprise. For you.” 

Forcing your hips flat against the bed, his wicked tongue continued to push you even closer to the precipice. You whimpered, tossing your head back because there was nothing else you could do. It was embarrassing and awful and you hated it, but you knew you weren’t far off. Heat ballooned up in your core, all of your blood seemingly rising to the surface and making your entire body too hot, too tight, too tense. 

Claude’s lips closed around your clit and sucked and you came with a helpless cry straight out of some trashy porno, your entire body tensing and shuddering and completely overcome with nothing except for the raw sensation of pleasure. By the time you were spent, your fingers were twitching, the rest of your body limp and sweaty. 

“See what a difference a can-do attitude makes?” Claude asked, looking up at you with a big smile. You shook your head, breathing too hard, too fast. Unable to meet his eye. “As in, I can make you do anything I want. Funny how that works out.”

“I-I need… a moment.” 

“No you don’t,” Claude said. Messily, hungrily, he moved up from between your legs, his lips tracing your abdomen, your stomach, your ribs, pushing your shirt up to gain access to more and more of your bare flesh. When you realized he was trying to remove your shirt and bra, you fought it, desperate to retain some modesty. 

“I don’t want-” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Claude scolded. “Remember what I said?” 

With his supposed can-do attitude, it wasn’t difficult for him to get your shirt and bra up and off, shoved past your shoulders and arms until the knotted wad of fabric dropped onto the floor. You tried to cover your bare tits, but Claude barely paused, simply slapping your arms away so he could map your chest with his mouth too. Palming one breast, pinching the aching nipple between cold fingers, he wrapped his lips around the other. 

“Claude, I don’t-”

He effectively shut you up by biting your nipple. Not with his fangs, and not hard, just enough to make you squirm, writhe against him like you had last night, stuck between his unyielding body and the mattress. Sweaty and hot and desperate, but now for completely different reasons. 

You made another sound that was intended to be his name but didn’t come out that way, it was barely language, and far from comprehensible. 

Claude groaned, the fingers of his other hand pushing into your pussy at the same moment, driving right past the tense muscles of your entrance and deep into you. The weight was enough to make you really moan, the feeling of him stretching out your inner walls electrifying your entire body. You could hear how wet you were for him, feel how easily his fingers curled and scissored inside of you, reigniting the little ember of need low in your core. His mouth switched to your other nipple, leaving the first red and aching, and all you could do was hide your face, one hand threaded through his hair as if looking for an anchor point. You thought you needed a break, but already you were back in it, already wanting to come again.

His fingers fucked into you with a sloppy sound. In and out, curling and scissoring and not at all gentle. Not that it mattered. Your body was entirely pliant, moving with him. More than that, responding to each swipe gleefully, needfully, pulsing around his cold fingers and sucking them deeper, your back arching to press your chest harder against his mouth, your thighs squeezing his hand to keep him in place.  

“You’re tight,” Claude said, pulling off your nipple with a slick pop. “Is it possible that you’ve been saving yourself for that special someone?”

You shook your head, more than a little aware of the way his taunt made you tighten around his fingers. So close. Just a little more and you were going to come for him, the heat having gone from a smolder to hellfire beneath your blushing skin, your entire body wound up.

“Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been suffering all by yourself, waiting for your prince to show up and take care of you?” Claude asked, making his point with each hard thrust. “Cause, I’ll be honest, that’s what this feels like to me. Sensitive, tight, needy… Those are all classic symptoms of neglect.”

It was difficult to breathe. Difficult to think.  

“Please,” you breathed out and you weren’t sure how he heard you, you could barely hear yourself over the crushing thrum of blood in your ears, but Claude responded with a groan. 

“By the way, that is the magic word,” he said. Despite the quip, he fingerfucked you roughly and carelessly. His mouth on your tits was beyond pleasurable. It was exquisite, terrible. You came again, your entire mind clearing out as pleasure shuddered through you, stoked by each thrust of his fingers. They kept on curling, teasing, grinding against your g-spot, going as deep as they could each time. Your orgasm felt like it lasted too long, leaving you wrung out, shaking and almost confused. Maybe that was just because of how hard you were breathing, your brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen.  

Sweat slicked your skin and tears had dripped down your cheeks into your hair and everything glowed when you managed to blink your eyes open.

“You don’t mind, right?” Claude asked, his mouth moving up from your sore nipple to your neck. His hand hadn’t stopped moving, fucking into you. He pulled his fingers out only to add a third, to add that much more impact to each thrust. 

And he. Didn’t. Stop. Claude didn’t so much as pause when he bit into your neck, pushing you past numb overstimulation, past the discomfort, and right back into the cruel build of yet another orgasm. Unlike last night, the piercing sting of his fangs into your flesh was only good, hazy bright red and sharp, followed by the sweet, cool release of his mouth fixing around the wound to suck. It hurt, but the pain was only an aspect of pleasure. And when Claude groaned happily, his tongue lapping at your blood with the same desperation you felt beneath the assault of his fingers, you moaned openly. 

You came again when he bit into your neck a second time, his fangs digging into your flesh mercilessly. The needling sting made you writhe, but his fingertips curled at the same time to press against your g-spot and you couldn’t help it. At this point you were so wet it was dripping past his fingers, slicking your thighs and the bed. Claude sucked even harder at your neck, enough to make you lightheaded. 

Whining, you pulled halfheartedly at his hair. Not for him to stop, but because you wanted him to fuck you. Actually fuck you. At this point you probably were insane, but you didn’t care, all you could imagine was how full you’d feel, pierced by both his fangs and his cock. 

“You want another?” Claude asked, pulling away from your neck. When he pulled back, his lips were wet with your blood, his green eyes alight. “Some girls would be begging for a break right about now.”

“I…” 

“No, no. It’s okay to be a little greedy sometimes,” he said, grinning, the picture of poise and control despite the lunacy swirling within his gaze. 

“Nn-no, I want you-you to—” You let out a high pitched mewl when his other hand dropped to touch your clit in time with his fingers inside of you, writhing desperately, helplessly. This wasn’t what you wanted, you didn’t think, but already sense had flown from your mind, replaced by the intense dread and need that had reduced you to a babbling, mindless thing.  

He had to have known what he was doing to you, how far your mind had degraded, but that didn’t seem to matter to Claude at all. Torturing you with the dual assault of his fingers, he moved back down your body, muttering for you to hold still before his fangs punctured your inner thigh. Biting the sensitive, giving skin hurt in a different way than your neck, but you were already on your way to coming against and when he sucked hard on the wound, you just whined, gripping his hair in a desperate attempt to stop yourself from falling apart completely.  

Claude moaned, sucking hard as you sobbed and moaned and trembled through another orgasm, dripping and squeezing his fingers, twitching with overstimulation and pain and pleasure and the raw rush of ecstasy. He finally let up when you whined, his mouth releasing your thigh and pulling his fingers out of you with a final little press against your g-spot that made your legs jerk. What little sense you might have had before was long gone. 

“Now… What was it you wanted me to do?” asked as he sat back. “You were mumbling, I couldn’t quite understand.”

You turned your face away from him in embarrassment, still trying just to breathe, let alone speak. Claude laughed indulgently. Warm, sweet, even affectionate. He leaned over you to press a kiss to your neck, lapping at the beads of blood that had welled up. Even as you burned, he was cold.

“Look at me,” Claude told you softly, sweetly. 

And you did, meeting his eyes again because you were beyond refusing. What you didn’t expect was for him to take advantage of the way you were gasping for air and shove his fingers in your mouth. They tasted like you and maybe a distant part of your mind was disgusted by that, but it was so much easier to do what came naturally and suck on them, your tongue cleaning his skin of your wet arousal. The reaction seemed to amuse him, and, curiously, he pushed his fingers a little deeper. Predictably, you choked. Claude pulled them out with a spill of saliva. Filthy, but everything was already so wet, the added mess made little difference. 

“Oop, sorry,” he said without the slightest shred of repentance, sitting up and unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it aside. You could barely remember what had happened to your own clothes. “I’d hate to put words into your mouth, so why don’t you tell me what it is you want.” 

You shook your head, closing your eyes in an attempt to collect yourself. More than ever, reality loomed as a detached concept, floating above you and below you but not quite stable. There were reasons that was probably dangerous, but you couldn’t think hard enough to know. Every time you tried, it was just the heavy thump thump thump of your heart, and sweat, and your heavy, heavy head. 

“How about I tell you what I want, and you can let me know if it's agreeable to Her Highness?” Claude asked playfully. You peeked at him from beneath your eyelashes, barely coherent enough to be surprised that he was naked. Beautiful, the warm tan of his skin belying the bloodless cold beneath. Vampire biology, as it turned out, was comparable enough to human biology. “I want to see how many times I can make you come on my cock before you either beg me to stop or pass out. Preferably while enjoying a little more of your blood.” 

You blinked, some sense returning to your head as your eyes followed the trail of dark hair down his abdomen to his cock. A bit of fear because the sight of his hand stroking it made you very aware of what was about to happen, and then his words registered and you froze up entirely. 

“Oh, don’t make that face, that was a joke,” Claude said, scooping you up. The world rolled, your head heavy and limbs limp. “I won’t let you pass out, you’d miss all the fun.” 

“Dizzy,” you muttered, trying to hold onto him for stability, everything he just said fleeing your head as the reality rolled and twisted and shifted incomprehensibly. You couldn’t be afraid of what was happening when you didn’t even know what was happening, although that was distressing in and of itself. 

“You’re okay,” Claude said sweetly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, capturing your attention back onto him. Something to hold onto. “I’ve got you. Just relax, let me take care of you.” 

Amidst the blurry, disorienting world, his eyes were familiar and clear. Beautiful. You must have muttered something in the affirmative because it made him laugh, the sound rumbling in his bare chest. Claude kissed your lips, your cheek. Then you were turned around and falling forward. It was difficult to balance on your hands and knees. He had to settle for your knees and elbows, your arms were trembling too much to hold you. 

“You really are gorgeous, you know that?” Claude said, his hands tracing over your waist, down your hips. He didn’t put any pressure on the hurt one, simply tracing the very tips of his fingers across the ugly bruise. With how sensitive the skin was, it actually felt good, tugging a harsh shiver down your spine. “I’m serious. I mean… Look at you. Not that you can. I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Shame made a brief reappearance as Claude groped your ass, playing with your body a moment before spreading your cheeks, exposing you enough to run the tip of his cock through your slick folds. That made you shiver even harder, your body tensing up, your pussy squeezing around nothing, dripping a little more in anticipation. 

“A meaner man would make you beg,” Claude said, nudging the blunt head against your hole. You exhaled shakily, desperate and nervous and filled with red hot lust. 

“Claude,” you said.

“You’re lucky I’m so nice.” With that as your only warning, he nudged his hips forward. Once the head was in, you were more than wet enough for him to slide in smoothly. 

But Claude still took his time, holding you tightly against him to fill you with little rolling thrusts, his cock dragging against your fluttering inner walls bit by bit so you could feel everything. He held onto the headboard with one strong arm, the other holding your back flush against him which was good because, especially now that you were so full, you had no control over your body. In contrast to your feverish, sweaty skin, Claude was cold and smooth, his flesh unyielding and hollow. Your pussy worked around his cock, adjusting to his size. Any discomfort was easily smoothed out by how right it felt. How perfect.  

“Scratch that, you’re going to be lucky if I ever let you leave my bed,” Claude said, his voice a bit harsher, more affected, his arm tightening around you. 

You whimpered, your body unintentionally responding to what should have been a threat but only registered as a delicious promise. Claude still hadn’t moved. Every little movement made you tighten and flutter around him, a new reminder of how deep he went, how completely full you were. Claude groaned in turn, the sound muffled against your neck. 

When he bit you again, you could feel the way your cunt clamped down around him, your hips desperately twitching in an attempt to make him move. The piercing ache of his fangs spread through your skull, your spine, and then his lips latched onto the wound as if to soothe it. The sound of Claude sucking against your skin was beyond lewd, sloppy and wet and needful. 

“Please,” you whimpered. Not to make him stop, but to make him move, to fuck you properly. He pulled off of your neck with a slick pop. 

“I thought you’d want me to be gentle,” Claude teased, pulling out of you slowly. He didn’t take on the sensual tone of a lover, remaining playful despite what he was doing. “But that’s not true at all, is it? You want to be used. You want me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk, let alone escape from my devious schemes. Then you’ll have no choice but to be a pretty little blood bag for the mean, mean vampire of El Dorado. Am I right, or am I right?”

The words made your cunt tighten despite yourself. “I-” When he thrust back into you, his hips smacking loudly against your ass, you could feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, it was rough and rocked you forward. Only, he held you in place, leaving you with no escape. 

“Exactly, I’m right,” Claude said, repeating the motion, making you cry out pathetically. “Of course, I almost always am. You’d think I’d get sick of it at some point and say something wrong just for a change of pace, but…”

You weren’t really listening to him. How could you? Each thrust was hard enough to practically throw you forward, but the cage of his arm kept you in place so he could keep up the rough pace, fucking into you like you were little more than a doll. You wanted to meet him halfway, wanted to participate, but you were too far gone to possibly keep up. Luckily, Claude didn’t seem to mind either way. 

His fangs buried into your neck directly on top of the wound from last night and it should have hurt horribly, but instead it threw you over the edge, your pussy tightening around his cock and your body trembling as you came. The sensation was hard and rough and completely physical, pleasure blooming out from the place where his cock slammed into you and spreading outwards in wonderfully sensitive sparks of heat. 

Claude growled. You could feel the vibrations in his chest, his throat. The iron tang of your blood mingled with the filthy scent of sex, and the sound of him slurping at the skin of your neck was nearly as lewd as when he ate you out, like the sex was the same as the blood drinking, the two acts intrinsically linked.

The inside part of your consciousness remained in the heavy, hot confines of your body, desperate for a break so you could come down from the orgasm but unable to deny some hot, painful desire for more. The outside part of your mind floated above, like a balloon, disconnected and distantly interested in what was happening, almost like this was a dream. The two parts warred. One mind focused only on Claude and the pure physicality of it all, the other in a state of disbelief that any of this was happening at all. 

Neither mattered, really. Within your chest, your heart raged in a double time beat, racing against the blood loss and the syrupy thick pressure of exertion. Superficial pleasure raced over your skin like electricity. Claude bit into your neck again, drinking even more of your sweetened blood with desperate fervor. You tensed up, realizing that you were going to come again with a twinge of panic. Your body rebelled at the idea, but it would be more painful to deny the pleasure, it would leave you shaking and wanting and desperate and it would hurt. 

“You just can’t get enough, can you?” Claude asked. You moaned wetly, pathetically. He licked a wide stripe up the side of your neck. Even now, his tongue was impossibly cool against the bleeding wounds. 

He let you fall down, pushing your torso into the mattress. You went without protest, boneless and limp. Claude held you up by the waist, his thrusts slowing down as he experimented a few times. You didn’t really realize the point until your body jerked with intense, almost aggressive, pleasure. 

“That’s it, right?” Claude asked, a smile in his voice. You weren’t sure why he asked in the first place, your body’s reaction to him hitting your g-spot was more than telling. It felt good, beyond good, but it was in an electrified, panicked sort of way because at this point you were overstimulated and dizzy and every time he fucked into you it was unbelievably pleasurable, so much that it hurt. It didn’t help that Claude was being so rough, his thrusts losing tempo. And you just took it, jerking each time, spasming around him, moaning helplessly, that coil of heat building with too much intensity, with too much raw-nerve pressure. 

“C-aa-n’t,” you gasped out between thrusts, your voice heavy and wet.  

“Can too,” Claude told you, twisting your hips a little, enough to add that little bit of extra sensation. You pressed your face against the sheets as you came, your moans coming out practically as sobs because of how utterly overstimulating it felt as your pussy unintentionally clamped down around Claude’s cock, forcing more pressure on your g-spot, cruelly dragging out your own orgasm. He was muttering something, praise maybe, but you couldn’t hear it above the roaring of blood in your ears. 

Pretty soon Claude moaned loudly, layering your name with the heavy sound of pleasure. You realized that he was coming too, slamming into you roughly before his hips stuttered, flush with your ass. You shook and gasped and whined, your pussy fluttering and squeezing him, accepting the torment. Inviting it even, dripping around him even as he buried himself too deep inside of you, finishing with a few heavy thrusts. 

Claude laughed lightly after a few moments, although it sounded more like a sound of exhilarated joy than humor. You hoped he wasn’t laughing at you, although you couldn’t do anything even if he was.

He kneaded your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch himself pull out of you with a rush of wetness. Shame had burrowed deep into your gut, but you felt enough to pull away, to press your thighs together as soon as you had the chance.  

“I may have gotten a teensy bit carried away,” Claude admitted. 

You didn’t open your eyes or respond, not even when he threw himself down onto his side and gathered you against him. He was cool and smooth, his flesh inhuman against your own. You were the feverishly sweaty one, although you realized as he held you how cold you felt on the inside. Cold and sore and empty. 

“I know you’re not asleep,” Claude said, nuzzling against the side of your neck, lapping up the blood before sucking lightly at the freshest wound, groaning at the taste. 

You didn’t move. If you did, if you acknowledged the cold or him or the discomfort or anything, you would have to deal with how awful you felt. Blood loss felt a bit like altitude sickness, at least insofar as it left you lightheaded and nauseous. The sore overstimulation was different, but you definitely didn’t want to deal with that. Mostly, you just wanted to stop existing and shirk the discomfort and pretend that none of this was real. 

Claude pulled away from your neck, smacking his lips contentedly. 

You continued not to move as he adjusted himself, his arm leaving your waist to reach for something off to the side. “Can you sit up a little?” Claude asked. Your head spun as he pulled you upward regardless of your answer, the world lurching. Your pussy leaked uncomfortably, coating your thighs and the damp sheets. Every inch of your body either ached or felt clammy and sour. Your head pounded with a headache. Your skin was too tight, sweat dripping into the scrapes and bitemarks. A straw appeared at your lips, urging you to finally open your eyes. “Here—drink this.” 

You looked at him from beneath fluttering eyelashes, meeting those pretty green-blue eyes before looking at the bottle he held. 

“Whassit?” you asked, your voice slurred and barely recognizable. Your stomach protested at the thought of taking anything, but your mouth was bone dry and tasted like blood. 

“Water,” Claude said, pushing the straw past your lips. You just accepted it. Maybe you shouldn’t have, he already admitted to drugging you, but you weren’t thinking clearly and it was easier to just do what he said. “Humans need a lot of water. Especially after losing so much fluid.” He paused, smiling playfully. “Do you always get that wet or am I special?”

You blinked at him, taking in a few more mouthfuls of water before dropping the straw. Claude set the cup aside, wiping the excess water from the corner of your lips, and then smoothing over your hair, pulling you against his chest happily. It was easiest to let it happen. He really did smell good, spice and citrus and musk and Claude. The man of your dreams, he called himself.   

“They thought they could trap me here forever. After their massacre and the fire, they…” Claude didn’t finish that thought, his voice troubled. There was no heartbeat in his hard, muscled chest, but you could feel the rumble of his voice. “She had family, sure, but her blood was cursed. No Macbeth woman would be able to release me from this place ever again. And then you came.” He paused, petting your hair again. “More than once, if I recall.” 

You groaned softly, eliciting a laugh from him. 

“Yeah, that was in poor taste. Unlike you, who tastes excellent,” Claude said affectionately. A moment later, he sighed, returning to a somewhat serious tone. “Anyway, the point is that, vampire or no, I’m man enough to admit that I needed saving just as badly as you. That’s enough, isn’t it? We really should stick together, us accursed outcasts.”

You didn’t say anything, you weren’t sure what you were meant to say. Your thoughts, still, were little more than confused slush. And, more than that, you weren’t sure that was the sort of thing that needed a response. 

Claude accepted your silence and kissed the top of your head. And then he just held you. Not like he was afraid you would leave him, but like he was afraid you would cease to exist altogether, his arms nearly desperately keeping you pressed against his chest, his hands brushing your back or nose ruffling your hair as he reminded himself that you were still there.

And maybe those thoughts were just projections, but you didn’t think they were. 

II.

1st Day of Ethereal Moon

Now it’s just us two. Me and Claude ruling the world. Explorers, adventurers, wanderers. Rogues who hide behind the horizon to keep the night close. I told him that the other day and it made Claude laugh. It didn’t hurt even a bit to say, either. Dad would like him, I think. Claude likes discovering things and chasing mysteries and all that too. There’s always somewhere new to go, we never stay anywhere long enough for people to notice our shadow. It can be hard sometimes, but I’m not alone. It’s as good an ending as any. 

Happily ever after. 

[tired-of-being-nice]

not allowed to die (+ i love you)

febuwhump day 29!!!!!! we made it guys!!!! this is a combo of the actual prompt (not allowed to die) and an alt prompt (i love you), and oh boy, i've been planning it out for a LONG time >:D let's go!

content: some questionably healthy relationships, sickfic, fever specifically, mentions of death

Ray brings them towels, which Milo is disgustingly grateful for—it's a good thing Ray has so many favors to pay back, they have to keep reminding themself, or they'd owe her after all this.

But it's nice to no longer feel quite so much like a miserable wet cat, and they and Ray conduct in whispers a negotiation of the exact terms of this. Much of their relationship, really, has been built off of owed favors and transactions—it is precisely this that made Milo go to Ray first. They know that she will keep her end of a bargain and not try to find a way to screw them over with it, and in this way Ray is the closest thing Milo has to a friend.

The upshot of the negotiation is that Ray goes to get blankets and an Advil, and they bundle up Coren in the blankets and wake it up enough to convince it to take the Advil, and then they sit there for a long time. Ray actually gets out a book and starts reading. Coren dozes. Milo tries very, very hard not to doze off as well.

"I'm gonna go make myself something," Ray announces abruptly. "Should I make you something, too? Some soup?"

Milo would really, really like that, but they only have so many favors left, and they don't want it to swing the other way so they owe Ray. They shake their head.

Ray nods in understanding and goes over towards the kitchen. Milo sits. Glances over at Coren, cozy in its blanket nest. Looks down at their hands. Looks back to Coren.

Ah, fuck it. They peel back a few layers of blanket and tuck themself in next to Coren. It's still pretty out of it, but it doesn't seem to mind. It makes a pleased chirping noise and flops over on Milo.

Milo knows it's not exactly a good thing to do—it's actually probably really fucked up, they observe distantly, to use the shell of your former friend for heating. But fuck, they dragged it all the way here, and it was the kind of cold out that sinks into your bones and makes you think you'll never get warm again, and Coren always ran warm and with the fever they're even more so (and that's fucked up too, come on Milo they're literally sick and you're just– what are you doing) but it's too late, so there, Milo's done many bad things over the years and comparatively speaking this isn't much worse.

Coren is so warm. The warmth is slowly creeping back into Milo's skin, and their breathing is slow and even, and if Milo closes their eyes they can almost pretend they're back before any of this happened, that they're safe and warm on Coren's old couch and they're going to watch a movie.

(Not quite. Not exactly the same. Coren smells like blood and antiseptic, not like comfort and coffee, and it's so thin—god, don't they ever feed it over there? Milo hugs it closer, all the same. Close enough.)

"Coren," Milo whispers. "You in there? At all? Anything left?"

Coren doesn't respond.

"Coren," Milo says, now with a sense of urgency pressing at their throat, "please, even if you don't know me anymore, just– fuck, don't die on me, okay? You are not allowed to die on me. I'm forbidding it, it's forbidden. You will not die. Understand?"

Coren stirs a little, which startles Milo– they mean to actually wake it. "Mmm. Miley?"

Milo feels a jolt of shock run through their body. Coren hasn't called them that in years, are they dreaming or did it really just—

"Mileyyy," Coren repeats, sleepy grin spreading across its face. It bats a hand roughly in their direction. "What'dja say?"

Milo has to take a second to steady themself before they can respond. "Just– that– um. That you're not allowed to die."

"Oh," Coren says, blinking one eye slowly open and then closed again. "Mmokay. I'll do my best." It yawns, head lolling to the side. "I love youuu."

Milo feels like their insides have turned to ice. There's a faint humming in their ears, and they half-feel themself gently brush a strand of hair away from Coren's face.

"No you don't, Coren," Milo says gently. "That's just the fever talking. Go back to sleep, okay?"

Coren frowns. "But–"

"Shhh," Milo says, running their hands through its hair, and Coren sighs and relaxes into their touch, falling quickly back asleep.

Milo wishes they could do the same.

taglist: @whumpsoda!

[strawhatsoraya]

Hiii! <3 So.. I wanna preface this by saying: OMG, I love your writing and I love reading your reblogged posts and quotes and I really hope that at some point I manage to write as beautifully as you do! The language just flows and.. .sighs I wish I'd say I was better at writing in my native language but I feel like that would be a lie. ANYHOW… may I request something…? Ace with a female reader, who feels bad for being a bit chubby? Just, like, you know, not the typical One Piece-hot-woman-figure, but perhaps (in her mind) a bit too much booty, too thick thighs, a too soft belly and (the only thing she's a bit happy with) quite decent breasts? But, baseline, is convinced that a hottie such as Ace would never ever consider her to be attractive. (What? Me? Self-inserting? Noooo. I'd NEVER. I totally don't think my PhD studies ruined my body worse than I'd like to admit. *coughs*) Could be fluffy. Or NSFW... which would make me especially happy. <3 If you feel up for it, of course!

Either way, I needed to tell you that I love scrolling through your new posts :D

I keep meaning to ask you what's your native language? I speak and write Spanish as well but my spelling, and grammar in Spanish is muy terrible. So I'm sure you're just fine lol. Anyway, so I know this was supposed to be a "reader doesn't think ace will find her attractive" and somehow it became a "two idiots don't know what they're doing or talking about" slow burn. I promise you I wrote it with my whole heart though. *does silly dance* AND IT'S NSFW. This fic consumed my mind for this whole day and I needed it to be done ASAP because otherwise I couldn't live. I hope you enjoy it!! Also you are absolutely the sweetest person ever. I'm so so so SO happy you love my writing. Your kind words and feedback are the best. Plus you're just so fun to talk to. BUT LET ME STOP BABBLING. HERE'S YOUR FIC.

ACE X CHUBBY FEM!READER | NSFW, Soft Smut ™, Slow Burn Babeyyy WORD COUNT: 9k (i have nothing to say for myself) CONTENT WARNING: alcohol consumption (because I am sora and I am a grown woman who likes to write about alcohol), profanity (not a lot but enough), angst galore, a sprinkle of fluff because it's cute decorations, unprotected sex (when will they learn???), groping, sloppy kisses because ace is passionate and means well but he is also eager, that being said oral female receiving with some sloppy head, nipple play, plenty of ass grabbing, biting, ace talks way too much for his own good, he is silly and just says things, and it might be embarrassing but that's just how he is, you know i love my repeating themes so if you hate that please stay away!!, is a hurricane/storm a warning? then yes, i guess dangerous time to be partying and having sexy but these are pirates, handjob, what else?, oh jealous ace is amazing, also flirty marco because i love marco sue me A SUMMARY: Ace comes aboard the Moby Dick, fire in his fists, fire in his eyes. Y/N wants to know his reason for fighting, but curiosity is a beast of a burden, and when feelings get swept up in the heat of his storm, Ace has to make a choice between reason and his heart.

I - A Disturbance : Wind & Fire

You were born in summer heat. Your mother's arms welcomed you into her world, sticky with sweat but full to the brim with love. Her plush lips against your temple, baptize you with a kiss. You grow, not like a palm tree all spindly trunk and leafy green top, but like a wild hibiscus tree; small and closely rooted to the ground with bushy branches covered in small leaves reaching out to the horizon. Like the Hibiscus, you dance in the wind, laughter trailing behind you. In your hair, its red flower entangles in curls. The sparkling water of the beach is always warm when you swim it. Your mother grows weary of warning you about the currents, and the treacherous waves. Eventually she gives up, names you her little mermaid, and braids beads into your hair that sparkle in the sun. Despite your mother's warnings you always find yourself there, at the cliff by the sea.

He is born in secret. He's born because there's nothing left. A mother's dying wish whispered into the soft spot on his head, to a dark curl who can't remember the words. In time, he runs as fast as his legs can carry him, through forests, creeks and mud. On the creak of the branches under his feet he tries to find that elusive promise; words he had sworn he never heard but somehow left a gaping hole. Sometimes he thinks he hears them in the howling wind. Sometimes he only feels it on the heat of his skin, when the sun is blistering hot above him. Heart torn in two, he always finds himself there, on a cliff looking out at the sea.

Like a Siren, it calls to them. On the horizon, the sun blinks as it sinks under the water, a fading beacon. The wind whips around their shoulders, tussling their hair with heated fingers. In their ears it whispers: come find me, I've been waiting.

You leave to the sea, as your mother always feared. She's inconsolable at the dock. You laugh to keep from crying, and wipe away her tears with the back of a small hand. She makes you promise to look out for yourself. Don't dive into the sea, she warns you with furrowed brows. Don't be impulsive. Don't head straight into storms. They forgive no one. You brush her worries aside with a kiss on her temple, before you bolt aboard the ship.

Several adventures later, you're aboard the Whitebeard Pirates ship. You offer your knowledge and skills in medicine; pair it with a big bright smile and hope for the best. Lady Luck favors you, beckons you with curling fingers. Another nurse is just what their ship needed—at least for now. Marco takes good care of you. He is patient, and kind. He is also easy on the eyes. It doesn't take long before you're being saddled with responsibilities.

You try your best, thinking your experience in wound care is your strongest skill among a ship of pirates. You did not share their strength, and undying courage but you did have wit, and you have a sharp tongue. You wielded them when necessary, the edge of your words a sharp scalpel. If you throw your words out fast enough, hard enough to kick up some dust they might not call you on your bluff. Compared to them, you couldn't help but feel like a soothing passing wind; barely noticed before you were gone, no impact, no trace left behind.

His entrance is violent, and eruptive. His presence disturbs the way of things, sending invisible critters scattering to seek refuge. You think you feel suffocating heat when you first see him. Portgas D. Ace is a forest fire at full flame, determined to devour everything, before you even noticed a spark. His eyes incinerate everything he glares at, thick brows furrowed together for so long you fear they are glued that way. Where his crew seemed agreeable even, accepting of their fates, he grew more restless by the day. You had to admire his tenacity. The sheer force of destruction his willpower possessed was alluring; dangerously seductive.

When he tries to take Whitebeard down for the 11th time, Marco is sick of it, and delegates you to the task. You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze. You think Ace must not be a man of many words, as conversation is clipped and forced. It was just as well. The task was distracting enough. You try to remind yourself to keep your fingers moving as they brush over his skin when you apply antiseptic to gashes on his chest. He hisses, forcing your eyes up and away from the freckles you had been counting. His eye are dark pools that pull you into their depths, so deep you think they're bottomless. In your mind, your mother's warning echoes.

Don't dive into the sea.

You blink, and look away, feeling heat spread across your cheek; splotches of shame kept in secret. You try to focus instead, on the gauze on your hand, the warmth of his body under your fingers when you press it against his open wounds. You look up through your lashes when you apply pressure, wondering if a day would come when he didn't seem so closed off—so intriguingly unavailable. His jaw is set, teeth clenched so tightly all the time, you had half a mind to inspect his molars for cracks. His eyes flicker towards you and you pretend to inspect the bruise on his temple. You press a tentative finger against it, wondering if you could dip your fingertips into his thoughts that way. When he flinches, you move back to the gauze, wrap his wounds with soft bandage.

Your hands on his chest, you feel heat radiate from him, feel his heart beating steadily underneath. A heart never lied, each beat a tell tale sign. You try to listen closely to each secret told in a pulse against your palm.

Don't be impulsive.

You were never good at listening to your mother. Your mouth was quicker than your mind; traitorous and vile.

“Why do you keep fighting, if you can't win?” you ask him, slapping the bandages for good measure; assuring they stick, and assuring your message goes through. Ace flinches, and reaches for your wrist. His grip is strong, thick fingers wrapping around the width of your wrist. For a fleeting moment, you know you should fear him. You have seen what he's capable of, but the heat from his hand melts away all preconceived notions.

“Sometimes,” he says blinking down at you. His brows are furrowed together—they always are. You see his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. His thumb brushes once against the inside of your wrist. You think you hear a call—someone shouting from the sea. “Sometimes, you fight anyway. If it means protecting people you care about.” He lets you go, and you instinctively pull back, bringing your arm to your chest. He watches you fuss over your wrist momentarily before closing his eyes. He looks pained, and before you can offer him painkillers he's speaking again: “Maybe it's all I know how to do.”

II – The Depression : A Flickering Flame

He didn't mind at first, but now it felt like he shouldn't be there.

He shouldn't be sitting on the edge of the thin mattress of the nurses station. He shouldn't stand still when your short fingers tentatively palpated his injuries. He shouldn't watch you, like a seagull over water, searching—praying, as your teeth sank into the plushness of your bottom lip.

There was so much he should and shouldn't do, he no longer could keep it together. Ignoring you seemed like the right decision. It should have been easy. You were the enemy, if he wanted to be fastidious about it. A member of the Whitebeards Pirate was just someone else standing in the way of his goal. Most of all, his pride couldn't stand it. It couldn't stand the disappointed look in your dark eyes, and the way your mouth would twist into a little smirk when he would walk in. It couldn't stand the way you would immediately retract from him at the slightest hint of discomfort, how you would look at him like he was a wounded bird, wings teared at the joints, unable to fly again, sentenced to death.

It was pride that kept his mouth sealed shut. It was pride that stapled his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wished pride would leave him blind instead. He wished to not notice how soft your hands are, how small and cute your hands were against his chest. He wished to not notice how he becomes disgustingly interested in your short chubby fingers, and wonders what kind of reaction he'd get if he could nibble on one or two. He wished to not notice how obsessive his thoughts are over the appearance of your skin; golden, and glowing on the apples of your cheek—how soft they looked. He wished he didn't think about it at night, when darkness wrapped her arms around him tightly. He wished he didn't think about your lashes, the look you give him through them that fills his mind with smoke.

Racing thoughts, and a racing mind. It took everything in him to keep them quiet. Your voice is soft when you speak, and his lips part, a beating heart trying to scream but no sound comes out. His cheeks feel hot, and he swallows awkward conversation prompts down. He chooses, instead, to fix his thoughts on something else, something more urgent: like how to defeat Whitebeard.

He simply couldn't afford to dawdle with you. Ace never thought twice on taking on a challenge, but you were a chasm he couldn't bring himself to jump across. If he missed, the fall could be deadly. He blinks when you speak again, your eyes fixated on his face. Ace quirks his left brow, and thinks he's offended you. He wants to speak quickly, heart beating against the sinew and bone keeping it prisoner, but the words tangle in his throat.

The door creaks open, and Marco walks in. You look away from Ace and smile at Marco, before forcing two round white pills into the crook of Ace's palm.

“Make sure you take those,” you tell him, as you force his fist closed. “You hit your head pretty good.” You reach up to rap your knuckles against the side of Ace's head lightly. “Gotta try to save whatever brain cell's are left fighting for their lives in there.”

Marco laughs as you stand up. Ace hears you chuckling lightly, as it grows into laughter. He takes a sharp breath through an open mouth, watches you as you turn to look at him over a shoulder.

He wishes pride would hurry the fuck up and blind him. He wishes it so bad, he crushes the pills in his fist into dust.

The sight of your ass stretching the nurse's uniform fills him with a heat he's not very familiar with. It settles at the pit of his stomach, and he stares at the door even after you leave. It isn't until Marco speaks that he brings himself back to the present.

“Why don't you join, Ace?” Marco asks, as he settles on the stool you were sitting on moments prior. Ace frowns down at it, annoyed at his thoughts—he wondered if it was still warm, and he hated that Marco would know the answer. “You know, it's not a bad deal. He treats us like his sons. We're all a little lost out here, kid. You don't have to be alone.”

Ace scoffs, mouth twisted into a crooked smile. He tilts his head as he watches Marco, trying to swallow the bitterness in the back of his mouth. His heart lurches, and he shuts his eyes. If he closes them tightly enough, perhaps the hopeless dream will go away. He never had a father figure, and never needed one. It was a lie he recited at night; a prayer to a faceless God.

“I don't need a father,” he mumbles at last, picking at a string on one leg of his shorts. Marco laughs. Ace looks up, frown back in place.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Marco agrees, reaching up to rub the back of his head. “But why don't you try? What do you got to lose? It's not like you have any manners.” Ace begins to protest but Marco's laughter caught him off again. “And you might learn how to properly talk to a lady.”

Ace thinks his head might start catching fire. He pats his hair quickly.

“I don't need any help with that!” he says loudly, an elbow digging into a thigh as he leans forward to scowl at Marco.

“Oh, yeah?” Marco says trying to keep his laughter at bay. His smile is crooked, and insufferable. “Is that why you looked like a fish gaping for air when I walked in? Very convincing.”

Just when Ace thinks there is no way he could be more embarrassed, he feels his blush deepening, freckles almost obfuscated. He promises Marco to think about it, and he does his best, but thoughts of you plague him afterward. Your laughter that carried in the wind to him, the way it felt like it sank into his scars, the way it burned and made new ones in return.

III – A Simmering Storm

The needle on his back, sinks into his skin time and time again, embedding ink to stay forever. It is liberating, in a sense, marking himself with a brand of his own choosing. So much unlike the one stamped upon him at the time of his birth; the son of a monster, a nuisance, someone not worthy of the space they took up in the world. No longer did he have to search for reason, or an excuse. Ace could simply be, and he welcomed his newfound drop of happiness with a toothy grin.

A celebration at him joining the ranks, and being able to be commander of the second division seemed a bit over the top but he liked merriment—and the food and alcohol was too enticing. The darkening clouds in the distance threatened to dampen his mood, and the crowd on the deck of Moby Dick. Murmurs spread the word of an oncoming storm but nobody seems particularly worried. The only thing on their mind is how fast they could drink and eat before they got rained out.

The only thing on your mind was the blooming ache in your chest. You try to soothe it with a hand, smearing your palm against your voluminous chest. The crop top is soft under your skin. You try to memorize this, instead of the radiant smile on Ace's face. He had never seemed so undoubtedly happy as he did now. A different feeling settled between your ribs, a pang so bitter it causes you to hiss. Jealousy was a monster you squashed down with angry fists every time you saw one of the nurses place a hand on Ace's bicep. You never thought you would have to beat it down into submission while picturing the face of your own captain.

You're happy for him, truly. You mutter to yourself, over and over, drink after drink. You're elated, even, that he has finally come to accept the bright side of things. You're happy that he has been given a position that you feel is well earned, one that you hope he can excel at.

You're happy for him. You really are.

You're so fucking happy it hurts to breathe. You force another deep breath into your lungs, the air is humid and the scent of rain floods your senses. You blink back the wetness in your eyes, and when Marco asks if you are okay you blame pollen. Marco tilts his head, but chooses not to pursue the subject. Instead, he swaps your empty cup with his. You barely notice. You're too busy thinking about where the sea will take Ace next.

Something in your chest seizes—panic, or fear. It rises like heat from the ground, a crackling electricity flying up through the stale air that keeps you trapped on the ground. You try not to move too much, you fear jostling your thoughts, fear that if they move too much—touch a certain way, sparks would fly, singing you to a crisp; charred and useless.

He is happy, truly.

It wasn't something he could have ever dreamed of or imagined. He smiles as people congratulate him. Alcohol tastes sweet on his heavy tongue. He barely tastes his food as he pummels it into his mouth. He pictures what it would be like, sailing away from this ship, to complete tasks he would be responsible for. He pictures what it would be like to tend to his own wounds, what it would be like to sit at whatever island he found, and not hear your laugh.

He is happy. He really is.

He's so fucking happy, he thinks he feels sick. It's not anxiety. Ace could never admit that. Anxiety over what? He did not fear death. He never had a good reason for living anyway. You could only fear death if you were bound to the living. Then what was binding him to this ship? It felt like a vortex, a cone ensnaring him and trapping him to his spot; a gust of wind that kept bringing him back to you, no matter how many times he moved around this damned ship.

He tries moving again, taking his mug of beer with him. You bump into him with your ass against his. He turns around, ready to pick a fight but sees your heated cheeks instead. You mumble an apology that he laughs off. His hand moves before he controls it, and he ruffles your hair—something he knows you loathe.

“I'm not a puppy,” you hiss, pursing your lips. Ace drinks quickly from his mug, to refrain from sighing.

“Then why do you look like one?” he asks you, and leaves through the crowd. You lose track of him quickly, and decide to stomp around on the spot. It was easier than to think about the way he had looked at you, and how it had set your face on fire.

You do your best to mingle. You notice he does the same, but you're never far from each other. It feels comical in a strangely annoyingly tragic way. When you squeeze between Thatch and Izou to refill your cup, your hand brushes against something warm. You follow the hand to see Ace's tattooed bicep. When your eyes meet, thunder splits the sky. You move quickly, wordlessly, determined not to see his face against for the rest of the night.

The sea has other plans. The ship begins to move more than usual, and your legs still not quite so strong, threaten to have you rolling over. You blame the alcohol of course, when you land on Izou's back. He steadies you with a tight smile as you giggle, and spins you in place trying to send you in the opposite direction but your eyes meet Ace's again. The ship lurches, and you stumble forward. His body is warm, and inviting, you giggle at the ridiculous situation—as people continue to bump into each other mid-party. You try to move again, but your legs betray you. His arms hold you up, and brings you closer to him. Your body is soft against his, plush and delightful. You look up at him with a tiny small, eyes hazy from the alcohol, and Ace swears he hears the sky split open.

You're on your way again before he can say anything else. It was probably for the best. He loses track of how much he drinks. He could still feel his face, could still keep track of his thoughts—filled to the brim with you, and concludes he clearly hasn't drunk enough. He holds on to this as he grips the railing so tight, it cracks under his fingers at the sight of you with Marco.

Marco was so kind, and so friendly. His hands were soft around your waist. You know it was shameful, to giggle at all his silly little jokes, but the alcohol has you feeling weightless—for once. You almost don't feel the wind against your cheeks, you don't feel it whipping your hair around. You let Marco pull you closer, his hand pressed against the small of your back. It was better this way. It was better Marco than a ship sailing to a destination unknown.

He drops the mug of beer. It splashes on the deck, and he feels liquid splash against his knee. Ace clenches a fist as he moves, fire erupting from his knuckles before it swallows his hand whole. Drops from the sky grow heavier. They sizzle as they reach his wrist, little wispy vapor rising from the flames like warning flags. Ace breathes through his nose and wills himself to smother the flames. They die out by the time he reaches you, but there's a fire in his chest, flames behind his eyes he can't control.

The sight of Marco's hand very comfortable in the small of your back almost threatens to set him on fire again. Marco's mouth is so close to your ear, Ace thinks he must smell the lotion off your skin the same way he smelled it off you so many times before; the one that always drove him mad, who forced him to imagine tropical islands, to dream of coconuts and beaches, of you and sandy dunes. Your smile takes his breath away, and when he sees it's aimed at Marco it fills his lungs with lead instead. Your lashes flutter, and Ace sees a drop of water fall and cling to the apple of one your cheeks. He follows its path until it rolls off from your jaw.

As the last rays of light glints on the surface of it, a spark goes off.

His hand is around your wrist. Marco moves away slightly, only pulling away to look at Ace with a quizzical expression. His smile is frozen in place as he tries to assess the situation. He laughs, and naturally Ace feels like he should punch him in the mouth for it. Marco looks over to you, to pull a response from you when he begins to talk but your eyes are nowhere near on him. You are too focused on Ace's face instead.

You zone in on the arch of his left eyebrow, the narrowing of his dark eyes, the slight curl of his top lip. Rain starts pouring down. You watch rivulets of water streak down the side of his face. You try to breathe as he watches you, try not to think about his fingers wrapped around your wrist but you can't stop yourself from wanting to know. You want to know what it means. You want to decipher that look in his eyes, the dark clouds forming, the way you think you see lightning.

Your mother's words ring one more time. Don't head straight into storms.

A gust sweeps you off your feet, a dream so airy and full of promises you think you can fall forever if it meant he'd look at you this way for another breath, and another.

IV – The Hurricane

It wasn't enough.

He could consume every drop of alcohol aboard the Moby Dick, pour into his mouth ounce after ounce like his life depended on it, and it still wouldn't be enough.

There's nothing, not a sobering thought, not the lightning in the sky, not the dark clouds in the distance, that could free him from the hold you have on him. Your eyes are so big and round you remind him of the softness he hated in himself, the same he tried to strangle with his own hands. In you, it only made him want to kiss you. Right there. Right now. Ace swallows down the last of his apprehensions. He tightens his grip around your wrist, and thinks everyone and everything could go to hell and stay there. If he caused a scene by dragging you away, he simply did not care.

Nature had other plans. The wind picks up, the sea fights back. Waves rise, and rock the Moby Dick—a feat that's not as easy as it sounds. Marco gives you one last look before he scrambles away, shouting orders to the crew. They desperately climb to close the sails, but you can't finish watching them work. Ace drags you away from the deck, down a path you're ashamed to be familiar with.

In his room, he finally lets you go and you stumble forward with momentum. You hear the door close, and a lock click. You spin around belatedly, trying to keep your arms from swinging too much and losing your balance to see Ace's back pressed against the door.

He watches you from where he stood, hair soaked through. His raven curls are slicked against his forehead, so he runs a large hand through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. He can't be bothered to find his hair a nuisance. Not when you're standing in front of him, wet from head to toe. You're out of your nurses' uniform, something he is not used to seeing. Your hair is lose and partially wet, wavy tendrils sticking to your cheeks and shoulders. Your round face looks precious, he swallows as he fights the urge to cradle it in his hands. Your wide eyed expression forces a chuckle out of him, one he tries to hide on the back of one hand.

He notices belatedly, and with a little remorse, the slight blue tint on your bottom lip and the redness on your cheeks. Your eyes are hazy, heavy lidded, and he tilts his head at you, dopey smile on his face.

“You were having fun,” he mentions, eyes trailing away from your cheeks to your torso, the dips on your sides that make your waist. The soft rolls that settle there make him want to touch you. He raps his knuckles on the door behind him instead, fingers tapping without rhythm; anything, and everything to keep himself controlled, especially at the sight of your wide hips, the thickness of your thighs.

“Yeah, I was actually,” you finally find your voice to speak. You swallow with difficulty, slapping a hand against a thigh, over your wet jeans. “Anyway,” you mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose. You should stay focused. You do your best, but the sight of Ace's bare chest reminds you of how warm he is and how frigid your fingers currently are. You'd love to warm them up right now, skim them over his toned abs. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” he asks you quietly.

“Drag me here. Can't you see?” you start, licking your lips, feeling very very parched when you follow the small trail of hair beginning at the bottom of Ace's belly button, and disappearing underneath his shorts. “I have working legs!” You make a show of lifting each one, one at a time, and pointing obnoxiously. “See? Perfectly healthy.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pushing away from the door. He walks slowly towards you, steps hesitant and careful. His eyes roam over your body. You watch him drag his gaze from the top of your head, to your feet, and back up again at an excruciatingly slow pace. Your heart accelerates, and it thunders in your ears. “You're perfectly healthy,” his voices comes in softer now that he's standing in front of you. “I can see that.” Ace hands wrap around the roundness of your shoulders. He slides them down slowly from the short sleeves of your crop top, thick callused fingers skimming along the back of your plush and soft biceps. Your skin is soft, tantalizing. It feels as if he shouldn't touch you. It feels sinful, something he has no privilege to but he continues anyway, down to your wrists until his fingers grip yours gently. Ace tightens his hold on your hands and pulls you closer to him.

He wraps your arms around his waist. You don't fight him. You move; a leaf carried in the wind. Your fingers grip around his belt loops, as he dips his face to the crook of your neck. His hot breath fans against your skin, when he drops the softest kiss—his lips, or the wind, you're not sure. He nuzzles the exposed skin, using his nose to move the neckline of your crop top as much as he can to drop more soft kisses. You're colder than he expected, so he holds you tighter, until your softness fills all his hard edges and gaps. Your curves are a pleasant surprise. He had expected some of it from the way you filled the skirt of your uniform but seeing you out of it had been a vision he shouldn't be worthy of.

He shouldn't be worthy of any of it. He shouldn't enjoy the way your hips feel under his hands, but he still runs them over them up and down, over and over again. He shouldn't enjoy their width, the way the flesh caves under his grip, how his fingers dig deep and it still isn't enough to touch all of you. He shouldn't enjoy the way your skin feels so impossibly soft against his lips, as if it melts under his heat; snow under a sunny sky. He shouldn't enjoy the scent of your skin, the scent of your lotion that brings him to the brink of madness. He shouldn't enjoy the way you sigh his name when he sucks on your pulse, and grabs your ass. He shouldn't tell you the way he thinks no matter how much alcohol swims in his veins. He shouldn't tell you the way he feels, but words bubble up his throat and out his mouth—a freshwater brook whose source he can't define.

“You feel so good,” he moans against your ear, when he pushes his hips forward. Your eyes flutter at the feel of his erection against the softness of your belly. “I love touching you, Mermaid.” The nickname usually bothers you; given in passing because you loved swimming in the sea despite the dangers, but from his lips it feels like a spoken song; a poem only for you. “You smell so good,” he licks the shell of your ear, bites on the sensitive cartilage on top. You gasp, and dig your nails into his back, desperately holding on to whatever was left of your self preservation. “Do you know how sick I was?” He thinks he should punish you, and so he does, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck. You yelp, and slap his back but it doesn't deter him. He smiles against your skin, licks the blooming bruise with a flat and sloppy tongue. “When Marco's hands were all over you. I thought I was going to burn. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand a second of it.”

His words sound desperate. You try to stay present by drawings circles on his back with your fingertips. The storm screams outside the room. You hear the wind pick up its shrill song, tinny and distant. Water pelts against the small circular window on the door, a drumming sound that soon grows deafening.

“Ace,” you try to interrupt his rambling, but his hands are tangled in your hair. His lips brush against your temple, before he speaks against your head.

“I felt sick watching you. It felt like I was in pain,” he groans into your hair. His hips press against you again. You bite down on your lip hard enough to inflict pain. You rub circles on his back, and force yourself to focus once more. His words come in belatedly, sound traveling a long distance in the air. You press your small hands against his chest.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask him, brows furrowing together. Leave it to Ace, to be injured in a moment like this. You shake your head, not sure to trust yourself or his words. You should have drank less. You should have stayed away from Ace. You should have left with Marco instead. Ace presses his forehead against yours. His breath tickles your nose. He moves his hand over yours. His fingers clutches your hand, and warmth seeps from him to you. You feel it sink it, seep into the rest of your arm and down to your elbow leaving a tingling sensation.

“Here,” he breathes out in a whisper. He squeezes your hand, presses it closer to his chest. “In here.” He pats your hand once, and again, repeatedly in a rhythm that matches his heart beating under your palm. Ace moves slowly, and gently brushes his nose against yours. His heart beats faster under your hand. Your eyes are tethered to his mouth. You can't look away from the sight of his lips parting, as if he couldn't catch his breath. You feel your mouth do the same, feel the air in your lungs run out; breathing is not enough, nothing is enough. His head tilts, and you follow his lead; reflections on still water.

“Idiot,” you finally whisper, a breathy laugh bouncing away from your mouth. He feels it reach his lips, and he swallows it whole in his mouth. “You mean your heart?”

“Yeah,” he admits fighting a smile, his lips brushing against yours. “My heart.”

You should laugh it off. You shouldn't take him seriously. A drunken confession would be forgotten the moment the sun rose again but there is a screaming in the back of her mind—distant and ancient like Sirens on rocky shores. The storm grows louder outside. You had always thought you were a serene passing wind, something to soothe and lick old wounds better; something to be forgotten once you left, but the heat of Ace's breath against your mouth, spun around you in circles. It transformed you into something bigger than you thought you could be. You wanted to be bigger. You wanted to be something destructive, something that would tear him from limb to limb, leave him with the wreckage of your path so he could have something to remember you by when he was gone.

You reach out, hands seeking a target. You clasp his face as you smash your mouth against his. He hums into the kiss. It's clumsy and forceful. You leave him no room to push back, no gap to slip his tongue past your defenses. It isn't until he is grabbing fistfuls of your ass to pull you closer to him, to rub his bulge against your belly once more that you concede. You gasp, and it's the only weakness he needs to exploit. His tongue strokes against yours, hunger forcing him to be overzealous. He is sloppy, and imprecise, kisses so wet saliva coats your lips, making them shiny under the yellow sconce's lights of the room. Ace knows he should slow down, show a little finesse but your ass feels divine in his hands. He had been watching it the whole time during the party, watched you saunter back and forth, hips swaying; teasing him.

He moves against you, and you step backwards, the ship swaying enough to make you forget your route. You land against the wall with a thud, your plush ass making you bounce slightly in Ace's embrace. He laughs against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. “Nice,” he mumbles before he takes your bottom lip for a long and noisy suck. “It's like a safeguard.”

You groan, hands traveling down the wideness of his back, and over his shorts. They settle over his ass, and you return the favor, digging your fingers into the muscle. He groans loudly, pushes his hips immediately against yours and grinds against your lower belly. The smell of wine on your mouth threatens to intoxicate him further. He closes his eyes as he pushes against you, feeling precum starting to soak through his underwear. Your tongue feels perfect in his mouth. He sucks on it time and time again, taken in by the sheer softness of it. How it doesn't feel unfamiliar at all, as if he had kissed you thousands of times before.

He wished he had kissed you that many times already. He wished he could tuck away those memories somewhere no one could take them away from him.

Every time he kisses you, it feels like dying, and it feels like coming back to life. You've died hundreds of times already, hundreds of little deaths by his hands and by every stroke of his tongue. You think you smell smoke in his hair when he holds you close, when he whispers sweet things in your ear before biting down your neck, leaving a trail of bruises in his wake. His hands are weapons he uses to tear your down. Their heat eviscerates all your defenses. It kills you how they feel so hot, even over your clothes. How when he drags his palms over your belly, you want to feel them lower, towards the center of your legs. Your belly is soft, and pliable, he squeezes and kneads until he memorizes it. His hands move to your sides, where he grips the soft flesh, the rolls that are tender in his hold.

Your cheeks color, and your heart flutters. Embarrassed, you swat his hands, and move them away from your waist.

“Don't push my hands away,” he says annoyed, going back to grab your sides. “Before I--”

You cut him off with a kiss, pressing your mouth hotly against his. You wrap your arms around his neck. “Shut up,” you say breaking the kiss. You kiss the corner of his mouth, and up his jawline. “If you say it—I'll leave.” You press your mouth against his pulse, and a soft spot behind his head. “I'll walk out right now. Don't even say it.”

He kisses you, and you crumple under the weight of it. It feels like a last desperate attempt at silencing you, at keeping you here with him. His heart is in tatters. He tries to ignore the debris of it, the way it splinters off into pieces. Ace deepens his kisses, crushes you against his chest, and traps you tightly between him and the wall. He knows the truth. He knows the more he kisses you, the more he'll discover all the things he wondered about you, the more he'll become familiar with your softness—the more he'll miss you. A feeling of unworthiness crawls out of a well. He tries to smother it with another kiss, one you moan into. You bring a leg up and he holds on to it, hooks it around a hip and pushes against you, his cock feeling painfully hard. He thrusts his hips, and he tries to forget every touch of your fingers on his back, how your trail them along his muscles, leaving memories in them he could never forget, memories you shouldn't give him so willingly.

He should be the one to walk out without a further word. If it hurt you, it would mean you'd never look at him again. That was the right thing to do. He should let you go immediately. He should stop craving the heat of your body. He should stop pushing against you, and moaning into the crook of your neck, giving into every desire and fantasy that had filled his body since he met you.

He should. But he couldn't stop himself from being selfish. Just this once. For once, he wants to seize a semblance of happiness by his own hands without needing a reason for it—without needing a reason to simply exist.

Ace brings you to his bed, pushes you down until you're seated on the edge of his mattress. He kneels before you. You blink, mouth surprisingly dry considering all the wet sloppy kisses Ace had been giving you. You lick your swollen lips, and think you taste beer in the corner of your mouth; residual of Ace's conquest. Ace kisses your cheeks—one at a time. He reaches around you to the bow holding your crop top together. He unties it easily, and just as easily pulls it over your head. You don't know where it lands, and it honestly doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is the way Ace's eyes land on your breasts, the way he licks his lips as if he's gearing up for a feast.

He wasn't expecting you to not a have a bra, but he couldn't complain either way. Once again, he is amazed at his sheer stupidity. How he had never noticed the size of your breasts, how large they were and how beautifully they hanged from your frame. He swallows thickly, wishing he had done this sooner. He presses his mouth against the middle of your chest, hands tentatively taking in the weight of your breasts. He palms them gently, cupping and lifting as he moves his fingers. His intentions are well meant. Ace would love to take his time with you, but you react so deliciously when he flicks his thumbs over your hardened nipples, mewling against the top of his head that he felt like he had no choice.

If his hand felt like furnaces, his mouth is incomparably vicious. The heat of his tongue is paralyzing. When he sucks on a nipple, his free hand twisting the other one between thumb and index finger, your toes curl. Your panties cling to your folds, covered in your slick since earlier. You whimper, embarrassed and aroused as Ace continues his streamlined assault. His teeth leave marks over the swell of your breasts. You respond to every lick and nibble he gives. Your soft moans leave goosebumps on his skin, reminding him that this is him making you moan, him who has you scraping your nails against his scalp.

He shouldn't—but he smiles—thinking Marco can go kick rocks. He bites down on a nipple, a bit too hard, at the thought. He should mark you more, lest anyone get any ideas.

And like that, his heart aches. Ace sighs against the side of your breast, licks over a bruise in apology. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge thoughts that had no business polluting his mind. He wonders what would happen if he leaves you for too long. Would you move on? His fingers stumble to unbutton your jeans so he tries again. Of course, you would. Who wouldn't? Marco seems to like you, and what's not to like about Marco?

Desperate, he finally unhooks the button. You fall back on the mattress with a surprised squeak when he pushes you. Ace tugs your jeans off. You see him standing between your legs, as he unbuckles his belt, and drops his shorts. You hear the thud on the ground, the creak of the mattress as he joins you.

He cages you in, and you immediately reach out. Your fingers splay against his broad chest. His shoulders are wide, and strong, muscles rippling with every movement he makes. The yellow lighting of the sconces compliment the golden tone of his skin. You bite your lip, and rub your legs together, deeply aroused when you brush your fingertips against his muscular abs. Lightning strikes, and bathes him in a flashing white light. You see for a moment, every freckle on his shoulder, and chest. You run your fingers over them, connecting the dots, making up little galaxies on his chest and shoulders and committing them to memory. You'd remember these later, on lonely nights, and hold your hand to the ceiling, pretending that if you trace over the memory of them you could bring Ace back to you like a spell; like a wish.

His kisses scatter your thoughts, little stars clouding your vision. His mouth is on your neck, and on your chest. Heated, and wet. He leaves hot wet trails of saliva wherever he goes, coating you with his smell. He kisses your belly, and nibbles on the soft flesh underneath your belly button. His fingers dancing over your thighs. Ace moves lower as you hum, parts your legs to drop kisses on the inside of your thighs. For a split second, you consider being embarrassed at the state of your arousal but you are past the point of caring. Soaked right through your panties, all you want is for Ace to keep kissing you.

He smells you before he sees it—before he sees the big wet spot in your underwear. Ace chuckles, and you reach out to swat at his head but he is faster than you—as usual. He grabs your wrist and kisses the inside of your palm.

“Don't be like that, Mermaid,” he says in a good mood, smile wide and crooked. He looks up at you through black lashes, a faint flush over his cheeks. “I know how much you love being wet.”

You think about screaming, and beating him senseless for saying something so embarrassing but when he pulls your panties down in one quick move you are left speechless. Just as quickly, his mouth is on your pussy. He gives long, meticulous licks; ones he uses to slurp up every drop of your arousal. He uses his fingers to part your folds, and traces your slit with the flat of his tongue. Your back arches, and you moan loudly, hands flying to tangle in his black curls. He is noisy, but he does not miss a spot. He slurps up a lip, sucks on it gently. He flicks his tongue around your sensitive nub, making you shiver and tremble.

Just when you think you can't take the heat of his mouth any longer, Ace pulls your lips apart again, and slips his tongue inside your aching pussy. He thrusts it in and out, upping the pace the more you moan. He slurps up, wet and noisy to suck on your clit. His fingers tease your entrance before he slips two inside you. He scissors his fingers inside, the squelching so loud and lewd, you're forced to slap a hand to cover your mouth. It is sinful, and you wonder if you should worry when you grow hornier the louder the wet sounds get. He curves his fingers, seeking out that spot that makes your toes curl. His moans against your clit as he sucks vibrates against you, and you cry out as you cum. Your pussy flutters around his fingers as you reach your peak, little tremors running their course throughout your body.

The way you look so disheveled makes him want to stay down there longer. He'd love nothing more than to feast on your pussy all night long, but his throbbing cock is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. He moves to climb over you, but the ship tilts when a particularly large wave comes. Ace sways, but you reach out to grab him by the arm before he rolls off the bed. You pull him towards you, and laugh at Ace's shocked expression. He laughs with you for a moment, before it dies out. Your eyes captivate him—their sparkle too bright to be dimmed by the yellow lighting of the room, or even by the darkness of the storm outside the room. Ace kisses your cheek, and licks your ear. He laughs into your hair when you yelp, and hit his shoulder with a tiny fist, your own laughter overtaking his.

“Your laughs always carries so easily,” he says quietly, a hand brushing hair away from your face. You wrinkle your nose up at him. “You know that? I always hear you wherever I go.”

There's a breath that refuses to come back to you. It stays there behind Ace's smile. You swallow, following the path of his trail of dark hair that starts at his belly button. You grip the tip of his cock gently, and watch his brows knit together, teeth clenching to keep from moaning. You brush a thumb against his slit. His lips part, eyes fluttering close, and as you squeeze your hand down his shaft, he lets go; a moan flying past the front of his teeth. He is thick in your hands. You move them gently at first, taking in the sight of him above you. His dark hair spilled around him like a curtain.

His eyes that he fights so hard to keep open but flutter close every time you squeeze his pink tip just right. He cusses under his breath, upset he can't watch you jerk him off, how he can't keep the sight of your white teeth sinking into your berry colored bottom lip in his vision.

You are mesmerized by the sight of him. You try your best to commit to memory the planes of his face, the sharpness of his jawline. You rub your legs together as you stroke, enjoying the way your slick slides down your thighs. You love how vulnerable he looks, how soft his expressions is as he gives in to you, his dark lashes that flutter open and close, the freckles on the bridge of his nose; everything leaves their residue behind like sticky fingers on glass.

You feel his hand swat yours away from his cock. “Stop,” he whines in a hiss, eyes opening partially. He frowns down at you, cheeks bright red, mouth hanging open. “I don't want to cum like that. I want to cum inside you. With you.” There's no time to think, you feel him shift your legs, and feel the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. He pushes inside you, slowly, inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, a sound that refuses to leave your body. When he bottoms out, you moan gently, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Your thighs are thick and plush as they tighten around his strong hips. Ace feels as he would be swallowed whole—like a small vessel in a raging sea. If you wanted to drown him, he'd let you, if that's what you really wanted. He grunts with every slow thrust of his hips, wanting to feel you first, let you adjust around him. He's only begun, but he feels you fluttering around his cock, senses the tightening of your grasp around his shoulders.

He picks up the pace, as the storm rages. You're panting against his hear, so loud that even the thunder can't drown you out when you moan. Lightning splits the sky, over and over, bathing your sweaty body underneath him in bright white. He tries to remember the pieces of you, the soft breasts pressed against his chest, the sight of his cock disappearing into your soaking pussy. He tries to remember the sound of the rain, how it compliments your voice when you sigh into his neck. He pushes against you faster, deeper, your moans grow closer and louder. The scent of rain and wet wood floods the room along with the scent of your arousal. Ace can almost taste it on his tongue all over again, as he breathes through his mouth, panting loudly—moaning when you clench around his cock again.

His cologne makes you delirious—mahogany, and sweet blossoms, or it's the thickness of his cock or both. You bite his neck, scream into the crook of his neck when he picks you up slightly by the hips, when he angles his thrusts and slaps his hips against yours viciously enough to bruise. His cock pushes against your gummy walls, stretching you out until it's almost painful. He is so hot and warm inside you, you feel like you're melting, as if your body is built by nothing but pleasure and pleasure alone. You bite his shoulders, leaving marks behind. Your attack is as relentless as his thrusts. You continue to sink your teeth into his shoulders, and his neck, you nibble at his jawline.

He loves it. He loves the pain you leave behind. Ace digs his fingers into your hair, and he tilts his neck to give you more access—anything to keep you going. He groans with every thrust into your pussy, his heavy balls slapping against your thick and plush ass so noisily he worries for a second someone might hear.

“Go ahead,” he whispers to you when you nibble on his neck once more, groaning right after. “Make it hurt.” It is a fitting punishment, he thinks. Pain always left the deepest scars. If it was you, he'd take the scars with him.

The wind picks up more, the shrill tinny scream rises, banging against the round window on his door. It pounds at the glass, demanding tribute. Ace cries out when your pussy clenches around his cock, his body tensing before it relaxes at his climax. He releases, spilling into you, hot cum that oozes slightly out of your cunt. You stay tangled with him in his bed sheets, lightning coloring your bodies in bright white every now and then. Heat envelops the room, a humidity so thick it feels suffocating; muggy. Your bodies covered in sweat, are slippery, almost uncomfortable but you don't care.

You don't care about the incessant heat beaming off his body, you don't care how his hair sticks to your skin when he nuzzles in your neck, you don't care bout the storm outside the door, the angry sea. You bring your hand to Ace's chest, feel his heart thumping against your palm. What you care about is there, under skin and bone, just out of reach.

You shut your eyes when he kisses your lips, when he holds your face in his hands.

Your mother's words cut through the screams of the hurricane outside. Don't head straight into storms. They forgive no one.

But who was the storm? Was it him? Was it you? Who's to forgive if there's no one left in the wake of the storm?

[broflovski-brah]

im thinking thoughts…have them. stan and kyle as gym bros. i love them sm. (NOT A SHIP just dudes being bros)

it was kyle’s idea during a basketball off season to start going to an actual gym but he wanted an accountability buddy so he convinced stan to join with him. unfortunately stan doesn’t wanna go half the time (he is busy with warhammer 4k) and kyle has to drag him by his feet to the car because god forbid he miss a workout but also god forbid he have to ask some beefhead to spot him

kyle is so judgmental of the other guys in the gym that grunt and slam weights and snort creatine off their biceps, stan is like “just ignore it dude” and kyle is like “🙄oh my god they are so annoying and no one is impressed by them and yayayayaya” u know how he is.. he’s probably told one or two to SHUT UP and it worked cus he used the jersey powers.

they would encourage each other and kyle would never judge stan for anything. they do rip on each other a little for fun though and get into some friendly competition, it’s harmless. stan prefers working his upper body, kyle is all about legs. gotta keep that butt. stan refuses to do cardio because it makes his asthma act up but kyle is a runner. though i think he would prefer running outside rather than a treadmill, so he doesn’t do that at the gym.

kyle takes preworkout for MaXimUm GAInS (he was persuaded by some tiktok) and once stan took some but it made him so anxious he threw up. aw.

its just a thing that they do together and they bond over and it ends up helping stan’s mental health so much and improving kyle’s confidence. kyle unfortunately would get so confident that he would make some really cringe gym tiktoks. (you know that one glow up trend. the “16 missed calls” one. he would fucking do that) and even though stan is all strong now, shelley can still take his ass down with ease

ok thats all i got for now

y’know what? i can see this

used to go to the gym myself during the summer (had a bad habit of skipping out during school because i got busy-i’m old enough to get a membership now though) and i’ve experienced true gym bros. like the ones who come out with their dumb little towels and slam the weights. it’s annoying lol-i get where kyle is coming from

and i can see him dragging stan along. he tried getting the whole group to go but when he asked cartman to spot him he wouldn’t do it, and when he did he let go of the weight. kyle nearly broke his back. maybe even broke a rib from it. cartman didn’t care. kenny was trying but with how much he works he’s usually unable to go. and his work schedule night as well be a workout for him. so it’s just stan and kyle.

stan probably kinda just sits there and watches for the most part. he works his arms and legs but that’s about it. like you said, he can’t go too far because of his asthma. likewise, kyle can’t go too far because of his diabetes, which frustrates him immensely. he tries to push himself when it comes to working out so someone usually has to intervene before he has a diabetic crisis. kyle defo has that sleeper build tho

(side note and a bit off topic but i feel like kyle would technically be overweight, but not with fat. muscle weighs more than fat, and kyle is mostly muscle, therefore i feel like he would classify as overweight but he’s not like chubby or anything. cartman keeps insisting on calling kyle fatass and saying ‘kyle being overweight is karma’ but he doesn’t seem to get that the way kyle is overweight and the way cartman is overweight are vastly different)

anyway. great headcanons, i love love love!!