#that sort of light/dark divide appears

[theemeraldforesthideout]

June

[gojorgeous]

"creature of myth."

pairing: vampire!gojo x fem!human!reader summary: when you receive an offer of marriage from a mysterious wealthy lord, it’s too good a deal for your family to turn down. but nothing could be so perfect... right? content: MDNI (18+  ONLY), dark content, nsfw, gets dubcon/noncon in some spots, yandere behavior from gojo, implied death/k*lling of a character (not reader or gojo), arranged marriage, victorian au, plot that ends with porn lmao, spooky dooky vibes, blood, blood sucking/eating, praise, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, virgin!reader, discussion of virginity, cherry popping, pain, pet names (princess/love), reader is highkey clueless about sex, discussion of masturbation, ideas of masturbation as “sinful”, very minor religious themes, fated “mates”, gojo is highkey insane, coercion and manipulation, like SO much neck kissing, ooc gojo??? (had to alter his character to match a victorian vampire lord LMAO). a/n: PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. THERE IS DARK CONTENT AHEAD. is this a gojo fic or a twilight fic?? Going back to my roots fr fr. straight down to the “SAY IT, SAY IT”. this fic is also way too long my apologies bbs. i hope you like a hefty side of plot with your porn. parts of this fic feel way too cheesy to me but sometimes i eat that up, yk?? this fic was inspired by this amazing work by @rice5x ! and, finally, thank you all for the support on my most recent fics. i'm just getting back into being active on this blog and it's been amazing reading each and every comment/reblog/ask. they genuinely fill me with so much joy. keep them coming hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. banner art by @ndsoda on twitter. wc: 11.6k (sowwy)

You remember perfectly the way your mother’s jaw dropped when Satoru Gojo proposed to you. You’d never seen the man, and you still hadn’t. He’d asked to marry you via messenger, a simple letter delivered by hand with a list of all the things he’d be willing to pay for your hand. Offers of money, land, protection, connection- anything so long as he got you. You’d thought it was a joke. Your father nearly took a shovel to the head of the poor messenger, thinking the letter was some kind of cruel prank, some sort of targeted disrespect. You’d only started to believe when you really looked- saw the Gojo crest embroidered on the man’s suit, the fine leather of his boots. If it was a prank, somebody had spent a great deal of money and effort to pull it off. 

You’d asked for proof nonetheless, and you’d gotten it. Documents signed and sealed with a well-known waxen crest, gifts that could only have been purchased by a wealthy lord. The one thing you never got was the lord himself. He refused to see you, to come down from his mysterious castle on the hill. It didn’t surprise you. He rarely deemed town worthy of his presence. He had a reputation as a recluse, as a man who only ever liked to see and never be seen. What little glimpses people got of him were usually through the dark window of his carriage. Still, his appearance preceded him. White hair, light eyes… “haunting” said those who had the luck to see him. Those who went to work for the lord tended to return… changed— if they returned at all. 

You accepted, of course. How could you not? You were a peasant family with no status or wealth to your name. The promises Lord Gojo had made would make your parents into aristocrats all on their own. But that left you wondering… why did he want you? You offered him no benefit. If anything, you sullied his bloodline. The question scratched at the back of your mind. It came to you while you ate breakfast, while you washed your clothes, while you weeded in the garden. Some part of you told you that you needed the answer before you ever stepped foot in that castle. You needed that answer, but you’d never get it. 

Your wedding wasn’t even a wedding- just a piece of paper that had already been signed and witnessed, once again delivered by a familiar messenger. You signed at your dining room table and… that was that. You were married. 

Later that night the carriages arrive. Men flood your home, all dressed in blue velvet, the Gojo crest embroidered on their chests. They seem puzzled when you tell them you’ve packed all your belongings into a measly three bags. 

You say a quick goodbye to your parents, drawing them into stiff embraces. You love them, and they love you, but you can’t bear to see their faces as they send you away to a man who couldn’t even show his face for your wedding. 

The carriage ride is somehow longer than you’d thought it would be- apparently, the castle’s size makes it seem deceptively close. The trip is rocky and twisty and altogether unpleasant as you steadily make your way toward the castle gates. By the time you reach them you think you’ve probably dozed in and out of consciousness at least half a dozen times. 

The castle is even more intimidating up close. Spires that swirl into the clouds, sculptures that stare, doors that look more suited to being locked than opened. It’s… terrifying. 

When you finally roll to a stop, you move for the door. When you swing it open you get your fair share of strange looks from your attendants and remember that you should have waited for the footman. Your face heats as you climb out anyway, unwilling to subject yourself to the further humiliation of waiting for assistance. 

Your feet hit gravel and all you can do is stare- up, up, up, to where the castle’s peaks disappear into the fog. When your eye flashes to a window on the east side of the manor you think you see a swaying curtain. You tuck your arms around yourself and shiver, but it’s not from the cold. 

You nearly stumble over your feet on your first step inside. The entrance hall is larger than your former house, with ceilings that stretch so high you can hardly make out the figures on the frescoes that adorn it. Silver and blue drape everywhere, the Gojo family colors. You swallow when you see a chair that is most definitely worth more than your family’s annual income. 

The floors are marble and when your worn heels clack against it, you only feel reminded that you don’t belong here. That question pricks in your mind again as you pass portraits of every Gojo heir to have lived in the last three hundred years. Why me? Why me? Why me? 

Your footman deposits you in your room, a place more lavish than you’ve ever seen. You have a four poster bed with a canopy of blue velvet, a window that overlooks a sprawling estate, and more square footage than you’ve ever dreamed of. 

“Pull this if you need any sort of assistance, ma’am.” 

You turn to see your footman referencing a silver cord at your bedside. You assume it’s one of those contraptions that rings a bell in the servants’ quarters. You try to hide your amazement- you’ve never seen one in real life before. 

You clear your throat and give your most ladylike nod. “Thank you, um-” you pause, your brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your name.” 

Your footman appears stunned to silence, like he’d never expected you to care about his existence, much less his name. He recovers quickly, though, and forces a small smile. “Thomas, ma’am.”

You smile and it’s genuine. “Thank you, Thomas.”He bows and makes a beeline for the door, but you have one more question. “Oh, um, Thomas-” He freezes, turning slowly on his heel to face you. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

You cringe at the title. The sound of it creeps across your skin, foreign and… wrong. Why me? Why me? Why me?

You clear your throat again. “Do you know, um, well-” You shift, trying to word your question properly. “Do you know when I might see the Lord?” 

There is a pause, a moment of tension and silence, and then an answer. “No, my lady.”

Thomas does not stick around for more questioning. The door clicks shut behind him and then you're left with only the sound of retreating footsteps. 

You’re stunned to say the least, mouth still halfway open, more questions on the tip of your tongue. Should you seek him out? Was that proper? Would he come to you? Would he meet you for dinner, perhaps? Surely he would come to your room tonight to… consummate. Would that be the first time you lay eyes on him? When he’s over you? 

You sigh. There’s nothing much to be done about it now. You find your way to the bed and sit down hesitantly. It feels like a crime to rumple such primped and polished cotton. You do it anyway- it’s going to happen sometime, right? You fall back against the mattress and don’t fail to notice how utterly comfortable it is. The silvery patterns on your canopy swirl and bend together. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night, anxious for the morning… and it’s only mid-afternoon now. You had time for a nap, right? Your eyes are closing before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea and then you’re swept away into a world of warm darkness. 

You wake with a start. Your first thought is that it’s dark now. Your room is pitch black except for the stream of moonlight passing through your stupidly large window. Your mouth feels dry and your skin is cold, like you’ve just woken from a nightmare. If you have, you don’t remember it. Perhaps that’s a blessing. 

You sit up, combing a finger through your hair and laughing pitifully when you realize that you left your shoes on as you slept. You hope Thomas didn’t walk in to find you in yet another unladylike position. A glance at the foot of the bed reveals he might have. Your bags have arrived- all three of them. You eye them with a combination of longing and contempt. They don't match this place. They’re worn and used- everything here is shiny and new. Still, they’re all you have, and all you have left of your life before. All you have left of home. 

You stretch your arms above your head, nearly groaning at the burn in your muscles. The carriage ride did your body no favors and you suspect you’ll be sore for many days to come. 

You rise, no longer content to lie in bed. You’ve had your rest and, from the state of darkness outside, you suspect your new husband might be joining you soon. The thought twists a certain tightness into your gut, but you push it aside. If that was the price you paid for all he gave your family… then you’d pay it gladly. 

You start with candles, finding a box of matches at your bedside. You light every candelabra you can find. The room, the castle, seems so perpetually… black- like it soaks up every ray of light it touches. Even when you’ve finished it doesn’t feel like enough. You make a note to ask Thomas for more in the morning. 

You find a meal, carefully prepared and preserved, on a table near your dresser. Judging by the fact that it’s still warm, you conclude that it can’t be much past mid-evening. You originally intend to pick at the food as you unpack, but one bite has your mouth watering. It is the most delicious thing to ever touch your lips, complete with dessert waiting on the side. You clean your plate before moving onto your bags. 

You lay your clothes out on the bed. A few dresses, riding pants, undergarments, an assortment of ribbons and bows. At one time these items had been the finest things you owned- now you owned a castle. 

You find an armoire that looks like a master sculptor carved its edges and grab a dress, intending to hang it. Instead, your dress hits the floor when you part the doors to find the hangers already full. Your lips part. Luxury dresses of silk and satin line the rack, fading into some that appear more casual outfits of cotton and linen. You stretch a hand out, curious and utterly… amazed. To think your new husband had gone to all the effort… Your hand brushes purple silk and- 

“Do you like them?” 

You screech, jumping to face the voice at your back. It takes a moment for your eyes to find him, leaning casually against one post of your bed. Your breath is stolen for a second time. Snow white hair, piercingly blue eyes, pale soft skin… you know who he is even without looking at his dress, at the air of authority he claims. He’s your husband… and he is the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

He laughs, then, and it’s a warmer sound than you’d thought it would be- rich and full. A sound that seeps into your bones and settles in your soul. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but the twinkle in his eyes makes you think that perhaps that’s a lie. 

Your heart pounds and your eyes flash to the door. It’s shut. You didn’t hear it open, nor did you hear it close behind him. You also didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear breaths, didn’t hear him. 

He follows your gaze and laughs again, though it sounds a bit… strained? 

“I have a habit of being unintentionally lightfooted. I apologize.” 

Your heart is still pounding but you find it in yourself to have some decorum. You snap your jaw shut and bow your head slightly in respect. “You must be Lord Gojo. Forgive me for my insolence.” 

There’s a beat, and then footsteps– ones you actually hear this time. You clench your jaw when he stops before you and then nearly gasp when he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. 

“Satoru, please,” he winks and you think you might stop breathing. “I am your husband after all.” 

You force yourself to nod, to swallow, to act normal. But how can you in the presence of a man that looks like… that? There’s something too unreal about him, too perfect. It’s almost… unsettling. 

“Of course… Satoru.” 

He straightens and shows you a close-lipped smile that digs a dimple into his left cheek. You have to look away to avoid stumbling over your own feet. 

“So, do you like them?” Your brows furrow- “The dresses,” he clarifies. 

“O-oh.” Your features relax into an easy smile. You turn back to your armoire, running a hand along another gown. You don’t think you’ve ever touched something so… finely made. “I like them very much. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

There’s a little chuckle as you turn to face him again and you have to steel yourself before you meet his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, too mesmerizing. You think you could probably lose yourself in those eyes forever… 

“No need to thank me. If they don’t fit, we’ll call for the seamstress in the morning.” 

You nod softly, still lost to the situation. There’s a beat of silence in which your husband does nothing but… look at you. His eyes roam freely and the hair on your arms stands under his gaze. He traces the lines of your nose and jaw and lingers on your pulse. Can he see just how fast your heart is pounding?

“Did you… get dinner?” It’s a stupid question, you know, but you don’t think you can bear another second of that look he’s giving you. “I fell asleep and found a plate. I hope I didn’t prevent a proper meal…” You trail off. Perhaps you shouldn’t have pointed out your own shortcoming? 

He gives you another smile and you swear he inches just a little closer. “You did no such thing. I’m… perfectly satisfied.” 

You nod, glad that he doesn’t seem upset at the very least. Your lips press together, unsure of what to do or say. You’ve never had a husband before. Wasn’t he supposed to just sort of… put you on the bed and… do it?

Your eyes flit to said bed and your husband must see because he hurries to continue. 

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, hm?” His eyes flit to your armoire and back again. “Wear the blue dress with the lace to breakfast, yeah? Been dying to see it on you.” He chuckles like he’s just told some sort of amusing joke.

Your brows furrow. That was… not the topic you’d been expecting. “You’re not…” You feel your cheeks heat and tighten your jaw. “Not staying the night?” 

His lashes lower a fraction and those eyes pierce you again. You don’t think you could move even if you wanted to, even with him prowling closer, each step eating up the space between you. He doesn’t stop until you’re nose to nose and you can feel his breath fanning over your cheeks. It’s cold somehow, chilling, and you shiver. He smirks. 

“Not tonight.” 

His head dips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he’s bypassing your mouth altogether and- his lips connect to your pulse. His mouth is cool, just like his breath, and you shiver uncontrollably under his touch. 

His touch is just a fleeting moment, just a wrinkle in time, and then he’s gone. His footsteps are quiet brushes on the hardwood and the creak of the door even seems tamed in his presence. 

“Goodnight,” is all he says, and then he’s gone. 

You climb into your bed an hour later wondering what in the world just happened. 

~  

You do wear the blue dress to breakfast and you can only gape in the mirror when you realize that it fits perfectly. It has you second-guessing yourself. Had you sent your measurements in advance and forgotten about it? No, you’d only sent a handful of pieces of information to the Lord prior to your marriage and you remembered all of them very clearly. Everything had gone through a messenger, everything had been clear and direct– you would have remembered sending your measurements– you didn’t. So had he just… guessed? 

That seemed impossible with how everything fit you like a glove, but it was the only explanation you had. The only one that made sense. 

When you join Satoru for breakfast it’s in a sitting room as lavishly decorated as the rest of the castle, but perhaps organized to be a bit more… liveable. He has no plate in front of him, only a tin cup that hides the contents of whatever he’s drinking. You assume coffee or juice. Perhaps he’s just not a breakfast person. 

“It fits!” he says. His hands clasp together in front of him and he smiles again, dimples and all. 

You nod and fight the heat that bubbles beneath your cheeks as you take your seat. “Yes, perfectly.”

A plate is set before you and a glance up reveals it’s Thomas serving your breakfast. You smile, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, for a small piece of comfort. Instead, you get his averted gaze and quick retreat. Your brows furrow, but before you can say anything, Satoru is back to speaking. 

“I hope Thomas treated you well yesterday?” 

You glance up, but Satoru’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on your footman. His smile is bright, but it’s anything but friendly. You fight a shiver. 

You glance at Thomas. He’s perfectly still, perfectly straight, but you think you see a muscle clench in his jaw. You clear your throat. “Y-Yes. Thomas was very helpful.” When Satoru keeps staring the boy down you add, “-and very respectful.” 

That seems to satisfy. Satoru breaks his stare and some of the tension in the air instantly eases. He shoots you another dimpled smile, this one with a little more warmth. “Perfect.” 

There’s a beat and then he’s standing, draining whatever he has in his cup and then straightening his jacket. “Well, I have some work to do. I’ll see you for dinner?” He’s grinning again, like it’s so normal for a man to abandon his bride on their wedding night and then again the morning after. All you can do is nod. He chuckles. “See you then, princess.” And then he’s gone.

~

If this is to be your life you don't know how you will survive it. You spend the day milling about. Through the gardens, through the castle, through the stables. Thomas is never far behind, but any attempt at conversation is nipped in the bud by hit shortness. It’s like he fears coming too close. He’s never closer than a couple paces except when he has to bring you something, only to retreat again as soon as possible. The other servants barely pay you any mind apart from giving you a respectful greeting and then immediately averting their eyes. There is no work to be done, no guests to be had, no parties to plan… and no Satoru. You don’t see your husband once on tour around the grounds. You ask Thomas where his office is only for him to vaguely point out a window in the east tower. You don’t see so much as a ripple in the curtains. 

Dinner comes around at the pace of a snail. When it’s finally time to get dressed a lady’s maid whose name you don’t even catch arrives to help you lace your dress. As soon as your corset is deemed tight enough she’s back out the door with a curtsy. Thomas leads you to the dining room and your eyes roam the whole way. Even after having spent the whole day exploring, there are halls and corridors that you’ve yet to step foot in. 

The dining room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the place– filled with singular items that could feed entire families for years. Somehow, you think you’ve already grown accustomed to such things, since the only thing you truly care to look at is your husband. Satoru’s already seated, but he stands when you enter, looping around the table to pull a chair out for you. 

You give him your most genuine smile, accepting a kiss to your knuckles in greeting before you settle. “How was your day?” you ask as he takes his seat again. 

He chuckles. “Perfectly fine. And how was yours, princess?” Your nose crinkles. That’s the second time he’s called you that. Something about it feels wrong. You’re still getting used to being a lady. Princess feels even worse. 

“It was… good.”

You watch a perfect white brow arch in the candlelight. “Oh? Just good?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the corner– to Thomas. 

You hurry to elaborate. “Well, I just– I can’t help but feel as if there’s not much… use for me.” Servants flood in, some carrying wine, others carrying trays that hold more food than the both of you could ever possibly consume. 

That brow arches impossibly higher. “Use?” His lips crack into that smile again, but it’s tight this time. Too tight. “You have no use. You only enjoy yourself. Surely Thomas has told you that.” 

A plate of steaming food plops in front of you. Even its heavenly smell can’t quell the sudden dread in your gut. “Of course! Of course he did.” Your stomach twists and you decide that perhaps now is not the time to press the subject. “I’ll just… I’ll try riding tomorrow.” You hate riding, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. 

Satoru’s smile thaws into something less menacing. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” 

You nod eagerly. “I’m sure I will.” 

You grab your fork, eager for a new subject. From what you can tell, dinner is roast chicken and vegetables, though it’s the luxury version as everything seems to be. The spices are intoxicating and the green beans are even arranged in a pretty little pattern that makes them look too good to eat. You do anyway. The first bite nearly makes you moan, but you chew slowly, delicately, trying not to let your upbringing show.

It’s not until several bites later that you realize you’re the only one eating. A quick glance reveals your husband has no platter, no chicken or green beans. He’s only… watching you. You clear your throat, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. 

“You’re not… eating?”

That permanent smile grows a little wider and you can’t help but feel as if there’s something… menacing about it. “Ate before I came.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oh. Were you on the road?” 

You think you see something wild flash in his eyes. “No.” 

The rest of dinner passes slowly, almost painfully. Satoru doesn’t eat a bite, doesn’t even look enticed. You wonder how that’s possible when it smells like a spice bomb went off in the dining room. 

By the time you’ve cleared your plate you’ve discussed everything from the number of horses in the stables to kinds of crops grown on the estate. It’s comforting to know a little more about your new home, but it’s not enough. 

“Is there a library?” you ask. You’re on dessert now. It’s the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had and it takes everything in you to hold back a moan each time it touches your tongue. 

“Of course.” Your husband’s eyes flicker to Thomas again and you’re honestly starting to fear for the poor footman’s life. Everytime you ask a question it’s like Satoru is angry it hasn’t already been answered. “It’s yours to use as you please.” 

You smile lightly. “Perfect. Thank you.” 

He softens a bit at that. “Is there anything specific you wanted to read about?” 

You shrug. “The estate, I suppose. I should know my home’s history, no?”

His eyes get that wild look again, that sparkle that you know speaks to nothing good. “Oh, absolutely. I have some personal favorites to recommend. I’ll leave them aside for you?” 

You swallow and give him a shallow nod. “That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

He chuckles. “My pleasure.” 

When dessert is finally over, you stand slowly. Satoru’s not far behind you, saying he’ll walk you to your room. Your heart leaps at his words. Will he stay with you tonight? 

He offers you his arm in the hall and your mouth runs dry when you feel the corded muscle beneath his jacket. By the time you reach your room, you’re thinking of tugging him in behind you. His denial to stay with you last night was not only confusing, but… off putting. Nearly offensive. Did he not like how you looked? Did he think something was wrong with you? 

You muster all the courage you possess and force your lips apart. “Will you stay with me tonight?” 

His eyes spark again and you hold your breath. He presses closer. This is it, you think. His lips hover over yours, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. And then he dips his head, his mouth pressing to your pulse. 

“Not tonight,” he whispers– and then he’s gone. 

~

You wake suddenly. It’s the middle of the night, you gather. The light streaming through the window is weak enough to only be that of the moon. 

Your heart is pounding and your skin is slick with sweat despite the chill in your bones. A nightmare, you think. It must have been a nightmare. 

As you settle back into your sheets you swear you see a ripple in the darkness. You close your eyes. If your nightmare is real, you’d rather not see it coming.

~

The library is huge. It’s sprawling and smells of paper and leather and everytime Thomas lights a candle you flinch at the idea that one misplaced spark could end thousands of years of knowledge. 

The books Satoru left you are… perfect. Just what you were looking for. They’re all comprehensive volumes of the history of the estate, many of which reference each other. You’re stunned to see that several are written by very well-known authors of both the past and the present. You knew the Gojo family’s influence reached far, but not that far. You peruse the titles. The Gojos: A History, A History of the Gojo Crest, History of the Gojo Castle, Revisiting the Gojo Family: A Comprehensive History. Altogether you have well over a few thousand pages of information– but there’s one book that doesn’t fit with the rest. It’s relatively unassuming. A black cover with some sort of gold rune etched onto its front. When you flip to the title page it reads “Creatures of Myth and Where To Find Them”. Your brows furrow. You slide it to the side– must have gotten mixed in with the others, you think.

~

You ask Thomas to bring the books to your room. He does. Very respectfully. He sets them on your bedside table and then retreats like a kicked puppy with only a polite goodbye. You sigh. His behavior has only gotten stranger in the past few days. You think the servants’ coldness must have something to do with Satoru, but you can’t figure out why. Had he ordered them to stay away? Why would he? 

You decide it’s a question for another day and dive into your books. You spend hours, days, reading every chapter, page, and word. The pure amount of information is dizzying. Apparently this specific estate had been in the hands of the Gojo family since the eighth century (with several razings and consequential rebuilds). You also learn that Satoru was not only the most wealthy lord on the continent, but the most wealthy man. Even wealthier than the king apparently, though that fact was kept fairly under wraps to protect the crown’s ego. The estimates of your husband’s net worth made your head spin.

Satoru joins you for breakfast and dinner every day. You never see him eat a morsel. It’s… unsettling to say the least. It’s always just that tin cup, filled with something you could never quite see. You develop a pattern of waking in the night, too, with the overwhelming sense that something is watching you. Sometimes you could swear you feel the bed shift as you jerk awake. Each time you simply close your eyes and try your best to slow your heart, convinced your mind is playing tricks on you. 

Your days feel a little more productive with a book in your hands, but you’ve read them all three times over by the time a fortnight has passed. You find yourself packing them up to return to Thomas when a certain black cover catches your attention. You grab it from the pile and settle back into your seat. You’ve nothing better to do, right? 

You flip back the cover, revealing a familiar title. “Creatures of Myth and Where to Find Them”. You don’t recognize the author’s name. A quick scroll through the table of contents reveals nothing particularly interesting, but you pick a random chapter on ghouls and decide to start there. 

It’s fascinating. Nothing about the style is boring and the words fly by. Your silly little myth book is a page turner. By the time you notice the light has started dying you’ve read about ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and goblins– all of which have been a delightful little read. A glance at the clock reveals you have a half hour before dinner. One more chapter, you think. Your eyes skim the title. “Vampires [Vampyr]”. 

You skim the first paragraphs until your eyes settle on a line that catches your eye. 

“Contrary to popular belief, vampires are not always crazed blood-hungry monsters. Many live among humans quite comfortably and are able to avoid detection with a little well-placed effort.” 

You purse your lips. What a… terrifying thought. You skim a little further. 

“A vampire’s key characteristic is, of course, their desire and need to drink human blood as sustenance. However, a vampire can be spotted sooner if one is able to recognize their subtler traits. Vampires often have skin lacking any sort of flush. The lack of blood in their veins results in a sickly pallor, even after the most rigorous exercise. Their skin is also noticeably cold to the touch. At best, a vampire’s body will reach room temperature. Vampires can also be noted for their preternatural beauty. They will stand out as the most attractive person in any crowd. Finally, a vampire will have fangs. If one wishes to identify a vampire, one only needs a good look at their teeth”.

A chill settles over your skin. You flip ahead a few pages. 

“Vampires are unable to consume typical human food. Should they attempt to, their bodies will immediately reject any and all foreign substances.” 

Your stomach drops. You don’t want to think about why. You skip the rest of the paragraph. 

“Vampires possess several supernatural abilities that set them apart as a human’s predator rather than their equal. Vampires are known to move unnaturally fast and are notably light footed. If a vampire does not wish to be heard, they will not be. A vampire’s strength is inhuman, well over ten times that of the average man. They also have a penchant for darkness, an ability to hide away in the shadows that cannot be explained. Oftentimes they will seem to appear from thin air.”

You skip ahead again.

“Vampires have been known to take mates. Mates usually come in the form of another vampire, but in some cases a human has been chosen. Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly. Oftentimes, vampires make these decisions with haste, with little regard for whether or not the threat was real. A vampire will do everything in their power to please their mate, but have been known to forcibly restrain their mates in situations of unrequited feelings. Above all else, vampires wish to possess their mates. Two bonded vampires will sometimes spiral into gloriously destructive fits in their endless desire to protect and possess one another. A vampire bonded to a human will show an increasingly protective nature, often isolating their mate from others.”

Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You flip the pages, desperate– desperate for a piece of information that will save you from the thoughts spilling in your mind, from the thoughts you will do anything not to believe. You reach the “Where to Find Them” subsection and nearly gasp with relief. Surely, vampires do not pose as wealthy lords of Europe? 

“Vampires can be found everywhere. They do not exist in only one country or continent, but all over the world. Odds are that you have faced at least one vampire in your life, unknowingly or not. Some vampires choose to live solitary lives, surviving in the wilderness where human society will not attempt to tame their wild nature. Others choose to live among humans, some even existing in positions of very high authority.” 

No, no, no. This can’t be happening to you. It can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re having one of those nightmares again. You’re going to wake up any second. 

“One tale recounts a razing of the Gojo estate in the 12th century.” 

You’re panting, hyperventilating. This isn’t happening. 

“Soldiers of the enemy force recounted a singular man, the son and heir of the then Lord Gojo, taking out a minimum of 800 men. He was described as having his family’s characteristic white hair as well as blue eyes. Eyewitness accounts depict the Gojo heir as covered in blood and killing savagely and with inhuman strength.” 

No, no, no. 

“(See next page for only existing portrait)”

Your fingers tremble but you can’t stop them. There’s no way. It’s not possible. 

You flip the page and Satoru stares back at you. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You nearly scream. Your door rattles angrily, but you’re not sure you can answer it, not with the knowledge flooding your mind. The knocking continues. You run your hand over your face and smooth down your hair. You feel frazzled, dirty, despite not having moved from your chair all day. Another knock prompts you to set your book aside and stand. You do your best to compose yourself, to put on a straight face. You fail instantly when you pull back the door not to reveal your faithful attendant, not Thomas, but Satoru. 

You bite back a shriek and instead force a smile. You’re suddenly very aware of the blood pounding in you veins and of the fact that he most likely knows. 

“Hello,” he says, but his voice is lower than usually, more intense. 

You force a breath into your lungs. “Hello,” you answer, but it sounds more like a squeak than a greeting. 

Something flashes in his eyes, something familiar, something that is no longer interesting but rather terrifying. “Are you alright? You seem a little… flushed.” The concern on his face feels anything but genuine. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, but even you can tell that reply too quickly, too eagerly. You rush to cover it up. “Is it time for dinner? Where’s Thomas?” 

His lip twitches and you see a muscle in his jaw flex. “Thomas has… left us.” 

No. This wasn’t happening to you. There was no way this was happening to you. 

“He… what?” There’s an unmistakable wobble in your voice that only causes Satoru’s face to fall further. 

“It’s no matter. He’s gone. Now it’s just you and me, hm?” He chuckles and the sound rattles your bones. “In fact, I was thinking I’d cut down on the number of servants we have entirely…” 

You mind races with the memory of knowledge you wish you didn’t have. “Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly.”

You nearly stumble, but lean against the doorframe just in time. Your husband had disposed of a man, all because he brought you meals and books?

“What have you been up to today, princess?” The question breaks your trance just in time for you to see your husband’s eyes flicker behind you. 

You wet your lips. “Just some reading.” You plead that he doesn’t ask anything further. He does. 

“About the estate?” he asks. 

You nod and try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

His smile returns and this time it’s not forced. “You got my books, then?” 

You try smiling back, but you’re fairly sure it looks more like a grimace. “Yes.”

“Anything interesting?” he presses.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Does he know? Does he know that you know? “Yes, of course. Lots.” 

He pauses and you see the debate and then the decision in his eyes. You think it’s the first time you’ve felt true terror when he meets your gaze again. “I think we should skip dinner tonight. It seems we have so much to discuss.”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to scream when he steps into you, forcing you back until he’s shutting your door behind him. He doesn’t stop there, though. He keeps pressing, keeps pushing until your knees hit the bed and you’re falling to the mattress. He crawls right after you.

“Who knew my little wife was such a reader? All those books in such a short time… You must be simply spilling with information.” 

You retreat across the mattress, squeaking when your back hits the headboard and his arms cage your waist. You’re trapped.

His hands find your hips and you’re all too aware of how cool his touch is. Even more so when he pulls you right into his lap.

“Satoru-” your voice is pitiful, breathless, and you’re ashamed to say it’s not just from the fear in your gut. He’s never been this close before, never touched you, held you like this. “Thomas-” 

“Don’t speak his name.” His face pulls into the first scowl you’ve ever seen and the sight is enough to root you to the spot. Never have you seen anything more frightening. A creature so beautiful, so perfectly angelic, filled with an insurmountable rage. It’s wrong. “He’s gone. He’ll never bother you again.” He’s closer now, his breath skating over your skin. It’s cool and now you know the reason why. 

You shake and tremble and you know– Thomas is dead. Your husband killed him– killed him for getting too close when all he did was stay at a distance. Satoru killed him. Killed him. 

He buries himself in your neck, his voice a near whine. “Thought I could put up with it, just so you’d have someone to take care of you…” He groans. “I was so wrong, princess. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you smelled more like him than me…” 

You feel him melt against you then, relief washing over his body in a wave. “But he’s gone. And now it’s just you and me, hm? Just you and me…” He hums, like remembering that fact is all he’s ever needed.

He’s kissing your pulse again, now, and your heart is racing faster than ever. Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You should push him away, away, away. He’s a killer, of thousands no doubt. You’ve never felt at home here, never felt like you belonged. This is why. You’re not even the same species. He’s something else, something your hands were never meant to touch. 

Your mind screams at you to do go, to shove and kick at him and leave this place behind. Go, go, go your gut says… but you don’t. You can’t. It’s too… good. The feeling of his cool lips against your skin, of what you’re sure is his tongue prodding at your pulse… it’s intoxicating. He is intoxicating. How could anyone blame you for wanting more of someone, something, so divine? 

“Have you figured it out yet, love?” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, licking a long stripe up your neck, before he settles back at your pulse. Always your pulse. “I can feel those little gears turning. Tell me, what have they discovered?” 

He knows you know. But he’s going to make you say it. You swallow and feel his grip on you tighten. “You’re…” Your breaths come faster. You can’t. Not aloud. Aloud makes it too… real. 

“Yessss?” he prods. He’s licking at you again, all the way across your throat to find your other pulse-point. 

“You’re not…” Something sharps nicks at your skin and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper. 

“Go on, princess.” You think he’s just smelling you now, just burying his face as close to you as possible and taking you in. 

You close your eyes tightly, holding back tears. “Not human,” you breathe. A piece of you breaks with the admission.

He huffs a little laugh against your skin and pulls back to look you in the eye. “That’s good,” he purrs. “But I think you can be a little more specific, no?” His lips press to your chin, then the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw… “Tell me.” 

Your lips wobble, muscles clenching tighter with each passing moment. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to speak it into existence, but you also don’t dare to disobey him. 

“You’re a…” You shake and tremble. He draws a line up your neck with the tip of his nose.

“Mhm?” 

You open your eyes, thinking this might be the last time you see. “Vampire.” 

He chuckles and you feel his teeth press to the skin of your neck. “That’s right, princess. So smart.” 

He smiles and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen his teeth before. Everytime he smiles at you it’s close-lipped and dimpled. But this… this is the smile of a predator– all white and pointy and fitted with a set of menacingly long fangs. You sob at the sight. 

“Shhhhh,” he coos. He has your chin in his hand, forcing you to truly look at him, to see him for what he is. “I won’t hurt you, love.” You want to believe him so badly it burns, but his laugh washes away any fire and turns it to ice. “Not unless you want me to.” He wiggles a brow like it’s just a little joke, like he’s not an actual fucking vampire that had his fangs over your neck just moments ago. 

“Satoru,” you beg. You’re not sure what you’re begging for. Release maybe? But, no, that’s not right. You don’t want him to let you go, not when you finally have him close after all this time. “Why did you pick me?” 

The question slips out. You hadn’t even been thinking about it, hadn’t even noticed it scratching at the walls of your mind, but it made its way out nonetheless.

His brow creases, but not in confusion. Moreso in… thoughtfulness. “Do you think about that a lot, princess?” 

You nod and you suddenly want him closer, want him to touch you everywhere, hold you like his life depends on it. You want him, no matter how horrible it might be. 

He nods and hums, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “Well…” he says. His thumb swipes over your lips when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “At first I wanted you for this.” His head dips to your neck again and you feel the familiar brush of his lips against your throat. “You smell…” he chuckles. “Like heaven. Which is a place I’ll never get to on my own, so I had to bring my own little slice home, no?” He laughs again, a little louder this time, genuinely amused. “Went into town one day and caught your scent on the street. At first I thought I must be walking past the bakery, but, lo and behold, there was no baker in sight.” He’s still kissing at your pulse, worshiping it. “Went crazy, princess. Didn’t think I was going to be able to contain myself when I found you. Thought it might be quite the scene.” He huffs a laugh and you shiver, somehow both terrified and intoxicated. “But then I saw you–” he groans and something clenches deep at your center. “And I knew I needed more than just your blood. Needed you.” He’s rocking into you now, and your breath catches when you feel something firm against your backside. “Went to you in that little room you slept in every night. Watched you. Couldn’t stay away. Knew I had to have you.” You feel him smile against your skin. “After a week I couldn’t take it anymore. Sent you that letter, married you. Made you mine.” He groans again. “Then I met you and you were so pretty, princess. Already knew it, but hearin’ you talk to me, look at me.” Teeth graze your pulse. “Needed you more than ever. Almost took you right on the fucking floor in here while you were lookin’ at those dresses.” You whine when his hips roll into you again. “Oh, but I knew I couldn’t. You’re so fragile, love. Had to wait, had to make you feel safe, yeah? Spent all this time forcing myself to stay away, ‘fraid of what I might too if I was in your presence too long. Had to control myself. Had to make you realize you could trust me.” He panting, like he’s so pent up he can hardly sit still. “Do you trust me, princess?” 

Your brows scrunch. Say no, say no, say no a part of you screams. Run, run, run. You can’t. “Yes,” you breathe. 

You feel him smile again, feel the pleasure of submission. “Good girl.” 

You’re on your back. It happens so fast your eyes don’t even have time to gasp. You don’t see Satoru, but you feel him. Everywhere. His hands are roaming your body softly, sliding under buttons and laces and popping them off. Your dress loosens with every passing moment until Satoru reappears above you, diving straight for your neck again. “So good, princess. Let’s get you out of this dress, yeah?” 

You nod wordlessly, entranced. He finds your mouth as he rids you of your clothes. His tongue presses in and you flail against him, unsure of what to do, of how to handle the intrusion. The kiss is heavy, too heavy, but Satoru can’t seem to stop. He devours you as he gives up on laces and buttons and simply shreds your dress down the back. You tremble when the cold air hits your skin, when his cool fingers dust your collarbone. 

“I always forget how many damn layers they make you ladies wear,” he chuckles. His hands run beneath your shift, up across your bare thigh. You gasp at the touch. No one has even been so close to you before. You feel the threads of your corset snapping away, feel your breaths growing deeper. You tremble when he pulls your sleeve down past your shoulder and runs his mouth along the newly exposed skin. 

“Satoru,” you gasp, and your hand pulls at his flowing white shirt. 

He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You wanna see me too?” You nod, lips parted and eyes glassy, and he laughs again. He lips dust over the corner of your mouth. “Alright.” 

His hands shift from you to himself, working at the laces on his chest. His movements are speedy, practiced, like he’s been lacing and unlacing shirts for hundreds of years. Your throat tightens when you realize that he has. 

You gasp when he reveals himself, when his shirt slides away to reveal an expanse of pale skin and carved muscle. You’ve never seen a man like this and seeing one this close up for the first time is nearly blinding. He’s art, you think- nothing less. 

“Touch me, princess,” he says. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He’s too beautiful, too perfect to be beneath your insignificant hands. “Need a little help?” he asks, and there’s a lilt in his voice that makes you sure he’s grinning. 

His hands find yours and bring them to his chest, running your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, down, down, down across his abs that you can feel each and every one… You whimper, watching your own fingers grope his skin. He pulls you lower, lower, lower, and you gasp when your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants. But then he’s laughing again and he’s throwing your arms over his shoulders and pulling you closer, kissing your neck like it pained him to be parted from your pulse for so long. 

“Not so fast,” he says, like he wasn’t the one nearly stuffing your hands down his pants. His hands are on your corset again. You can feel it dangling onto you by a thread, literally. All he needs is a couple more pulls and you’ll be bare. By the look he gives you, you can tell he’s 

thinking the same thing. “You touch me, now I touch you, yeah?” There’s a tug and a tear and then so much… cold. You’ve never realized how cold this castle is, not until you’re exposed to its elements fully. You’re naked. 

Satoru sits back on his knees and just watches. His gaze is searing, burning, despite the iciness of his being. It’s too much. Your hands move to cover yourself, to maintain some modicum of your dignity- 

“No.” Strong hands find your wrists and pry them apart. “Let me see you,” he says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

Your jaw clenches and your frame shakes, but you do as he asks, letting your hands fall limply at your sides. There’s silence for many more moments and it seems to go on so long that you can only squeeze your eyes shut under his gaze. Surely he will turn you away now, get up and leave, tell you this was a mistake, tell you that you’re– 

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Your eyes snap open to find him already staring at you. “Beautiful,” he says again, and then he’s on you, lips at your pulse, hands on your skin. His touch is cool and you squeak at the chill that runs up your spine. You’re not sure it’s entirely from his temperature. 

His mouth seeks yours and he devours you. You feel as if he’s sucking your soul out through your lips. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” he begs. “Tell me I’m the first to touch you.” 

You whine against his mouth, both aching for more and overwhelmed by what he’s already giving you. “Y-You’re the first,” you whisper. 

His groan is deep, primal. It rattles through your chest and you whimper when his hands dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. “Yes,” he breathes, and you shiver again. “Lie back, princess.” Your eyes widen, with anticipation or fear you’re not sure. Probably both. He chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” 

You pray he means that. “Just relax, love. Here, hold my hand.” His fingers find yours, twining them together. When you swallow, his eyes follow the bob of your throat. He leans back again and your body twitches when his free hand skims the skin of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finds your knees and you gasp when he parts your legs, revealing you so completely to his gaze. The way he stares, like he’s committing you to memory, it’s nearly enough to make you snap your thighs shut, but a squeeze from his hand reminds you to relax, to trust. 

His palm skates up your thigh and settles near your hip, his fingertips inching closer to where you can feel an embarrassing throb. 

“Tell me, love. Have you ever touched yourself here?” His fingers dust low on your tummy- just low enough for you to catch his meaning, but not low enough to give you any relief. Your face heats and your teeth dig into the flesh of your cheek. You have, you have touched yourself there, but it’s the last thing you want to admit to your new husband. It’s shameful, it’s dirty, it’s- “Don’t think I’ll judge you, princess. Just wanna know.” 

You gulp down a breath. You should come clean. “Y-yes,” you stutter, and the sound of your voice so weak and helpless only makes you flush further. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand again. “On the outside or the inside?” 

Your eyes widen. I-inside? You’d never considered that… “J-just the outside,” you answer. 

Your eyes grow even wider when his head rolls back and he moans straight up to the ceiling like your answer is heaven-sent. When he looks back to you his fangs are on full display. “Well, I think you and I are in for a little treat today, hm?” 

Your brow furrows and your lips part to ask him what he means– his fingers travel those last few inches down your tummy and find your clit. You squeak and jolt so violently that he presses a hand to your hip, holding you to the mattress. “Somebody’s sensitive,” he chuckles. He holds you still for a moment and then lets your hips go free. “Try to stay still. I promise it’ll feel good.”

You nod hopelessly, but this time you’re prepared for when he touches you again. Your muscles clench at the first touch, at the foreign sensation of a touch down there that wasn’t your own. But then it’s more. It’s languid, slow circles around a spot that you’ve never been able to pinpoint so well on your own. It’s heat building in your tummy that seeps through every vein and into every pore. It’s relaxation that you’ve never known, that has you melting into the mattress despite the chill of the touch. 

There’s a little huff of a laugh and then his voice. “Good girl. Feels nice, yeah?” You nod hesitantly and squeeze desperately at his hand, searching for an anchor. His head cocks to the side and you watch the smile slide across his lips. “It’s about to feel even nicer.” 

By the time you realize what he’s doing it’s far too late to stop him. His mouth closes around your cunt and you yelp, trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation- but he’s got his freehand on your hip again and his grip is bruising, punishing, as he holds you in place. He licks a stripe through your folds and you find yourself jolting again, uselessly so against the pressure of his palm on your hip. “Stop that, princess.” Your heart drops at the admonishment until you feel his guiding touch. “Rock into me like this.” His hand rocks your hips into his mouth and the pressure of his tongue against your clit is so delicious that you whimper. “Good girl,” he says and your heart rises right back up. “Keep doing that, now.” You don’t dare defy him. You rock like he showed you, a little jerkily at first, and then you find a rhythm that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, love,” he says, and the sound is muffled against your cunt. “Here, put your hand in my hair.” He finds your wrist and guides you forward until your fingers are tangling in those snowy locks. They’re even softer than you’d imagined. “Good girl,” he whispers and suddenly he’s taking one last long lick and lifting his head to meet your eyes. “‘M gonna put my fingers in you now, princess.” Your chin wobbles. “It might hurt a little bit, but stay still, okay?” You can’t do anything but nod. 

His eyes return to your cunt and you can feel him prodding at your entrance, circling the hole as you clench in anticipation. “Relaaaaaax, love,” he says and you nod. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth– 

You feel the exact moment he pushes into you and a whine of pain rips from your throat. Your walls clamp down like a vice, angry at the intrusion– but it’s already too late. There’s a beat of silence, of anticipation, and then he’s– laughing? 

Your brows furrow when you hear it, your head lifting to a sight that locks your limbs in shock. Satoru’s hand is lifted in front of his face, his pointer finger coated in– blood, you realize. Your blood. And he’s a fucking vampire. 

“Oh princess,” he coos, and the manic look in his eyes makes you tremble. “You really are perfect.” 

Things seem to slow as you watch him take his blood covered finger into his mouth. You’re sure you’ve never seen an expression more blissful, more lost to sensation. His eyes roll back and his body shivers, like he’s ascending to some higher plane. Maybe he is. 

When he pulls his finger from his mouth it’s completely licked clean. You hold your breath. He’s going to go for your neck now, right? He’s had a taste and now he’ll want more of it, all of it?

“Fuck,” is all he says. His mouth is back on your cunt so fast you don’t even see him move. 

Your mouth falls wide. It hurts, the way he is so desperately licking at you. You feel his finger again, pressing in, in, in, only to pull back and suddenly be joined by another. The stretch tears at you. You thrash and jolt, but Satoru doesn’t bother telling you to stop this time. His arm wraps over your hips, holding you in place. He seems immune to how hard your legs squeeze at his head or your hands pull at his hair. He’s lost. You can feel him licking, lapping, and prodding at you like you’re a fucking gold mine. He’s lost to desperation, to the need for more, more, more. Every so often he lifts his chin and you see his mouth smudged with a mixture of your wetness and your blood. He laps at his lips like an animal, dragging his thumb across his chin and sliding it into his mouth to make sure he gets every last drop. 

You’re not quite sure when the ravenous pain turns to a ravenous pleasure, when it turns from terrifying to downright delicious. You don’t notice your moans filling the air until Satoru joins you, groaning and whining into your cunt and telling you to keep going, to keep making those sounds. The hand you have buried in his hair doesn’t fight to push him away any longer, only to pull him into those now practiced rocks of your hips. His fingers thrust deep, curling into a spot that makes you feel so good and his mouth has found your clit again. He sucks your nerves lightly between his lips, tongue swirling in little circles. Your thighs start to shake. 

“Yes. Yes. Give it to me.” 

“S-Satoru–” you breathe. Warmth and tightness pool in your tummy, and you recognize it as your approaching orgasm, though you know this one will be far different than any you’ve ever managed to give yourself. Your body shakes and your breaths tremble and then– you fall over the edge, rocking your hips senselessly, losing all form of rhythm. Warmth tingles in your spine and seeps all the way down to your toes. You think you cry out, cry for your husband, cry for more, cry for less, but if you do you don’t hear it. All you hear is the pounding of your pulse, of pleasure throbbing in your veins until the world slowly seeps back in through the corners of your vision. 

Satoru is grinning. A speck of your blood clings to his chin and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. The sight makes your blood run a little colder. If any part of you doubted what he was before… well, there was no doubt any longer. 

There’s a shift between your legs, his hips slotting between them, and you’re suddenly snapped back to reality. From the look in his eyes, you’re not done. 

Frantic hands find his pants and he undoes each button with a quickness that is almost inhuman. You wonder if he could go even faster, if he’s holding back so as not to scare you. If he is, it isn’t working very well. Fear surges in your veins right alongside anticipation. 

“S-Satoru–”

“It’s alright, love.” His hand finds yours without his eyes ever looking up. His grip is just a little too firm, a little too cold. “Just stay still.” 

You whimper, but you don’t think he’s paying attention to that, and soon enough, neither are you. His pants slide down just past his hips, just enough. You gasp. 

You’ve never seen a man in the nude, never even dared to think about what it might look like, though it seemed you no longer had to guess. His hand wrapped around his shaft, giving one long and slow stroke that made his breath hiss through his fangs. The tip was flushed, angry, and leaking something that looked clear and sticky. You couldn’t help but notice it was a lot thicker than a finger, or even two. If his fingers had hurt…

He moves with that alarming quickness again, leaning down to hover over you, chests nearly pressed together. “Gonna take you now, princess. Gonna make you mine.” His eyes bore into yours, blue and shimmering with something wild. His hand presses into the mattress beside your head. “Stay still, now.”

It’s all the warning he gives you. You feel like you’re splitting– straight up the middle. You wail, hands flying out to claw at his back. It hurts. It hurts. 

“Satoru, p-please! It’s–” 

Lips catch yours– hungry, feral. The kiss is not gentle, not soothing. It shuts you up, it keeps you quiet, it keeps you still as you feel him sinking further, deeper into you. It’s too much, you try to say, but the poke of sharp teeth against your lips keeps you silent. Your hips jolt and wiggle trying desperately to escape the stretch but it’s no use. By the time he’s fully inside you, tears are streaking down your cheeks, fat and heavy. His lips break away and his eyes reappear. You shake when you see that none of the wildness has been tamed, that you’ve only just begun.

“Good girl,” he coos, and a cool finger traces a line across your jaw. “Took me so well.” You hold back a sob when his hips shift a little, testing, prodding. He must see the pinch of your eyes, the twist of your mouth, because he’s quick to comfort. “Just hold my hand, princess.” His hips rock in earnest this time and you whimper, squeezing down on his hand with all your might. You’re panting as he chuckles. “Breathe, love. Breathe. Soon you’ll be begging for more,” he laughs. It’s not long before he’s rocking into you sincerely, setting a pace that stretches you to the brink of breaking. At first it’s all you can do to grasp onto him, to bite your lips through the whimpers and hold his hand. And then it’s… more. It’s heat and warmth despite the coolness of his body on yours. It’s sensation and… pleasure. He laughs when the first moan slides past your lips, burying his face in your neck once again. You hear him at your ear, panting his hot breath across your skin. 

“Feel good, princess?” You nod, letting your hips rock against his as he showed you before. It feels good– it feels right. He chuckles, but there’s nothing light about the sound. “Wanna feel even better?” Something sharp pokes at the skin of your neck, hard enough to make you squeak, to make you freeze at what you know he wants. 

He pulls himself back, pressing his forehead to yours, searching your eyes with his. Something like a cruel smile dances on his mouth. “Just a taste, love. I promise it won’ hurt.” His tongue darts out and licks across your lips, his thrusts rocking just a bit faster. “You’ll feel s’ good an’ I’ll only take a little.” He laughs again and it sends a chill through your bones. “Promise.” He sounds breathless, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. The increase of his pace makes you whine and you squeeze his hand again. He buries himself back in your neck, panting. “Come on, love. Say yes. Say yes f’ me.” Your eyes glaze over. Your body justles with each new thrust. He’s desperate now, seeking a release that you don’t think is any kind you’re familiar with. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants in your ear. You’re not sure when his words twist in your mind, when they settle on your tongue and push past your lips, but you know it feels so right when they do. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

His fangs clamp around your pulse. You scream when the sting rips through you, violent and savage– but it only lasts a moment. Pain fades to… ecstasy. You feel his throat bobbing with each swallow, feel your blood seeping from your skin and onto his tongue. You’d thought it would feel slicing, draining, like the life was being sucked from you. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful. Heat spreads under your skin, emanating from your neck and down to your toes. It feels like breathing for the first time, like sugar being pumped into your veins. It feels like heaven. Your hand tangles in his hair, holding him close. You don’t want it to stop, not ever. You could die like this, have him suck every last drop of blood from your veins and thank him for it with your dying breath. 

He’s moaning now, hands curling into your hips while he fucks into you relentlessly. The pace is grueling and brutal. You know it should hurt but only feels perfect. Anything less would not be enough. Anything else would leave you wanting. You feel it building, feel that familiar twinge at your core. The ecstasy flooding through your veins has it coming faster, has you teetering on the edge in moments. 

“Satoru…” You hadn’t noticed how dizzy you felt until you tried to speak. You wonder why… “‘M gonna…” 

He fucks you harder, something menacing and deep rumbling in his chest. The sound makes you shiver, makes you whine, makes you come. 

Your body shakes and a cry rips from your throat, cunt clenching like a vice around him. Your eyes roll back, hands scraping trails down his back. Your thighs quake with the intensity, with the overwhelming senses of pleasure that erupt throughout your body. Every nerve is firing, every hair rising. It’s an unstoppable current, one that sweeps you away, helpless to its pull. 

His thrusts grow sloppy and untimed. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place while he makes you his. His teeth break from your neck and when you look up through blurry eyes you see his head thrown back, your blood streaming down his chin in thick little globs. You feel it when he cums, feel the thick ropes of it seeping into your womb, feel the way he keeps fucking you, pushing it deeper and deeper inside. He’s moaning, chanting your name like a prayer at the heavens. 

When the moment ends he slumps over you, eyes half lidded and tired. There’s a familiar grin on his lips, one that inspires both comfort and uneasiness in your gut. You can’t help but stare at him, at the blood that stains his chin and cheeks, that reddens his lips so beautifully. You want to reach out and touch him, touch his blood-soaked skin and see what it feels like, what it tastes like. What you taste like. 

His eyes slide to the side, finding your pulse again. You groan. Yes, you think. Please, yes. More. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of that. Of his teeth in your flesh, of the euphoria flooding your veins. More, more, more, your mind chants. 

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No, princess.” He raises a finger to trace the curve of your neck. “I took more than I should have…” His expression doesn’t tense with worry. His cheeks pull into a smile, those little dimples shining through. “But what can I say? You just taste so good.” Like he needs to emphasize his point, his tongue darts out to trace his lips, lapping up some of the remaining blood on his chin. “You taste like mine.”

You whine. More, more, more. It’s all you can think about. You lift an arm weakly. You want to pull him to your neck, to make him drink, to make him fill you with the heaven you had just moments ago. 

He catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. His lips split into another grin and you see his eyes spark again with the wildness you crave. 

“Not yet, princess.” he coos. “But soon.” His smile grows even wider, until those fangs are on full display, until you’re trembling again. “Forever,” he whispers.

taglist (dm me or send an ask to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina, @keiva1000

please consider leaving a comment, sending an ask, or reblogging! interacting with authors is the best way to support them! thanks for reading ♡

[mochalate]

"dreams in gold" ; levi/f!reader

w/c: 612 ; fluff

sort of a continuation of 'visions in red'.

Levi used to see red, and think of you. Your red skirts and blouses in every rose, your lips in every stain of wine. But now, when he looks at you, he thinks of gold.

Gold, like the lamplight on the night you'd stayed with him well past dark, until it was too dangerous to send you back home across the open fields. Like the sun shining through the windows the next morning, illuminating your bare skin and warming the sheets he laid in with you.

When he sees red wine, he can't help but remember the golden beer that also flowed like water at the wedding; and gold, in your ears and around your neck— presents from your father, who wasn't truly sure he'd be able to take care of you.

There's the single band of gold around your finger, the only thing he could afford on a scout’s salary.

You told him it was your favourite.

You tell him you feel so lucky to have met him all those years ago, under the light of golden stars, the night before he left for his undercover mission in Marley.

It's said through tears, because you won't see him for months now. He holds your face as gently as he can manage and he wipes the tears away. He thinks you've got it backwards. You're the most golden thing of them all. He's the one who's lucky

It's a month after the Rumbling when he sees you appear over the horizon at the refugee camp; and it feels so much like the time he saw you coming across the green, rolling fields in Paradis wearing that mud-speckled dress.

You're carrying a brown-paper package again too. But this time, it can't have had anything important in it, because when you see him— tired, broken— it carelessly falls from your hands. You kneel in front of his chair, crying, heartbroken; and he doesn't have enough fingers to hold your face and wipe away the tears at the same time.

Levi thinks he must be the worst thing in your lucky life. You seem to shed your tears only for him.

He says he's sorry for taking you away from all the shiny things in your past life. He's sorry he was selfish enough to ask a nobleman's daughter to become a soldier's wife. He's sorry your life isn't as golden as you deserve. He's sorry he lost his wedding band along with his fingers, somewhere back on the island.

He tells you he's worried you're sorry too.

You listen to him patiently, and at the end you stand up and roll back your sleeves, and show him that your arms are covered from wrist to elbow with golden bracelets and bangles. Everything you could carry, you say; because you knew you weren't going back, one way or another.

You're golden enough for the both of you, you tell him, so he needn't worry about all that.

Months pass, and the only gold left on your arms is that old band around your finger. All that metal has turned into a roof over your heads, and the fields around you— five hundred paces in each direction. It's the new pairs of boots you keep giving to Falco because he keeps outgrowing them, and the dresses Gabi insists don't suit her, but wears anyway.

All these things are golden too.

You send Falco and Gabi off to the fields with a smile and warm brown-paper packages, then come back to sit with him at the breakfast table. 

“How’s your pain today?” you ask him, rubbing your swollen belly.

Levi lays his hand over yours, and tells you it's manageable. It's even a little true. 

thank you for reading! please leave a like/reblog/comment; I would really appreciate it <3

(divider @/cafekitsune.)

[luneariaa]

ღ || in piscinam.

✰ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : claudio serafino x fem! reader.

✰ 𝐰. 𝐜. : 1k+

✰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : claudio sees you within the cool waters of the pool, before deciding to approach you and make his presence known.

✰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : reader is wearing a dress ( mentioned ), claudio might be ooc, pretty much a self-indulgent fic. also very fluffy <33

✰ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : my very first attempt on writing for him, and the ideas have been brainrotting in my mind for weeks 😭💙 so i just knew that i had to actually post this one out.

. dividers by @/saradika-graphics !! 💫

The light taps of your shoes filled the silent hallways, stepping against the perfectly marbled floors with such ease within the private sanctuary within Italy– the Duomo di Sirio, as it was known to some others. You are also recognized to be in a quite higher position than others as well, just below CLAUDIO SERAFINO himself, as you are his personal confidante. One of his most trusted person, as far as he’s aware.

Not a single soul in sight, so you have decided to take a quick dip within the clear waters of the pool nearby, just to try to cool yourself off due to the warm weather. Claudio wasn’t around as well, since the last time you checked his schedule, he had some important errands to tend to.

Eventually arriving at the intended location, you take one last look around you, just to make sure that no one is present– gradually letting your dress fall onto the hard ground without any sound and changing it to a transparent one, before immediately letting yourself sink within the cool waters below.

Today seemed strangely quiet. For Claudio, at least. He was expecting any sort of greeting from you once he arrived not too long ago, but instead, he finds himself searching for your whereabouts around the place. 

Several thoughts are running through his mind, and yet, none of them have made any proper thoughts due to how messy it currently is. His steps are quite heavy, yet cautious as to not attract any attention somehow. These past few months have been admittedly stressful for him, and it has tested some bits of his patience in ways unimaginable.

It didn’t take him long enough to halt on his tracks, spotting a rather familiar someone by the clear waters. It’s pretty unexpected to see someone taking a dip at this time of the day, yet he couldn’t even blame the said person, as the weather outside has been nothing but merciless to them.

He leaned himself over the edge someplace almost hidden, not wanting his presence to be acknowledged just yet as he rests his arms atop of it. His slate blue eyes are quite sharp and observant, clearly now having different thoughts as he sees the person in the pool, yet none of them has any.. Unholy intentions, dare he say, but rather, one gaze that is filled with pure adoration and silent amazement. 

The sunbeams from above seemed to have touched your face perfectly, which made your expression to appear more serene in a way. Your now wet hair flows down so beautifully, as if you originally belonged in a portrait that’s being highly revered and taken care of– or that’s how he told himself to be, at least.

His thoughts never lied to him, because why would he?

Claudio begins to feel some sort of a strange sensation within his heart– has he been living in a certain darkness for all this time? His throat feels dry, his mind goes hazy for a while there. He has always been a man who's focused solely with his own assigned duties naturally; all the while, trying to avoid any potential distractions within his line of work.

But the sight he’s witnessing right now made him really think deeply. Has he never seen you being all relaxed and ethereal like this? You did it all so effortlessly, which made him possibly be baffled with his own actions if you ever caught him watching you like this.

Without moving away from the spot just yet, the Italian exorcist moves his hand in a smooth fashion– creating something rather unexpected, yet beautiful for anyone who’s able to see it. A small, blue butterfly begins to emerge out of nowhere; glowing vibrantly as it follows the magic flow from his hand, flying discreetly towards where you are. 

The seemingly glowing butterfly gracefully glides across your features, immediately catching your attention as he intended. He watched, as it landed just on your cheek nicely, making you look even more divine from his perspective. It compliments your features so well, which makes his heart swell. 

Claudio has not experienced these types of feelings for a long time now, and he wants– no, needs to keep feeling it deeply within his heart, if he were so bold to say. A warm, genuine smile made its way to his handsome face, wanting to let the scene unfolding ahead of him to be engraved within his memories alone.

The way you smiled as the butterfly flew around you– it is something that he didn’t want to ever forget. Sure, you are his confidante, but your smile alone is enough to send his heart beating so rapidly, as if you are his lifeline. Claudio didn’t even remember when was the last time he’s able to observe you properly like this, without any work-related distractions.

The feeling just escalates even further as he sees how gentle you are, cradling the butterfly on the palm of your hands with an expression of pure awe. He could admit he had feel.. Something, within him– a type of feeling that he ever tried to shut it away from.

When the butterfly has gradually flown away, his smile remains– clearly still mesmerized by the genuine actions you’ve portrayed. It’s beginning to feel a bit funny for him since he doesn’t want the feeling to stop just yet–

“How long have you been standing there, Signore Claudio?”

Has he been stuck within his own train of thoughts for that long? It startled him slightly when your mere voice managed to pull him out from his own little world; now realizing that he has finally been caught. But that’s like the least of his worries at this point.

You have propped one of your hands up by the pool’s edge, placing your head atop of it with an amused expression. Somehow, he doesn’t know how, but you looked even more.. Attractive, looking at him that way. So his smile returned without any ounce of hesitation present.

“I’ve been here for a while now, cara.”

His reply was simple; quickly being followed by the temporal lingering silence between the two of you. But this only made your curiosity grow, tilting your head slightly as you added more words to your previous question even more.

“Have you, really?”

A small smirk is present upon your delicate features by now, “Do you know how improper it is to stare at a lady who’s bathing?”

“I’m aware,” he answered with honesty, not even shifting his gaze away from you just yet. “I just couldn’t resist, bella.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, not wanting to admit that those little nicknames he has specifically given to you did make you swoon internally. Claudio has always possessed a certain charm with him– maybe being Italian is one of them– but that’s beside the point. He’s always been this way ever since you decided to work alongside him, so you almost couldn’t tell yourself.

Not even moving away from your current spot, he begins to approach you with several steps closer; eyes not leaving yours as if he’s simply trying to convey his unspoken words from there.

“You sure know how to make a man’s heart throb.”

“Oh, do I?” You tried to mask your surprised expression, giggling a little with the maintained eye contact. “Do I, perhaps, have caught your heart at least, Signore?”

The Italian exorcist stops just not too far in front of you, yet leaving just a few spaces between you both as he kneels in front of you. Without thinking twice, he leans his face just a bit– his heartbeat is so rapid that he’s sure you might be able to hear it if you went a bit closer to him.

His mind is telling him to move away this instant, but his heart tells him otherwise. Perhaps, something just awakened within him, that he just begins to fall into a clear realization? You have been his confidante for years, after all, maybe that’s why he dares to become a little more bold right now.

Maybe you are the lady who was meant to be his equal in a lot of ways. Maybe now he knows what he’s been lacking.

Claudio was unsure yet, but he can tell for one thing– his heart has spoken to him. He knows what he wants, and he’ll try to slowly pursue it.

“Ah, don’t get too close to the waters. Or else, I might have to pull you along with me.” You leaned your head backwards and slightly move away from him, which caught him off guard.

He decided to just follow what his heart tells him. A genuine chuckle escaped from his luscious lips; already feeling even more entertained by the whole ordeal.

“Is that an offer, bella?” His Italian accent is thickening somehow, and deeper as he spoke those words, his smirk reappearing within seconds. “Then, who am I to refuse?”

You had your brow raised, before giggling then returning his smirk in a similar fashion– swimming even further away from him as a way to possibly tease him, “Well then..”

“You know what to do, Claudio.”

mb idk how to properly end it lmao-

@luneariaa do not repost; reblogs are alright. all rights reserved.

[brainrotbunny]

dirty sneakers and denied handshakes

library love: chapter one

remus lupin x fem!slytherin!sirius' sister!reader

moon phase: waxing gibbous

synopsis; remus and yourself bond over coffee, books, and making fun of your idiot older brother.

warnings; blood purity? swearing?, sirius being sirius.

A/N: first chapter is now out! this is my first fic so be gentle w me :,). the series masterlist will be out vv soon and so will the next chapter!! the moon phase is at the start of each chapter for context to how remus is acting. this is an extended version of the preview/blurb so the first couple paragraphs may seem familiar . thank you for reading <3

you had spent your first morning of your fifth year rushing around hogwarts, helping first years arrive to their classes while also trying to get to your own on time. It didnt help that your first class, transfiguration, was the class you had struggled with the most the previous year, was also shared with the house you struggled with the most, gryffindor. 

your first class was filled with glares from your brother, being a black was difficult, and you could say being sirius' sister was just as hard, after all he was known for his dramatics. even after he had run away from your unfortunate home situation the tension between you and your brother didn't subside.

in-fact it felt as if a bigger rift had opened between you and your eldest brother, being divided by more than just opinions and school houses, but by space as well. so as you stood in your first class of the year, which happened to be a year above your own it didn't shock you when you saw your brother and his friend james potter, what did shock you was the glare he was casting your way, grey eyes splintering into your own. 

now you were used to sirius' glares and his comments by then, and it had never helped that you had made a few of your own but it looked like he was ready to rip you to shreds, as if you had imposed on his space and that was in-fact what he thought of the new arrangement.

your marks during 4th year had been exceptional, your professors let you know that if you kept up your marks, you would be able to move up a grade the following year.nonetheless , despite your grades being exceptional the stress of keeping them up had caused you to fall slightly behind in transfiguration, but that didnt stop you from advancing, your professors had agreed your marks in transfiguration, herbology, potions, history of magic, and oddly enough divination were exceptional and you were eligible to move up a year. 

that being said your fifth year came with alot more challenges than that of the academic sort, it was your first year as a prefect and you had been assigned snape as a patrol partner for the first month, severus snape had seemingly assigned himself as your shadow;  walking with you from the train to the great hall and he had taken it it upon himself to sit with you during the sorting ceremony as well , not that you minded, he was never close with you or your twin, but snape had never been a bother to you. despite the rumours following snape, you never had an issue with him.

your second class of the day, sixth year advanced potions was filled to the brim, hufflepuffs huddled with their friends, slytherins sitting on desks, and you assumed, griffyndors who were sure to get there, just on time.

you stood against the left wall, next to evan rosier, a tall slytherin boy with dark blue eyes and light blonde hair thatstood out against his dark skin. you had been relieved he was there, not like you were close but you shared a house, blood status, and he was a close friend of regulus so by proximity you two were civil (at least by your standards)

"ah, here come the gryffindors" rosier spoke up looking to you.

"almost late as per usual"

you watched as other students filed in by the door, lupin, evans, and mary mcdonald appeared and to your relief they were lacking a certain boy with long black hair, who had made sure to stare daggers through your head all through transfiguration

evans, lupin, and mcdonald walked in, forming a small group against the opposite wall, the redheaded girl stood with her back straight, her chin up, and her green eyes directly on severus who gave her a small nod to which she returned with a wave. 

mcdonald was stood beside evans, her head resting against her shoulder, dark curly haired splayed against the red and black of lilys robes.

lupin stood silently with his arms crossed and his back slightly pressed into the wall behind him, his shoulders sagged, his back was slightly hunched, and he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. his freckled face twisted up into a frown,the paleness of his scars stood out against his tan skin and sandy brown hair. His arms were full, loose parchemets, a few books, a muggle notebook, and what seemed to be a ballpoint pen.

you and remus had never spoken before, and to be frank you didnt pay much attention to him. of course, you knew him. everyone did, he stood out against the other gryfindors he called friends, his scarred face, quiet demeanor, and knit sweaters set him apart from the lot.

he stood tall over the rest of them as well, and despite his opposing demeanour to his strong willed friends who has gotten themselves quite the reputation, he was known as the kind marauder who mostly stood back and watched his friends in their fun.

though he was rumoured to have quite the temper, but most assumed that was just that, only a rumour, because no one had ever seen sarcastic, sweet, and albeit mischievous remus, angry.

your eyes were stuck to the floor in front of you, your mind drifting far away from the potions classroom, you could already feel yourself growing tired you didnt even know if you would have time to run back to the common room after dinner, since severus had signed you both up for first patrol of the year. 

everyones heads turned to look at the front of the class as professor slughorn flittered around his desk, pulling what seemed to be a list out of a mess of papers.

“ah-ha, the seating arrangements” slughorn announced happily.

“yes, yes i know but it must be done” slughorn said as grumbles rang throughout the classroom, he got up from his desk albeit struggling a bit before walking over to the first desk in the room, calling out two names you hadnt heard before, a light-haired ravenclaw sat down followed by a short and pudgy slytherin.

he continued calling out names, one by one students sat down followed by their prepicked partners, you werent paying much attention to the whole ordeal more interested in picking at the cuticles of your nails, and once in a while lifting your head to acknowledge a comment from rosier. 

“snape and mcdonald”

“evans and hedgeflower”

“lupin and black”

you heard that alright, your eyes glanced over at lupin who seemed to be equally surprised. You both walked over to your shared desk, it was situated to the left side of the room, third row down. You dropped your books to the far left of the desk, to the point that they were nearly tipping off, you sat down on the stool and crossed your legs, trying to avoid touch and honestly conversation aswell. 

lupin followed shortly after, sliding into his seat. His long legs took a majority of the space underneath the desk, he had to awkwardly attempt to cross his legs at the ankle to fit. he almost looked as if he was folding in on himself. he had dirty sneakers on that peeked out from underneath his robes and while that wasnt uncommon for muggle borns or halfbloods you couldnt help but quirk a brow you were sure you had seen sirius wear a similar pair in a different colour.

he laid his books and parchment down ,rather ungracefully, almost knocking over the cauldron that was dividing your shared space. He glimpsed at you briefly before ducking his head back down, organizing his papers and lining up his stationary in a neat row.

you ignored him or more honestly you just weren't paying attention to him, you had barely noticed him, instead focused on the other students being assigned partners, you watched as rosier was partnered with a meek looking hufflepuff who appeared practically terrified of him. he gave you an amused look that you returned, before mouthing something you couldnt quite make out. in your confusion of trying to discern rosiers words you hadnt even noticed lupin was turned towards you.

“erm, m’remus” he mumbled out, holding out his hand “lupin, by the way”

turning to him, you glanced at his hand, looking over the numerous scars running across his palm and his slender fingers. his hand quickly dropped into his lap when he realised you werent going to shake his hand.

“lupin?” you questioned, he nodded “lupine like the plant?”

“lupin like the constellation” 

“hmm” you puffed

“disappointed?” lupin implored, your eyes locked and narrowed on his, an unreadable but almost certainly mischievous look gleamed in his hazel eyes.

“quite” 

wordcount: 1438

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Make That Kitty Purr

Title: Make That Kitty Purr

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Mike x Reader, August Walker x Reader

Fandom: Hellraiser: Hellworld x Mission: Impossible - Fallout, Crossover AU

Word Count: 3.5K

Summary: Uncle August doesn’t give a shit that you’re Mike’s girlfriend.

Warnings: voyeurism, cheating, unprotected p-in-v (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, breeding kink, August is an asshole, Mike deserves better (hurt/comfort with time)

A/N: This post (sort of) inspired this fic. So a special shout-out to @peyton-warren. I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING, but these are fictional characters. This story is dark, so FAIR WARNING. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. (more notes at the end of the work - I am very nervous while posting this! 🫣)

Dividers by: @saradika

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

When Mike invites you up to his Uncle’s cabin for the weekend, you are beyond excited. You’ve never been away with him and this is the perfect opportunity to have a little fun away from your college roommates. You love them, but it’s so hard to get some alone time with two other girls breathing down your neck.

You pull up to the cabin on Friday afternoon and notice another car already in the driveway, a tall man dressed rather sharply grabbing a suitcase out of the trunk. As he turns around, you recognize Mikey’s Uncle August. I guess we’re not going to be alone this weekend after all.

Mikey puts the car in park and jumps out before you can even unbuckle yourself. “Uncle August, what are you doing here?”

“My schedule changed so I figured I would come and check on the cabin while you were up here,” August put down his luggage and rolls his sleeves up before running a hand over his mustache.

“Well, we were kinda thinking we would have the place to ourselves, actually,” Mike says, walking around the car after turning it off.

“We?” August’s head tilts as his eyes land on the passenger window.

You watch the exchange from the car, seeing that August has finally noticed you. Exiting the car, you close the door behind you and join Mike who puts a possessive arm around your waist.

“Uncle August, this is my girl. You remember her, right?” 

August nods and correctly remembers your name, letting it pass over his tongue slowly. While Mike is smiling down at you, August lets his eye rake over you from head to toe. If Mike had seen, he would not have been happy. But, you decide it’s best to just let it go. Just harmless fascination. Isn’t it?

“Michael, why don’t you get the bags while I take your girl inside out of the cold? You can handle that, right?” Before you know it, your hand is taken by a large paw and you are led inside the cabin. August walks close to you and you can smell his aftershave up close, the scent intoxicating.

You’re surprised when it takes Mike as long as it does to get all of the bags into the cabin. You packed pretty light, but August has him take everything to the rooms instead of leaving them by the hallway. You notice August is staying on the bottom floor of the cabin while you and Mike are staying in another room on the second floor.

While Mike is upstairs, August goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. He pours two glasses and offers you the other. You don’t miss how his fingers linger on yours.

“What shall we toast to, Princess?” You don’t hide the shiver that runs down your spine at the pet name.

“Um, to…a hot tub and time away from annoyances,” You lift your glass over to connect with August’s. He holds your gaze as he takes a sip. Alright, maybe not a harmless fascination.

Mike’s voice startles you as it booms through the cabin, “Sweetcheeks, you wanna get in the hot tub now or later?” Sometimes you really wish Mike had a chill mode, but you really loved the adorable goofball.

“August, do you wanna join us?” You try and appear innocent in your offer but you also are intrigued about seeing the muscular man shirtless.

“Maybe later, I’ll get started on dinner while you two have some time alone,” August takes your wine glass and tops it off, and sends you up to find Mike. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk away, but you don’t dare look back.

As you get in the hot tub after getting changed into your bathing suit, the sun is setting over the mountains. Mike’s hands and mouth are over you in an instant, not caring what his Uncle may be seeing. He pulls you into his lap and attacks your neck. Your eyes close at the sensation and when they open, a gorgeous set of oceanic blues lock on you.

August is watching you as Mike slides a hand into your suit bottoms. You know you should tell Mike to stop but the idea of putting on a show for August is a temptation you can’t ignore. Your mouth opens in a silent scream as Mike’s fingers circle your clit before sliding into your entrance. Clutching a hand in his hair, you bite your lip as you ride Mike’s fingers.

As August watches you, he grips and strokes his cock through his pants. You reason with yourself that since you aren’t touching each other, this isn’t cheating. This is just slightly inappropriate, nothing to truly worry about.

Mike’s attention to finger-fucking you is gone as he pulls out his cock, pulling your bottoms to the side. He swiftly enters you and pulls you down onto him fully. Within seconds, you adjust to Mike’s cock and start to ride him while maintaining eye contact with August.

Mike pulls out your tits from your suit top and gives attention to your nipples. The man loves your boobies and it keeps him occupied as you continue your impromptu sex show for August. The older man unzips himself and for a moment, you think you’re going to be graced with the sight of his cock, but he only reaches in to stroke himself. Watching him watching you is enough to send you over the edge. Mike follows after you shortly, spilling inside you.

You watch as August pulls his hand out of his pants, zips himself up, and walks out of your field of vision. It doesn’t look like he came and you instantly want to help him over the edge but hold yourself together as you lift off of Mike’s sensitive cock. You move yourself to sit next to Mike and rest your head against his shoulder as you both catch your breath and readjust your clothing. A million thoughts run through your head, the most severe of which is gnawing at your soul.

You want August, and it’s obvious he wants you back. How could you want something like that? Mike isn’t perfect, but he’s yours. He adores you and you think the world of him. Yes, he can be a bit aloof, but he’s genuinely interested in your happiness. He doesn’t deserve to be fucked over by your own selfish desires.

You are broken out of your reverie minutes later as August beckons you both to come in for dinner. You both towel off and put on robes. August already has the table set with three plates and he sits at the head of the table with you and Mike sitting across from each other. 

The conversation comes easily enough, August mostly focuses on asking you about what you are studying and what your future plans are. Mike seems to be none the wiser that August is paying you so much attention as he shovels pasta in his face. August refills your wine glass, handing it to you, his fingers once again lingering. August finally turns his gaze to Mike and asks what you all have planned for the weekend. 

Mike mentions you are scheduled to go to a beer garden tomorrow and you would be meeting some friends afterward. You don’t remember making plans to meet up with friends but you go with it anyway. Mike’s friends were pretty cool anyway, at least the ones you’ve met. Well, Derrick could be annoying and could make Mike completely miserable to be around but hopefully, he wouldn’t be there tomorrow.

You all finish dinner shortly thereafter, a few glasses of wine in your system. August gets up, and you assume he is going to start clearing the table. “August, you cooked, we can clear the table.”

“Nonsense. You’re a guest here,” he says, waving you off, “Michael can clean up the kitchen while I give you a quick tour.” He holds out his hand to lead you through the living room, and that same hand ends up on your lower back. 

Your bare feet pad softly on the hardwood while his shiny shoes clack next to you. Your robe is the only thing preventing August from touching your skin directly. The heat coming off of his hand is enough to elicit a shiver from you. Instead of mentioning it, he just smiles down at you and walks you into the spacious entertainment room.

A large television screen is in front of a sectional couch. Two vintage full-height arcade game systems stand against either side wall. A pool table sits on the right, while a poker table is to the left. You’re impressed with the setup and you say as much.

“Yeah, I like to entertain sometimes. You’re welcome to this room whenever you want. Most of the streaming apps are already set up and there’s a Playstation and XBOX as well if you’re interested,” August points over to the tv, leaning in as he speaks.

“I can already see Mike getting lost in here for a few hours,” you snort, trying to hide your obvious annoyance.

“I’m sure you can keep him occupied, Princess.” There goes that pet name again. You look up at August and he grins like the Cheshire cat down at you.

If Mike hadn’t walked in when he did, you would have leaned into that smile. “I was looking for you guys. Sweetcheeks, are you ready for bed? I’m exhausted.”

“You’re tired from cleaning the kitchen?” August teased, knowing full well that wasn’t what tired the younger man out.

“Yeah…well, it’s a big…kitchen, so,” Nice save, Mike.

“Sounds like a good idea, baby. Let’s go,” you grab Mike’s hand and turn toward August, “Night, August.”

“Goodnight, you two,” August hums, looking from you to his nephew.

The two of you head to bed upstairs, arm in arm. It takes everything out of you not to turn around and look at August once more.

In the middle of the night, you pull yourself out of Mike’s grip and head to the bathroom. You notice your throat is dry and decide to go to the kitchen for a bottle of water. August is already in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink. As he picks up the lowball of amber liquid, he turns to greet you.

“You alright, Princess?” The genuine concern in his voice almost overshadows the fact that he is only clad in a tight pair of boxer briefs. Almost. 

Instead of answering, you are entranced by his hairy chest and defined abdominals. Muscular arms and thick thighs are on full display. You’re sure you’re staring but he doesn’t seem to mind as he makes his way over to you. It seems like he moves in slow motion and your brain doesn’t fully comprehend when he reaches out to you.

His warm hand on your arm reminds you that you forgot to put on a robe before coming downstairs. Your crop top and cheeky underwear leave little to the imagination and you look down at yourself before looking from his hand back up at him. As if seeing your thoughts across your face, August removes his hand from your shoulder.

“I just came down for some water.” You’re surprised that you were able to get those words out, as whiny as they were. Your dry throat returns after you speak.

August nods and turns around to go back to the fridge. The ass on this man is ridiculous too, that’s just unfair. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and brings it back to you. He holds it out to you, and you take it shakily before opening it and taking a sip. You cap it again and hold it up to your suddenly warm neck. You let out a sigh and close your eyes for a beat. When you open them, August is standing closer to you. You didn’t even hear him take a step.

You slowly lower the water bottle from your skin and August takes it, putting your bottle and his scotch down on the nearby dining table. When he turns back to you, he reaches up and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He takes his time leaning in, giving you an out to easily lean back.

But you don’t lean back, you lean into him as he slots your mouths together. You whimper into his mouth and it is all over from there. He drops your chin, his hands sliding from your face to your neck and down your back until they settle under your ass as he lifts you up into his arms.

“Tell me you want me, Princess,” August whispers, the heat coming off his clothed cock blazing into your core, “You want me to take care of you?”

Fuck.

“Yes,” you whimper, carding a hand through his thick head of hair. 

“That’s my good girl,” he groans, walking to his bedroom. He kisses your neck, nipping at it as he settles you back upon his bed. He hovers over you for a moment, rubbing your covered sexes together. Letting you have ample time to change your mind while making sure you won’t.

“Please,” you whine, no longer able to hide your desire to have him inside you.

“Please what? Say it,” he grunts, pressing his groin harder into you.

“Fuck me, August.” is all he needs to hear before he’s pulling your underwear down and off. He doesn’t remove his own, only tucks them under his balls as he runs the head of his dick through your sopping folds. He enters slowly and gradually, letting you adjust to his girth and length.

Once he is fully seated inside you, he begins a punishing rhythm that has your cervix screaming. Your legs wrap around his waist and his hand finds your throat, placing slight pressure on the sides. The older man has you in a daze soon enough, filthy words leaving both of your mouths.

Fuck, this pussy is too good…

Who do you belong to?

Oh, my God, harder, please! 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…

That’s right, come all over this dick…

Gonna breed this tight little cunt, Princess!

His hips stutter in their movement and you are soon flooded with his spend. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you come again, some of his seed leaking out past his cock as he pulls himself out. He looks down and smiles watching you leak with his spunk, before laying next to you. He draws you closer to rest your head on his chest.

He kisses your forehead in a sweet gesture. Juxtaposed with the filthy act you’ve just committed, you suddenly feel nauseous. You bite back bile as you rest against August. You wish the Earth would open up and swallow you whole. You stay like that for a minute more, feeling your legs get wet with his cum as it leaks from you. 

Your world implodes, the gravity of cheating on Mike suddenly screaming its way into the forefront of your mind. You hate yourself and you hate August for tempting you.

You get up quickly, finding and putting on your underwear before all but running out of August’s room, his voice calling behind you doesn’t stop you. You reach the upstairs bathroom connected to your bedroom and make it to the toilet in the nick of time. Your dinner comes back up so harshly that you end up waking Mike up with your gagging.

He comes to hold your hair out of the way and rub a soothing hand on your back. As you finish, you spit, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You close the lid, sitting down on the floor next to Mike as he looks at you concerned.

“Mike, baby, I’m so sorry.” 

“Sweetcheeks, what are you sorry for? You just got sick is all.”

“Not saying sorry for that, I have to tell you something.”

“Babe, you’re scaring me, what’s going on?” Mike’s voice quivers and it is all you can do to stop yourself from kissing his frown away because you’re about to break his heart.

“I…slept with August,” you blurt out, and you start to cry before you can help it.

Mike isn’t saying anything and you wonder what is even going through his head. You hazard a look over to his face. His jaw is working in anger and he pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Mike, I’m so sor-”

“We’re leaving. Get dressed.” Mike cuts you off and gets up from the floor. You get up and follow him to the bedroom, pulling on your jeans and hoodie quickly as he begins to pack your suitcases quietly.

You watch him move about the room mechanically. You wish he would talk to you. But, you know you don’t deserve to be comforted. He needs and deserves better than you. As he finishes, he pulls on his own clothes and takes your things downstairs.

You follow him down, pausing when you both see August now wearing just pajama bottoms. He actually looks surprised to see you both dressed and holding your luggage.

“Go to the car, I’ll be out in a sec, ok?” Mike’s voice is eerily calm as he hands you the car keys and ushers you outside.

“Mike, let’s just lea-”

“I said, go to the car. I’ll be right there,” he barely raises his voice, but he pushes slightly on your shoulder to get you outside. Like he doesn’t want you to witness something.

You grab your own luggage and head outside, closing the door behind you. You try and block out the sounds of a struggle in the cabin as you walk across the gravel driveway. You put your suitcase in the trunk and get in the car. You’re putting on your seatbelt as Mike comes out of the cabin, his hair and clothes a mess. He gets in the car and white-knuckles the steering wheel as he stretches his jaw.

“Mike?” You cautiously reach out to move hair behind his ear and he lets you.

“I want you to know that I know he put the moves on you. I forgive you, but I can’t forget. I hate him, not you,” he groans, putting a hand over yours, “When we get back, we’re gonna start over ok? We’ll get through this.”

“Ok, baby,” you sniffle, trying to hold back your surprise that he still wants to be with you.

You make the long journey back to school and Mike comes up to your room. You both remove your shoes and lay down in your bed. He wraps his arms around you, your back to his chest. He pulls you close and you relish his warmth. 

“I love you, Sweetcheeks.” 

“I love you, too, Mikey,” you tangle your legs with his and thank your lucky stars for another chance to make this exquisite man happy.

You both decide to never speak about your time at the cabin ever again. 

You don’t bring it up when you see August at the grocery store weeks later. The remnants of a black eye and an angry scar going down the right side of his face are a sight. Enough to have you turning around and going down another aisle before leaving your cart behind and exiting the store.

You end up going to another grocery store before heading back to your dorm. Mike is there waiting for you and trying his best to work his way through a term paper. He looks up as you enter, getting up to take the bags from you and kissing your forehead.

Sometimes, you can still see the look of sadness on Mike’s face out of the corner of your eye. You can still feel the sting of Mike’s promise to never forget with every I love you. You know you deserve to feel the pain of your actions and you do with every day that passes. You also know Mike will always deserve better than you, even when he tells you that he’s so blessed to have you.

Years later, Mike takes you to your favorite restaurant. He walks you along the boardwalk, waiting until you are all alone, and gets down on one knee. You’re so surprised that you immediately start to cry. He chooses his words carefully and he puts the ring on your finger. As he stands to his full height, he wraps you up in a hug. He tells you he loves you and you melt in his arms.

You try and push down the thought that he’s settling for you, but you know that is a futile effort. The only thing on your mind is making Mike happy. And you’ll do whatever he asks, with a smile on your face and love in your heart.

A/N: Can you tell I was in a depressive state when I wrote this? This was a songfic originally and then *stuff* happened.

A/N: I’d like to apologize to both fans of Mikey and fans of August. While this story is dark and a complete AU, I still feel the need to say I’m sorry for this portrayal of August and that Mikey was hurt. I was thinking, for my crimes against humanity, I owe fandom very fluffy Mike fics. Two fluffy stories to make up for this, actually.

Make That Kitty Purr [Director’s Cut]

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[chiriwritesstuff]

The Impossible Man ✨ 1. The Deathwatch Beetle ✨

Modern Day Detective! Din Djarin x Witch! Reader (Soulmates AU)

Series Masterlist

Summary: For someone being born into a magical family, a curse placed on the women of your bloodline means you have mostly avoided witchcraft and its calling for the majority of your life. After a life-altering tragedy, you turn your back on your family and your gift and seek out a more normal, boring existence, devoid of magic, and mostly, of love. What happens when the ghosts of your past threaten your peaceful existence and you are forced to reconcile all that you have lost? Will you let the people you have abandoned in your past life back into your heart? Will the appearance of an impossible man you have unknowingly cursed yourself break the chains of love? Will you let him?

Chapter Rating: M? (for now)

Chapter Warnings: Magical realism, implied mention of suicide, reader and her family are cursed, implied (minor) character death, (some) men are the worst, mentions of violence

A/N: Oh, Hello there.

For Halloween this year, I decided that I wanted to write a little 3-part story featuring my favorite Pedro boy, ✨Din Djarin✨. Inspired by my favorite Halloween-ish movie, Practical Magic, the story follows a Modern Day Detective Din, and our (reluctant) Witchy Reader. This story is not a complete retelling of PM, but a mishmash of other films that I love and cherish. If you're able to spot some of these films, I'll gift you a virtual Halloween candy treat! Happy Halloween, everyone!

Peep the (main canon storyline) Star Wars cameo!

Banner by @chiriwritesstuff ✨ Dividers by @saradika

Word Count: 3.2K

The first time you heard of the deathwatch beetle, you were eight years old.

The Victorian-style house that sat along the edge of Puget Sound was a whimsical sort, with its white picket fence adorned with creeping ivy, its single turret, a spire with the shape of a star on top of it, like a star on a Christmas tree. It had belonged to your family for decades - and was always kept in the same manner as when it was built. It was the home that your mother was raised in, and her mother before her, the house being passed down through each generation. You remember the summers you spent with your Aunt Fennic and Omera, taking the ferry from the port at Capitol Hill to Bainbridge Island, your sister Violet - Vi, for short - with her hands intertwined with yours. Three hundred and sixty-seven days younger than you, and every bit your opposite - if you were the match, then she was the flame; she was light, embodied to your infinite darkness. You would wear braids in your hair and fairy wings as you ran down the corridors of the house, playing hide-and-seek and hoping that you wouldn't get lost in the vastness of it. It was your beacon of light and solace, always welcoming. Now, as you hold your sister's hand while walking up to the porch, dressed in black, eyes still puffy and swollen and lined with tears, your aunts standing side by side, already expecting you both - it had finally become home.

"In this house," your aunt Fennic starts, grabbing the suitcase out of your hands as your aunt Omera bends to pick up Vi, "We will eat chocolate cake for breakfast and not worry about silly little things like bedtimes and brushing our teeth." You chuckle as she winks and leads the two of you inside.

Later that night, as Omera tucked you into bed, Vi having fallen asleep only moments before, she smiled as she kissed your forehead. "We're so happy you're with us, Starshine."

You silently nod, your fingers fidgeting nervously as you try to hide the discomfort of being in a new place, despite having been here so many times before. You look down at your hands, blinking away the tears that were begging to come out. "Aunt Omera, did Daddy die because of the curse?"

She gives you a sad smile. "Yes, Baby, he did." She strokes your cheek with her thumb, wiping away your tears.

"Your mother knew the moment she heard the click, click, click of the deathwatch beetle beckoning for your father's life... she knew that day that he was doomed to die. Every person who falls in love with any of the women of our bloodline is resigned to the same fate."

"Is that why Mommy died? Because of a broken heart?"

Omera's face softens as she brushes your hair away from your eyes. "Yes, my darling girl, she did. She couldn't imagine life without your father..." She pulls the covers over you. "…but that's how you came to live with us, and we will raise you the best way we know how."

You smile sadly, settling yourself deeper into the covers. "Why is our family cursed, Auntie?"

"It was because of your ancestor, Maria."

"Was she a witch?"

"Yes, the first in our family. And you are the most recent in a long and distinguished line."

"What happened to her?"

"Well, my Starshine, she fell in love. She fell in love with a man, her soulmate... but not everyone was happy about it. There was another man, an evil man, who had loved Maria from afar. He demanded that she be with him, and when she refused, he killed her lover in cold blood."

You bite your lip, nodding to yourself as you try to understand. "… but how does that make us cursed?"

"Well," Omera says, "Maria didn't take her lover's death kindly. With her powers, she managed to encase the evil man in a tomb full of beetles, eating him alive. However, before he died, he cursed the entirety of our female bloodline. This curse dooms any being who dares to love us, but it also ensures that we will always find our soulmate. Throughout the years, the appearance of the deathwatch beetle - the same one that consumed the man - is seen as a warning bell. The moment you hear the click, click, click of the beetle, there is nothing you can do to stop the curse. We have carried the weight of this burden for hundreds of years."

"I wish that I never find my soulmate," you whisper, determination etched on your 8-year-old face. "I don't want anyone to die because of me, and I don't want to die of a broken heart!"

Omera looks at you sadly as she kisses your forehead. "Oh, my sweet Starshine." She reaches over to turn off your bedside lamp, then kisses Vi before walking to your door, locking eyes with you, nodding as she turns away, leaving you in complete darkness.

"You will."

“He will hear my call a mile away. He will whistle my favorite song. He can ride a horse backwards.”  You gather the petals of the flower and place it in the bowl, reading the words you have written in your diary aloud, your fingers grazing the page.

“What are you doing, Starshine?” Vi asks from behind you, walking into the greenhouse as she pets Boba the house cat.

“I’m summoning a true love spell. Amas Veritas. Also known as a Soulmates calling.” You pull a rose petal, inspecting it as you turn to your sister. “He can flip pancakes in the air. He will be marvelously kind… and his favorite shape will be a star… and he’ll have a birthmark on him, the shape of a… bullseye.”

“… I thought you didn’t want to find your soulmate? I heard you, last night. When you were talking to Aunt Omera.” She picks up your diary and flips through the pages, her hip resting on the table as you finish gathering the rest of the ingredients, stirring it gently with your hands.

“That’s the point, Vi. The guy I dreamed of? My soulmate? He doesn’t exist… and if he doesn’t exist, I won’t die of a broken heart.”

You walk out and your sister follows, making your way to the balcony as you hold the bowl out into the night sky. Vi gasps as the petals start to float out of the bowl, flowing out like a waft of smoke, fluttering in the air, flying out into the distance, a small smile forming as you look out into the sky.

"Goodnight, Impossible Man." 

The first time you heard the ominous click, click, click of the deathwatch beetle, you were 28 years old.

It was in the dead of night, the clicking noise faint and almost unnoticeable, its distinctive chirps being drowned out by the idle sounds of the crickets and the gently blowing wind.

Click, click, click.

Your eyes open at that, suddenly alert. You shoot up from where you lay, Ben's still form beside you still in deep sleep. You breathe deeply, pushing your hair out of your face as you scan the room, looking for the source of the subtle clicking sound that roused you from your sleep. "Baby," Ben murmurs into his pillow, his eyes half open. "What are you doing up? It's late. Go back to sleep." He whispers, his arm pulling yours gently as you ease yourself back onto his chest, the deep thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat reverberating throughout your body, a reminder that he’s still very much alive. You sigh, pressing a chase kiss on his sternum. "I thought I heard something," you reply, his body shifting as he cages you in, his chin resting on the top of your head. "It's just the wind, Starshine. Go back to sleep," he continues, his fingers gently drawing small circles on your back. "I love you," he finally whispers before his breathing evens, his soft snores lulling you back to sleep.

A few hours later, you’re roused from your sleep once more as Ben's phone starts to chime. You feel his arm reaching out blindly for his phone on the nightstand, a slight groan rumbling from his chest as he squints at the screen.

"Good Morning, baby," Ben whispers in your ear, his voice heavy with sleep. "I have to get up, but you go back to sleep." You feel his breath on your cheeks as he presses a kiss to them, a faint smile forming as he embraces you, the feeling of his body stretching against yours as he wakes. He kisses your sleepy head as he rises out of bed, sitting on the edge of it as he caresses your half-sleeping form. He cracks his neck and silently pads himself into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting as you burrow yourself deeper into the covers, your body slowly shifting to where his body was only a moment ago, relishing in the residual warmth of your lover it still contains. You wedge your nose into the indent of his pillow, smiling as you inhale his scent. You lay there until you hear the tell-tale sound of the shower shutting off. Your eyes adjust to the warm orange light of the bathroom as he walks out, a towel half slung onto his form as he walks into the closet, pulling on his suit as he dresses for the day, his faint silhouette shuffling in the light of early dawn.

"Ben," you say softly as he’s beginning to pull on his socks. "It’s early. Come back to bed." You plead with him, your arms outstretched, making grabby hands, beckoning out for him.

"Djarin messaged me saying he has a lead. I’m heading over to meet with him now," He walks over to you, sitting on the edge of the bed as he puts his wingtip loafers on. "We’ve been at a stalemate for months now, baby. I’ll make it up to you, maybe we could go back to Montauk after I close this case. Gideon is so close, I’m finally closing in on him, I can feel it."

You nod as you reach out to rub his back. "Okay. You owe me, though."

He chuckles at that, the corners of his cheeks lifting as he gives you a rare smile. "No, Djarin owes me because I must be insane to leave my beautiful wife all alone. It’s criminal." He smirks as he bends over to kiss you, his lips tracing the side of your jaw.

"I have to go," he whispers into your ear as he kisses your head. "I’ll see you after work, ok? Might be a late night, this case has been killing me," he continues, grabbing his briefcase perched against his nightstand. He hovers by the doorframe, smiling as he turns to leave.

"I love you, Starshine."

He’s gone by the time you whisper those three little words back out into the ether.

Click, click, click. Click, click, CLICK.

Your eyes shoot open once again, the room now bathed in the mid-morning light. You scramble out of bed.

No, you think. No, no, no, NO.

You pace around your room nervously, the clicking sound from the night echoing into the recesses of your brain. You scan the room for the source of your dread, your body shivering in fear. You run to the opposite side of the room, scanning every nook and cranny, every crevice and surface. "Where are you, fucker?" you think to yourself.

Click, click, click.

You realize the sound is coming from beneath you, your eyes quickly shifting to where your feet are planted on the old floorboards of your shared apartment. It’s an old apartment in the heart of Queen Anne, one of those charming wartime-era duplexes painted in pink with its charming crown molding and black and white checkered tiles in the kitchen. Your dream home, you once thought to yourself, Vi’s unit on the other side, her bedroom wall sharing your own - an inheritance you both shared after your mother died all those years ago.

Your mother.

Your heart shudders at her memory, the tears forming as you take another deep breath. You forcibly repress and push those memories aside, centering yourself as you remind yourself of the current problem on your hands. You look below you once again, the gaps of the aged wood showing the earth below. You focus on the gaps, your eyes scanning frantically until you see it - the silhouette of the deathwatch beetle, its obsidian shiny armor scampering away from you, as if it finally acknowledges your presence. You dive onto the floor in its direction, your eyes inspecting the gaps of the floorboards, your line of sight aligning with the death beetle once more.

You scamper back onto your feet hurriedly, running out of your bedroom into the hallway, your feet pounding heavily on the floor as you make your way to the hallway closet, wrenching the door open with hurried force as you scan for the ancient toolbox on the shelf. You yank the rusted toolbox out, spilling its contents onto the floor, not caring one bit about the mess that you’re making. Grabbing a flathead screwdriver, you hurry back into the bedroom, following the now-insistent clicking of the beetle. It managed to make its way above ground, scampering away as you furiously head towards it. It hurriedly makes its way across the way of the floorboards, you diving once again towards it, your hand stretched out as you try to slam onto it. The beetle is quicker and more agile than you, shimmying away from your hand as it falls through the crack of the floorboard. You lay your cheek on the cold floor as you pound on it furiously, willing the beetle to click as you listen intently for it. "This can’t be!" You whisper to yourself, your breath choking out in a panic.

"FUCK!" You scream in agony, grabbing the screwdriver that lay beside you. You wedge it against the edge of the floorboards, prying it open as you scan for the beetle. You start to pry off the boards around you until you make a sizeable gap for you to jump into, throwing the screwdriver aside and forcibly pry more floorboards until they lay haphazardly amongst each other in piles, completely surrounding you as you breathe heavily, the tears flowing freely on your face.

"Don’t do this to me!" You cry out, gasping for air as you crawl into the earth below, your nightgown now soiled as you frantically search around you. The clicking sound is becoming more frequent and louder, its eerie cadence becoming the only thing you can hear in your mind. "Come on!" You scream. "Please, don’t do this to me, not now, not him…. PLEASE! Haven’t you taken enough from me?! Haven’t we shed enough blood? Oh god…" You plead, your voice croaking out in desperation. You suddenly sit in a daze, your hair disheveled, the tears refusing to cease as your heart feels like it’s about to explode in your chest from pure exhaustion, from sheer adrenaline. It's then you realize that you’re suddenly surrounded by silence. You blink, scanning the room once more, the clicks having stopped and the deathwatch beetle nowhere to be found. You breathe a sigh of relief until suddenly the clicks ring out fast and furiously, a crescendo of fear and pain building within you until it ceases once more. You suddenly shudder, your body jolting violently, a single tear falling down the slopes of your face.

You’re still sitting there hours later, as the day has turned into night when your phone suddenly rings in the distance. You slowly climb out of the floor as you make your way to your dresser, silently picking up the phone and answering it, not bothering to check who it is, your hands trembling in fear.

"Ben?" You whisper shakily.

"Hey Starshine, it’s me, Din. Din Djarin?" You hear a deep sigh on the line. "...Are you there?"

"Listen. I’m going to need you to come down to the station… I’m sorry… it’s… it’s Ben." You hear him take a harsh breath as he speaks again. "I’m so sorry, Starshine…." His voice fades as your phone slips out of your grasp, the Seattle Police contact illuminating the screen as it hits the ground, his voice cutting through the silence as the sob you’ve been holding in erupts deep within your chest, you begin to wail and scream, falling to your knees.

"It was the curse, wasn’t it?" You scream as you storm into your aunt's house later that night, pacing frantically in the kitchen. “Because I loved him so much!”

Your aunts slowly walk into the room hesitantly, looking at your shaking frame nervously.

It’s your aunt Fennic who speaks first.

“We had no idea… when we cast that spell…”

“What spell?” You ask as your eyes shift between your two aunts, Omera’s eyes downcast in shame. “What are you talking about?!" She finally looks at you, her eyes filled with tears as she glances at her sister.

“Oh…” you shudder. “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t… my own flesh and blood...”

“You were so lonely, Starshine… we just… wanted to give you a little push… we didn’t expect you to fall in love.”

“WELL, I DID!” You gasp, grasping your chest as you walk out, grabbing the spell book from the other room, slamming it onto the kitchen counter as you frantically flip through the pages. “And I want him back!”

“You brought him into my life, and I want you to bring him back!” You say as you continue to flip through the pages. “I’ve never asked you for anything, I’ve never asked you for spells but do this! I know you can, I know you can bring him back!”

“We won’t do this” Omera speaks up as she approaches you. “We can’t do this” Fennic adds, crossing her arms.

“I know you can! I remember I found it here…” your fingers reading through the spell “I found the spell when… when mommy and daddy died.”

“Even if we did bring him back” Fennic starts, looking at Omera “… it wouldn’t be Ben.”

“… it would be something else, something dark and unnatural” Omera adds, reaching out to you.

“I DONT CARE WHAT HE COMES BACK AS, AS LONG AS HE COMES BACK… as long as he comes back” your voice breaks as you suddenly start to sob. “Please! Please do this for me!” You sob as you collapse onto the spell book, looking at your aunts pleadingly. “Please? PLEASE?!” You cover your mouth as you fall to your knees, Omera catching you as you cry onto her chest.

“I’m so sorry, Starshine.” She whispers as she strokes your back, looking at her sister as she turns to walk away.

The first time you hear the ominous click, click, click of the deathwatch beetle is the day you swear to yourself that you will never, ever fall in love again.

Authors Bits:

If you guessed that Ben was Ben Solo, you were right. I admit that I was once a Reylo - not so much now, but back in the day, so including him in this story was a treat... also, because Adam Driver <3.

Speaking about Ben, it's safe to say he's alluded to his death several times to Starshine, and there's several hints that I try to convey throughout. I'll miss our Benji, but we all know what we want, and he's definitely coming...

Taglist: @strawberri-blonde

[punks-never-die205]

Passing Fascination

Fem Reader x Yandere!Eustass Kid

CW: kidnapping, yandere Eustass Kid, violence, dubious consent, imprisonment, abuse, swearing, sex, group sex, dark content kids I am not messing around with this ♥

Summary: Three Rivers Island was a unique island on the Grand Line. It had only two rivers, but those two rivers divided the island into thirds. One far bank was tightly controlled by Marines, the other far bank was controlled by pirates unofficially, and the center section was controlled by merchants - who welcomed both Pirates and Marines.

You grew up on Three Rivers, taking care of yourself with whatever jobs you could find. Port savvy and sassy enough to keep pirates inline, you're a barmaid at the local pirate-favored tavern. When Kid and his gang come into port you're pretty sure that it's merely passing fascination between you both, but Kid seems to have other ideas.

Chapter 1: That Night, This Morning

You balanced the large tray on the edge of the table, passing out drinks as the masked first-mate stood up and helped you pass them around. “Your starting round of ale, gentlemen.” You say with a smirk. The captain rolls his golden eyes and groans while the other crew members laugh.

“That’s gonna stick, huh?” Eustass Kid grumbles. “I told you sweetheart, we ain’t gentle.”

You tuck the tray under your arm and give him a crooked smile. “Could’ve fooled me, Red.” You say with a wink. “Whatcha boys having tonight?”

Kid leans forward, he’s a little irritated by the nickname, but he hasn’t explicitly told you to stop using it. “You on the menu tonight?”

“I’m only on the menu the day before.” You answer smoothly, giving him a sly smile.

“The day before what?” Wire asks, walking into your trap.

“The day before someone asks.” You answer. It only takes a second before the table bursts out laughing. You get the crew’s orders as the ruckus dies down, even getting a begrudging order from Eustass Kid.

You wake up slowly. You had fallen asleep so hard that it was almost hard to get yourself moving, but you had to get to work so you needed to get up. Hard as you slept, you must not have overslept, because your room was dark, and the shaky place you called home wasn’t light-proof.

Something pinged in the back of your mind as you pushed yourself upright, but you couldn’t sort out what it was in your morning haze. Your clothes were –

Wait.

Clothes?

You grab at your shirt as you sit up fully. You rarely went to bed in anything, it was too hot on the island even at night, and you couldn’t afford a fan to stay cool. But you were still in your clothes from your date with Kid.

The evening continues on without anything else of note happening. Once you’re done entirely and heading home – thank the seas you weren’t stuck closing – you step out into the night air and see Eustass Kid waiting for you.

None of his other crew was around, and he wasn’t hiding in the shadows. He was a massive guy, and far more than just a little intimidating, but he seemed to be doing everything he could to appear less so. Something about the effort alone makes you relax.

“What’s got you waiting out here, captain?” You inquire, looking up and down the street before stepping closer.

He gives you a look that pointedly answers your question and you can’t stop the nervous chuckle that escapes you.

“What time is it?” He questions, cracking his neck as he stretches a little.

“Mm, it was about 11:40pm when I walked out. Can’t be much later than that.”

“Perfect.” He says with a grin, coming over to you and stopping just far enough away you didn’t have to crane your neck to see his face. “I can put my order in for you for tomorrow then.”

“You – can… you…” You stammer a few times, feeling the heat rush up into your face. “I – I’m… flattered.” You take a step back, and clear your throat. “But… I don’t want to be anyone’s port-whore or port-girl or whatever. I… I have a very strict no-sailors rule.” You insist, waving a hand in front of yourself.

“… Just for a meal then.” Eustass concedes, giving you a look and a grin that makes your heart flutter in your chest. “Let me treat you. Is there a fancy place you like in that middle island?”

“I, yes, but I mean…” You stammer. “I – I won’t budge, Mr. Eustass. I don’t want you to think I’m u-using you.”

“Using me?” Kid looks amused.

“For a… for a f-free meal, I mean.” You say apologetically. “The… the Avant Garde is an aptly named restaurant, with prices to match.”

He steps toward you, kneeling before he reaches out and brushes your cheek with the back of his finger. “No one uses me,” he says softly. “One meal. A second if you enjoy yourself. I won’t force my way into your pants.” He gives you a toothy grin. “It’s no good if you’re not begging me for it.”

As you’re more alert now, you realize what was bothering the back of your mind earlier. The room wasn’t just dark, it was windowless, and the soft rocking sensation was another problem.

You were not in your room.

The room was dark, but it wasn’t completely devoid of light. A transponder snail – the type for playing recordings – was sitting on a desk not too far away. It wasn’t looking at you, it was just projecting a blank image onto the wall, which created a bit of light in the room. Aside from the snail you were alone.

It smelled a little of oil, but mostly of oak and liquor. There was a subtle scent of ocean water, but the room was dry and the scents were crisp – clean.

Getting out of bed as your eyes adjusted, you stepped around the room carefully. There were shelves of books built into the walls with bars across them. Not in a way to stop anyone from getting to the books, but you assumed a way to keep them in place when the waters got choppy. It looked like there used to be more in the room, as though it was missing chairs and small knickknacks and other things that usually made a room look lived in.

You weren’t sure if things were removed to tidy the room, or if they were removed because of you, but you were fairly certain that you’d been kidnapped.

The steady rocking was unmistakable, and you knew for certain at least that you were on a ship. Your heart was nearly in your stomach, and your stomach was by no means steady the more you came to realize, but you walked toward the doors to the room regardless.

You put a hand on the door handle, taking a deep breath. What would you do if it opened? You didn’t know the layout of any ship, what good would leaving the room do? If you could find a room with a window you could jump into the ocean. You had no idea how long the ship had been at sea, but every moment pulled you further from your island, you were certain of that much.

No part of you ached. No one had, as far as you could sense, touched you. Aside from whatever it took to get you on this ship in the first place. You were being treated kindly, but that was irrelevant right now.

Waiting in here did you no good so you put pressure on the handle and winced as it slowly rotated, allowing you to crack the door open. Light from the hallway spilled in, and you gave your eyes a moment to adjust before opening it wide enough to step out in the hall.

The quiet was a little unnerving, but you’d take whatever graces you were given. You strained your hearing to gather any useful sounds as you moved quickly and quietly down the hall. You were still in your clothes from the date, minus your shoes, but the shoes were noisy so you were okay without them. You were just grateful you’d opted for a nice shirt and some capri pants for your date. Shuffling around in a dress would’ve been a hassle.

You could hear the sounds of people sleeping as you worked your way down the hall. You didn’t want to open the door to an occupied room, so you continued onward. Eventually, you came to a door with a window in it – moonlight hitting the wall from outside.

It was still dark outside, which meant that most of the crew would likely be asleep, and not just a few loud snorers recovering from a night shift. You stopped by the door, cursing your height, and inability to see out the window effectively. If someone was watching the door, it would be better to just walk out of it and take stock of what you could as fast as you could. Otherwise, you’d end up pinned before you could make it onto the deck.

Stepping through the door you stepped around and took in what you could. A mostly empty, broad deck, with what looked like a few people resting up against the railings. The moon was bright, and you were glad your clothes were fairly dark in color, if you’d gone with something pastel you’d be lit up like a beacon compared to everything else.

You didn’t want anyone to notice you until you were within leaping distance of the rail. You were currently the smallest thing on this ship, you were sure of it.

These men were big – wide, tall, full of muscles and scars and spikes and leather and ostentatious furs. Even the women in the crew fit the aesthetic. These looked like people who could level a tavern because they had a good time, and then leave enough money to rebuild the place better because they wanted to come back later to a better time.

And woe to the tavern owner not able to comply.

But their behavior was keeping the other pirate crews in line by default. Eustass “Captain” Kid and his crew were part of the worst generation, bounties in the millions. Bounties created a kind of hierarchy among pirates – most wouldn’t cause a commotion when higher bounties were around. They’d happily join in if those pirates started shit though, of that you could be sure.

Despite the higher-than-average collection of pirate vessels, the port thrived. It was one of the best places in the New World to stock up. Part of the island was tightly protected and controlled by the navy, but the other two thirds of it was very loose on the rules. Two rivers divided the island neatly.

The center island facilitated things between the two extremes, creating a unique situation all the way around. Pirates and Marines rarely ventured into the center area, a place almost exclusively controlled by merchants and couriers, with pockets deep enough to afford guards that could keep both marines and pirates in place. There were rumors some of the guards were ex Cipher Pol agents, or people who only quit being pirates when they barely survived facing the Emperors.

So, by that alone, there weren’t many people who could give them a hard time. Thus, a tidy balance was struck on the island – one that was mutually beneficial for everyone involved.

Three Rivers’ port was big, and busy, and if you were still anywhere near, you’d be able to at least find a passing ship. Statistically your chances were pretty good. You were a strong swimmer, and as you reached the rail you hadn’t heard anyone stirring or paying you any mind. Looking at the horizon, you were certain you could see the island.

You walked steadily alongside the rail looking for a lifeboat. The release would make noise, but so would you if you leapt overboard. You could get further faster in the rowboat, and once your arms gave out you could just ditch the boat and swim. It would take time for the larger boat to turn around and come after you.

You were nearly at the stern of the ship when you saw what you needed. A small, two-person at most and probably just large enough to hold a single crew member from this crew, rowboat with a quick release. Considering the vibe of the crew that you came to know over their week in port, you doubted it was for someone to run away. Whatever it was used for, it’s what you needed right now.

The wind was coming in straight from the island, and that put luck on your side. Turning into the wind was going to be hard for the big ship, and the wide arc would give you time enough to reach the shore.

Hopping into the boat you gave it as thorough a check as you could spare. Seeing no major damage or cracks, and finding two well-cared for oars, you braced yourself against the rails and kicked the quick release hard. It sent a jolt up your foot that made it throb, but you’d have to worry about any major injury later.

The boat dropped, hitting the water loudly.

Water curled up around the sides and splashed into the boat, but not enough to sink the small vessel and it buoyed onto the water’s surface easily enough. You gave your stomach half a second to settle from the intense drop and set both the oars.

The oars hit the water as the call rang out on the ship, and you stayed still. The ship was moving away from you under its own power, and the longer it took for the people on board to sort out what happened the better for you.

There was no sense in giving yourself away by rowing and making more noise.

Seconds stretched into a minute, two minutes, the ship was far enough away now that no one was going to be able to hook and haul you back in, so you started rowing. The commotion was covering your sounds at this point as well, and you were experienced at rowing.

You weren’t going to panic and work harder than you needed to. Setting your feet against the second bench you braced yourself and made long, slow, full strokes, letting what power you had from years of bartending and running row boats through the shores for testing help you.

Dip, twist, haul, twist, lift. It was almost soundless as you rowed the boat away.

It wasn’t noise that gave you away, eventually it was the moon.

“Straight off the stern!” Came the call. “Fuck, how’d she get so far?!”

You grin a little. The only change you make are the twists. There’s no need to set the oars in or lift them quietly. Rowing is power over speed though, so you didn’t pick up your pace. You didn’t hurt your foot too bad kicking the quick release either, it wasn’t bleeding enough to be seen and it only throbbed a little from the point of impact.

Considering you’d been kidnapped by pirates, your luck was winning through. Once you got ashore and got your bearings sorted you could work on trying to remember how you ended up on Eustass Kid’s ship.

For now though, you needed to stay focused on rowing as efficiently as possible.

[mochie85]

Creature Comforts - Chapter 2

Creature Comforts Masterlist Complete Masterlist

Summary: Loki is enamored by you, and you can’t understand why. He tries to get your attention until a disastrous accident occurs pushing you to rely on him. Will his charm finally win you over? Or will you continue to stay in your comfort zone? A/N: My ASKS are always open. Don't hesitate to send in a request or say 'hi.' And check out the very end of the fic for a reading of the poem done by Tom Hiddleston. Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character (Reader) Word Count: 3k Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Flirtatious Loki. Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

It was a lonely sort of darkness. Thankfully, your consciousness would spare you from the bleakness, the endlessness, by putting you to sleep. You didn’t know how long you’ve been under.

At times there was pain. Like someone was pinching you to wake up. Other times, there were voices lulling you to wake. Always a murmur, you couldn’t understand what anyone was saying.

“Liesl. Wake up, sweetness.”

You wanted to be left alone. You were comfortable. You were content. Here in the emptiness, the darkness. A creature of comfort. You were so content that sleep came to you so easily.

In time, there was a lightness happening around you. The dark was giving way to shades of black and then gray. You were tired.

“Somewhere on the other side of this wide night And the distance between us, I am thinking of you. The room is turning slowly away from the moon.”

A voice. So strong and sad, cut through the mesh of colors forming in your mind. 

“This is pleasurable. Or should I cross that out and say That it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing An impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.”

Carol Ann Duffy. She was – is one of your favorite poets. The colors in your mind started to take shape. There was light and shadow. Colors from the painting on the wall across the room; two silhouettes on a boat across the sunset. The fact that you knew it was a painting across the room was a feat in itself. You grew tired and the blackness took over again. You fell asleep to the sullen voice. Listening as relief crept over you.

“La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine The dark hills I would have to cross To reach you. For I am in love with you and this Is what it is like, or what it is like in words.”

Your legs hurt. They were sore and it felt as if tiny ants were crawling all over them. I have to straighten them out. I’ve been cooped up in this position for too long. You opened your eyes and took in your room. Clear and sharp. No more blurriness. No more darkness. You were in a hospital room, hooked up to IVs and monitors. The painting across the room greeted you as you sat up, with pain and great effort, and looked around.

You were alone. Except maybe not? You took in the chair situated next to your bed. There was a blanket and a book lying flat on the seat as if someone just momentarily stepped out. You felt the tingling in your legs again and looked down.

Loki came back into your room and was startled to find your bed reclined up. You turned your head slowly up to him. Your eyes filled with fat tears threatening to fall down. You took in his disheveled appearance. His wrinkled shirt. His sallow skin. He had coffee in one hand and combed his fingers through his hair with the other.

“Darling…”

“Why can’t I move my legs, Loki?” you cried. The tears fell down your face. It became harder to breathe as panic settled in your heart. Loki came running up to you and held you in an embrace. Your cries only got louder. “Wh-why can’t…I…” you started to hyperventilate. A louder sob wracked out of your body as Loki tried to console you. “No!” you screamed into his shoulder.

“Shh. Shh. Don’t cry, my dear.” He soothed as he rubbed his hands up and down your back. You shook your head, drenching his wrinkled shirt with your tears and sobs.

You fisted his shirt crying as he held you in his arms. He let your tears soak through. The pain and loud cries seeping through to his heart. He didn’t let go of you once. That small piece of him, the one he protected from all things, shattered and broke at the sight of you.

You didn’t know how long you had cried there. Minutes? Hours? Loki sat on the bed facing you. His body leaned over, his arm resting on the other side of you like he was shielding you from the sight of your legs. His free hand held yours. The doctor came in and tried to explain what happened.

The explosion was minor. It was the initial shock that made you fall back. You hit your head and the top of your cervical spine really hard on the table behind you. MRIs had shown no injury or damage to your neck or spine.

You sat there, quietly. Staring past Loki’s body, to your legs. You didn’t acknowledge the doctor. Loki was kind enough to speak on your behalf, asking about your legs.

“It just atrophied, dear heart. With enough rest and maybe some rehab, you’ll be able to get mobility again,” Loki promised. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since you stopped crying. His eyes were still clear and sharp, but his brows had shaped them into a sadness that you wanted to smooth over.

You didn’t realize that the doctor had already left. “Are you comfortable?” Loki asked. You looked at him with a detachment that terrified him and simply nodded your head.

“How long was I out?” your voice hoarse from crying.

“Almost two months. You hit your head pretty hard. Are you hungry?” he asked you. You shook your head no. “Alright. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to call the team and let them know you’re awake.” He said smiling at you.

“Have you been here this whole time?” you asked in a small voice.

“On and off. Some of the team has come by to visit. We take turns.” He lied smoothly.

“Why? Why are you here, Loki?” you said flatly. Plainly.

“Because I like you,” he said simply with a smile. His words tugging at a memory from your past. You looked down at the chair next to your bed, with his blanket and book. You recalled the sullen voice that you heard while you were under.

“…For I am in love with you and this Is what it is like or what it is like in words.”

You looked into his eyes with awareness and he knew that you figured it out.

Regardless of what you had said, Loki came back with ice chips and some crackers. “The nurse had said to ease you into eating again. This was all she offered me.” He said with slight disdain. “We provided for our infirmed better on Asgard.” He continued under his breath.

You snickered at his remark and he beamed at you proudly. He opened your saltines for you and handed them to you. When you went to grab them, they slipped from your fingers onto your bed. You hadn’t noticed how numb your fingertips felt. You looked down at your hands as if they were foreign and not yours.  You felt so helpless.

Loki held your hands and massaged your fingers. “Just the atrophy, darling. It’ll get better.” He took out one square of saltines and held it up to your lips. You looked at it first, then at him. When you took a bite, he smiled. Then he spoon-fed you ice from the cup till you were satisfied. It was one of the most humbling experiences of your life. To feel vulnerable and useless. To be at the mercy of Loki.

 “Thank you,” you said softly. Loki simply nodded his head and sat back down on the chair next to you. “Will you read to me?”

He looked up at your request. His eyes were blank but sharp, trying to hide the emotion swelling up inside him.

He began with his deep voice. A low grumble, a vibration that settled in your bones and helped you relax. Within minutes, you fell back to sleep.

The next morning, Loki was gone. The blanket was folded neatly on the chair but his book was missing. Nat and Thor were standing next to you as Tony looked at the chart on your bedside.

“She wakes,” Thor said, helping you sit up.

“Hey, sweetie.” Nat cooed.

“Hi, guys. What did I miss?” you joked. Tony took a step towards you and sat next to you on your bed. Right where Loki sat last night.

“Edelweiss. You ok?” he asked earnestly. You rolled your eyes at his nickname for you. “Sorry about what happened. I should’ve warned you before you got into the lab.”

“It’s ok,” you pacified.

“Good news is the doctor cleared you to come home today. Everything checks out. When you’re ready we can start physical therapy. Someone can come by and help you with your legs.” Tony offered.

You winced when he said that. You forgot about your legs. Reflexively, you tried to wiggle your toes. A slight movement of your feet had you wide-eyed and hopeful. You turned to tell Loki but forgot he wasn’t there. “Where’s Loki?”

“He went home to freshen up,” Nat answered.

“He’s stayed by your side the whole time you were here,” Thor said with a knowing smile. “He said he would only be gone for just a moment. That you wouldn’t miss him.”

But apparently, you did miss him. Thor shared a look with Nat that you ignored. The entire time, Thor said. It certainly warmed something inside you.

That afternoon, your doctor had discharged you with follow-up appointments for the next couple of months. Tony accompanied you out of the hospital in a wheelchair and drove you back home to the tower. It was as if you left the doom and dejection there in that hospital room. The bright afternoon sun lifting your spirits. You were anxious to go home. To see all your friends. To see Loki. He hadn’t come back to the hospital at all.

The moment you rolled off the elevator, the team swarmed you. “Surprise!” They all yelled in unison. “Welcome home.”

There were smiles and hugs all around. You were glad that Nat had insisted that you bathe and get ready earlier with the help of a nurse. But of course, she probably knew about the welcome home party.

As you said your ‘hellos’ and ‘thank yous’ to the team, you looked around searching for his face amidst the crowd. You found him looking straight at you, watching you, sitting in your favorite spot on the couch.

Loki looked roguish and captivating all at the same time. He sat with his foot atop his knee. His left elbow, inclined on the armrest as his fingers caressed his lips.  He donned his signature button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark slacks.  A half-smirk played on his mouth as his eyes took you rolling towards him. He looked completely different from the time he comforted you in the hospital. More alive. More joy on his handsome face.

“You’re in my spot.” You said to him calmly.

“Come and take it then.” He said waving his hand out to you. Playful. He wanted to be playful. You’ve had enough stress the last couple of months to last you a good while. He missed your smile. He missed the twinkle in your eye when he pushed you to the edge of your comfort and you stood your ground. The detached look on your face haunted him last night. He couldn’t get the image out of his head.

You narrowed your eyes at him staying silent. “How are your legs?” he asked sincerely.

“I moved my foot earlier.” You said dismissively. Coolly. You recalled that he wasn’t in the room with you to share in the triumph.

“That’s wonderful news. You’ll be running from me again in no time.” He said. That smirk of his getting wider. “I do love the chase,” he added. “And your fingers? How are they?” At this, he leaned forward, putting both his feet on the ground to reach for your hand. He inspected your fingers, while he gently massaged your palm.

“Th-they’re great.” You stammered. “I got control back almost immediately.” You continued as you wiggled your fingers in his hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours and chuckled.

“Good. I miss your hands running through my hair.” He said coyly as he played with your digits. A heated blush rose in both of you.

No one missed it. The interaction between the two of you. They watched through the corners of their eyes as they mingled with each other. Knowing smiles and sideway glances as they watched the two of you flirt.

“So,” Tony said sliding over to the both of you on the couch. “The physical therapist will be here starting tomorrow. An hour every day, until you’re up and running again. Literally.” Tony said to you. You tried to take your hand back from Loki, but he held it firmly. He wasn’t about to let you go now that he has you in his grasp. “Your doctor is confident that you can get your mobility again within two to three weeks.”

“How long till I get to go back on the field?” You asked. Loki’s hand stilled in yours.

“You just got out of a major injury, Liesl. Even if you did start walking tomorrow, the doctor said it might be months till you get your strength back to the fighting stance you had before the accident.” Tony advised you. Loki felt you squeeze his hand in disappointment. He felt Tony’s words come to life as he realized how weak your grip was.

“What will I do till then?” you asked dejected.

“I’ll help you train every day. After your therapy. Don’t worry darling, you’ll be back in no time.” Loki offered.

“You’d help me, really?”

“Sure. What better incentive than to be with me dear heart.” Loki said teasingly.

“You act as if you don’t annoy me and I enjoy your company.” You taunted. You tried to take your hand away again, but Loki held on firmly.

“Don’t you? And here I thought I was wearing you down.” Loki said in mock defeat. You rolled your eyes and smiled. “I love getting under your skin.” He continued with a slight bite on his lip.

“Ok, Von Trapp. What’s going on here? Is this like a thing-are you guys a thing?” Tony said pointing to both of you. You forgot that Tony was sitting next to Loki on the couch. Apparently, so did Loki.

“Jealous, Stark?” Loki turned his reckless smile upon him.

“Nope. I’m not doing this. I haven’t had enough drinks in me to witness this.” Tony stood, unnerved by his smile. “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Meet the therapist downstairs at the gym.” He pointed to you as he walked away.

Later that night, Loki offered to carry you into your room. He held you bridal style as he walked passed the threshold. Wanda and Nat following behind, your wheelchair in tow.

“Hopefully, you won’t need to use this for long. I know Tony tried to make everything wheelchair accessible.” Wanda said, parking the chair by the side of your bed.

“Should I stay in case you need something in the middle of the night?” Nat asked.

“No. I’ll be fine. I’ll ask FRIDAY for help if I need anything.” You said. You looked to Loki who was still carrying you in his arms.

You cleared your throat and shot a quick glance to your bed to signal him to put you down.

“Oh, right. My apologies.” Loki fumbled as he placed you sitting on top of your bed. The plush comforter engulfed you into its soft embrace. This is definitely much more comfortable than that hospital bed. “Ladies.” Loki said with a slight bow to Nat and Wanda. He exited shortly after with a ‘goodnight’ to you.

As soon as he closed your door, Nat and Wanda turned to you in a quick flurry of hair and limbs. “What’s the story?” Wanda asked immediately.

“Nothing. There is no story,” you said wide-eyed.

“Bullshit.” Nat cursed.

“Ya. Sam said he saw you guys cuddling on the couch months ago before your…accident.” Wanda drawled.

“I think he’s been trying to pursue me. But I honestly haven’t thought of him that way. Until he started to just be wherever I happen to be. I didn’t know whether he was trying to pull a joke or not. I know he stayed with me at the hospital.”

“He practically lived there.” Nat interrupted you. “He got so mad at Tony for the accident.”

“But it wasn’t Tony’s fault. I was the one being careless.” You disrupted.

“Don’t start. We know it’s not Tony’s fault…” Wanda started.

“We don’t think it’s your fault either.” Nat tried to appease you.

“It was just a sad accident. But Loki was so angry that he needed something – someone to put the blame on. Tony let him yell at him. Even let Loki threaten to throw him off the tower again. Tony felt so bad about what happened to you.” Wanda finished. That explains Tony’s reaction earlier on the couch. You made a mental note to talk to Tony about it. Make sure he knows that you don’t blame him.

“So, do you see him that way? Do you like him back?” Nat asked. You looked up at her eyes, then to Wanda. You couldn’t help the blushing smile spreading across your face, hurting your cheeks, as you nodded a silent ‘yes’ to both of them.

Loki stood in the hallway, his back leaning to your door, hearing everything you guys talked about. Except for that final answer.

⬅️Chapter 1 | Chapter 3➡️

Taglist: @albinotigerpython @annesunlight @a-witch-with-words @daintinessiskey @fire-in-her-veinz @froggybitchh @gigglingtigger @hoff-mommy @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @jmehp @kellatron55 @kxthxrinx0310 @lokiprompts @lokisgoodgirl @lokiestorch @lokixryss @lonadane @loopsisloops @lucylaufeyson3 @mcufan72 @midnights-ramblings @mistress-of-words @salempoe @sititran @sonatabee @wolfsmom1 @yoongissidebitchh @lokiprompts @lokisninerealsms @alexs1200 @britishserpent @huntress-artemiss @mishief2sarawr @user13cabs

[thefirstknife]

Now that we have three of Ahsa's memories delivered to us through Sloane, it's time to put them together and think about what we're being told!

I don't know!

Here's the three we have now:

An oasis in the desert. Seeds of hope... buried beneath the sands... Nomads... wanderers... travelers. Their journey comes to an end... The first to be claimed by the Deep... the first to fall victims to the Witness...

A city of Light... a... a flourishing garden... A silent god... withholds a deeper truth. Questions unanswered, uh... longing... unfulfilled. The sky... darkens... as a new journey begins.

Shrouded in... Darkness. A promise of something more... Two halves of a whole... long divided. A... schism between them. Reunited. [exhales in joy] A glimpse beyond... to the beginning...

Long post under:

I wasn't sure if these are connected for the first two weeks, but now I think they should be. Ahsa is telling us something important, but we can't make out the details just yet. What we do know is that this is about the fabled "first victims of the Witness" who originally had the Veil. The first message pretty much explicitly identifies them as such, including telling us that they lived in some sort of a desert as nomads and wanderers.

But at some point they were "claimed" by the Deep and became the Witness' first victims. How? No clue. It's strange because the second message, if it's talking about the same species, now shows them as living in a city, obviously with the Traveler ("silent god" being the same description used by Zavala in Haunted). Did this city coexist with the previous description of them as nomads? Did they get claimed by the Deep and then the Traveler came? Or are visions possibly not exactly in a direct timeline? So perhaps they were both nomads living in oases, as well as having a city and being blessed by the Traveler (not unusual; something similar happened to Lubrae). I think it's most likely that the first message was just a general overview of the situation and then the rest is going into details, so "oasis in the desert" is the same as "a city of light, a flourishing garden."

From there, obviously the Traveler uplifted them and brought them knowledge, but apparently not enough. They wanted more and we know that the Traveler doesn't do that; it gardens, terraforms, helps, and leaves. It will never reveal some grand plan to a species or force them to follow a path or go in a specific direction. It just opens possibilities; the choice is ours. But we also know that it's not unusual for a species to self-destruct or be unable to follow up on what the Traveler brought (again, Lubrae is a good example). Either way, it appears that this longing for more is what actually made the Deep claim them, possibly noted here as "the sky darkens as a new journey begins."

And the last one seems to be talking about them searching for something in the Deep. They are "shrouded in Darkness" where they find a "promise of something more." The next few sentences are very peculiar. What are "two halves of a whole" that have been "long divided" but now "reunited"? And there's also "a glimpse beyond to the beginning." Very strange; what is this referring to? If we're still talking about the first victims, are they more important than just being a random species that encountered the Veil? That's actually a good point as well; they must be somehow important if they're the ones who first had the Veil. Did they find it? Make it? Manifest it? Before the Traveler or after, when they were claimed by the Deep?

A "glimpse to the beginning" obviously makes me think about the original garden from Unveiling. At least to Unveiling in general as a thing, since the original garden is not really a physical space. But then again, we're dealing with some wild stuff currently in general, including a weird portal that doesn't allow people to pass through physically so.

Similarly, this talk of "two halves of a whole" reminded me of one of Osiris' prophecies, curiously called "Garden Progeny:"

Two siblings cleaved by time and space, reflections never found alone, The ending of the eldritch race—a path long seen but never known.

The Veil also has a really curious look that looks like it combines Light and Darkness; is that the two pieces made whole by combining them to make the Veil? This is best seen in Avalon where the tendrils are clearly modelled in the same way as the Tree of Silver Wings as it was when it was fully of Light:

I'm losing my mind! What does this mean!!!!

Also, thinking about this and the Witness made me think about all those truths/lies Savathun was telling us about the Witness so I wanted to revisit them. She gave us four different versions and at least one of those has to be correct so I went back to check and I am rapidly spinning this in my brain:

The Witness is the child of Darkness. Those who say there is no final shape, that Darkness exists in perfect, formless neutrality? Liars. Takes one to know one. The Darkness will eat everything, and its shape will be the Witness's teeth.

What is the Witness? This is the truth. The Witness birthed the Darkness. Darkness is the errant child of a tight-fisted creator. A force designed for wicked purposes... but with a will of its own. You have begun a tug of war to claim the Darkness for yourself. I hope you win.

The Witness was once mortal. Its people were blessed by the shadow of Darkness, just as your kind were blessed by Light. In that Darkness, these beings found power and knowledge. But they were not content. Power and knowledge turned to greed and despair. The Witness was forever changed.

The Witness was once mortal. Its people were blessed by the Light, just as your kind were. In the Light, these beings found power and knowledge. But they were not content. Power and knowledge turned to greed and despair. The Witness was forever changed.

Hm. Those 3 and 4 look wildly similar to Ahsa's memories. What if the first victims are the Witness' people? They had both Light and Dark, somehow connected to the Veil, and something happened that made them look for more and that's how the Witness was... created. Manifested? Appeared? It definitely makes more sense than 1 and 2: we now know for a fact that Darkness does, in fact, exist in neutrality as many species used it perfectly fine and ended up being enemies of the Witness. And we know that the Witness didn't create the Darkness; I still firmly believe (for now at least) that the Winnower is not the Witness so the Darkness must've existed before the Witness. There's also a possibility that all of these 4 are somehow true; the Witness may not have created THE Darkness, but it definitely created a certain philosophy around it.

Given that we're supposed to learn more about the Witness this season, it kinda makes sense that Ahsa is telling us its origins. Where it came from and how it turned into what it is now. I don't know what else would Ahsa be trying to tell us that would be so important to risk this much for it. She seems desperate to let us know and on top of that, the whole setup for us having to go to Titan was around "the enemy of the Witness" who has crucial information to share with us.

If this isn't about the Witness, then whoever these "first victims" were must be super important and they would be brand new aliens that we would have to learn about which seems odd. But it's still possible! The Traveler had to have visited someone first. And from that first visit, they also became the first victims. If this is talking about the first species that eventually somehow turned into the Witness, the Witness' obsession with the Traveler and its words to the Traveler would make sense. The Traveler gave them an insight into mysteries of the universe and then left. It opened them up to understand but then left without sharing more. Talk about an existential crisis.

We're 3 weeks in and there's 3 left so I think we should at this point be able to make some connections and start putting things together. Ahsa's message being about the Witness would make the most sense. But I'm also interested if anyone has any other ideas for possible interpretations.

[devil-doll13]

(Don’t Fear) The Reaper

Ciarán x Gn!Reader.

Tw: Gender neutral reader, also reader gets kidnapped by Ciarán so yeah, somewhat Dark Romance, Stockholm Syndrome as the reader is imprisoned/isolated, Angst, reader is very autistic coded idk it just happened the fic was doing whatever it wanted, also you die at the end… Sorry. This is a bit of new territory for me so please tell me if anything else needs to be tagged!

I’m out of the writing block gulag and I present to you, this… Fic. It sort of ended up being almost fairytale-like in nature because that just made sense for this character. Hope you enjoy.

Dividers by firefly-graphics

Spring

One day, you must run away. Far away, into the wilderness of your country, and leave behind you the pains of the day.

The first sprouts of the year have perked up above the soil, but they do not bloom yet. The grip of winter still holds life captive, a thick white mist blanketing the ground in an eerie shroud. The stone walls of your haunting ground jut out of the land like the teeth of felled giants, grey and silent. Then down yonder, the slabs of the stone circle stand guard like sentinels, murky in the fog. What they protect, who can say; or perhaps it is something you are protected from, as the elders in your village have told you.

You wander over the moorlands and clamber over streams and bogs, well loved and well travelled. From time to time you sit and rest upon a rock protrusion, humming some innsong, feeling some tension leave you, watching the day go by and the birds fly free, unbothered by your quiet presence. Later you think you had better make for home again - though it may be unwelcoming to you - lest you find yourself wandering the countryside ‘till the wee hours of the morning, led astray by visions in the mist.

And strange visions you indeed have.

The air is thick with some unknown energy. Alive, it seems, with the buzz of a hundred thousand watchers. All peering at you, the foolish little mortal, who has long frequented their mushroom doors and ancient tree carvings and hidden glades glittering in the sunlight. You, so unaware, so painfully human. You have known them for almost as long, though you remain but a trifling amusement in their eyes. Only one - one as alone and bereft as you - sees you truly and wishes to know you truly, more than any fellow villager would care to know you.

Then, he appears before you; or reveals himself.

His shadow falls onto you in the fading light of the setting sun, and you can do little but stumble into the bogwater and scream before this dusky knight and his dark mare are upon you. He reaches out and captures you in his arms, deathly cold like you imagine the inside of a coffin. You struggle in vain, but his grip is a vice, cutting and metal, hard. All goes dark as you imagine you have been killed; been taken by the reaper, perhaps God has come to destroy you for your wickedness, your sins and abnormalities.

It remains dark when you awake. But no longer are you held so tightly; you lay on soft, blanketing bedsheets. Adrenaline jolts you upright and you cry out in panic at the ghastly sight of your kidnapper, the icy fire hissing and flaring at the base of his neck, the only dim source of light to illuminate the room you’re in. He towers over you, imposing, stealing your breath from your chest.

“Please, please don’t hurt me…” You choke out.

The flames hiss louder, sharper, which only makes you more frightened, but he makes no moves to harm you. He gazes over your trembling form, seeming almost nervous in the way his gauntlets fumble. Still, you grimace away when he steps closer and reveals a small handkerchief, glowing. But it is not the fabric, you realise, but what is held inside.

Golden apples, their scent so sweet and intoxicating, and water from the clearest spring. He nudges you, though not forcefully, to eat and drink; still you have no choice, you think. As you bite into the fruit, you feel it numb your senses, and soon you give in to tiredness and fear and go to sleep, hoping and praying you had been dreaming; imagination wild and disturbed.

But no Springtime dream is this; you awake there, but mercifully warm. The soft bedsheets are still draped over you, lovingly arranged. A single source of light sits atop a podium, carved in a strange, circular fashion unlike any mortal design you have known. You sit up and see it is a glass bauble full of fireflies.

Your captor is nowhere to be seen. For a while you languish in your foreign bed and feel no desire to leave it, but fear of his return spurs you to leap from it, still dressed in your travel clothes. There must be some way out of this shadowy place, you reason, and with a feverish sweat and pounding heart you seize the flickering glass ball and try to navigate your way out of your room.

You cannot tell how much time has passed since you were taken here, for you are surrounded by grim, rocky walls overtaken by black ivy. It smells of damp moss and ancient dust, and the dark, cavernous space echoes your unsure footsteps back at you. Soon, you begin to suspect you must be trapped in the bowels of some dungeon, imprisoned here. Your heart, so heavy in your ribcage, sinks ever further into the abyss as you realise there seems to be no clear path back to your home. It is a labyrinth, your route only discernible by the uncanny murals etched across the stone.

You then feel a sudden itch urging you to turn back, to seek out the safety of your new cage, and the foreboding metallic steps sounding from the end of the gloomy hallway hastens your flight away from here. You hide underneath your sheets, as if a child again, and cry bitterly. You are not brave enough to face your kidnapper, nor are you willing to endure whatever tortures he will subject you to. You, so young, so full of life before, can see no way out of this all-consuming darkness.

Summer

After some further attempts, your hope fades into apathy, and you give yourself to grim resignation. You sleep as much as you are able, and dream of better things, of your village. Burrowing into your sheets like a worm into soil, feeling twice as wretched. You wonder if you are missed - or at least if your work is missed - or if your absence is noticed at all. For years you longed to disappear off to somewhere quiet and peaceful, but not like this.

Now you regret those wishes; your most desperate plea to God is that he spirit you back home.

Your captor visits to give you food and drink, though you have lost all appetite and eye the apples warily, remembering your sleepy daze when you ate them last. More unnervingly, he lingers in your room and watches you, sitting or standing. He does nothing to you, so eventually you start to feel a little safer in his presence, but no less anxious. Sometimes you try to speak to him, to reason with him:

“Who are you?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Why won’t you let me go?”

All met with silence. He has no head; you suppose he cannot speak. You are certain now that he is not human, and though his appearance is that of a knight, you see no heraldry to mark his allegiance to any kingdom. You begin to wonder if he is some vengeful or sorrowful spirit, accompanying you in death; or if he is the Devil, subjecting you to your own personal tormenting Hell. Your nervous thoughts quickly spiral out of control, and you toss and turn without rest.

Soon you tire of laying in bed, of the neverending sleep, and with your little light source venture out again into the labyrinth. This time you take a thread from your clothing - as worn and frayed as they now are - and use it to remember your way. You still fear what may happen should your captor meet you outside of your room; though he has been docile and calm for all the time you have known him, you know the nature of such otherworldly beings can be fickle.

Perhaps now the overworld has been cast in balmy Summer, the April showers past and gentle breezes blowing fresh, warm air into the fields, crops swaying. For an unknown amount of time, you have been stuck here, and seen no face but your own, reflected back at you in the Spring water. As far as you can tell, the only other being in this place that is not your captor is his beautiful black mare. She resides sometimes in a sort of rock stable, which you come across during one of your tentative trips outside your room.

In life, you felt an affinity for animals, preferred over other people, demanding and loud. She is rarely without her rider, but in those odd moments you creep into her living space and offer her your gilded apple. You braid her black mane and comb your fingers through it, all the while wishing you were back home and with the steady workhorses. She is like none other that you have seen in your memory, strong and dark and with wise, inquisitive eyes.

One of these times, you happen upon your captor doing the same. It is far too startling to see him dote on the mare as you do, with gentleness you have never seen him display before; or never cared to notice. You leave quickly and try to dispel the memory of it, so little does it fit your fearful perception of him.

Now you begin to study the mysterious murals by light of the bauble full of fireflies; simply for lack of things to do. They tell strange tales, but they all seem interconnected somehow, and though they resemble no Christian creation, you can still recognise their unearthly beauty. Over many trips outside to decipher them, you piece together the story of a knight who, seemingly having committed a great sin, is banished from the fair courts and made an exile, cast into the dark realm you now live in…

Only too late do you recognise the knight as your captor. It hits you unpleasantly, for you spent some time filled with pity and empathising with his plight. Both of you, prisoners of this place, and now he sees fit to chain you here in fetters alongside him.

Of course. No one, human or not, would wish to live in this awful place. Not willingly. An eternity of being alone, surrounded by this gloom and reminders of your own failures, would be unbearable. You understand this so keenly, for weren’t you alone before? Loneliness, A frighteningly human sentiment to associate with that terrifying figure. How could you sympathise with him, your jailer? You remember again the gentleness with which he tended to his horse, and feel disgusted, confused.

Your stomach ties itself into knots as you stand there, thinking and feeling too much. But then, you hear again the sound of footsteps approaching, and in panic you almost drop the bauble filled with fireflies. It is too close. You sprint back along your path of string, and there you see him towering over you, and flee fearfully back to your room to drag the great door shut and prevent his entry. Far too soon, you hear a great weight thrown against it that reverberates in your very bones. You recall that sword that lies by his hip, lethal-

“I’m not letting you in!” You cry, shivering.

He stops. There is quiet from behind the door.

For a moment, you feel an icy wave of terror wash over you. Have you overstepped? Will he force his way in now, and kill you for your insolence?

“I-I’m not letting you in until you agree to let me go.”

You swallow thickly, holding fast to your momentary courage; if you have dug your own grave by now, you may as well lie in it.

Silence. Then, you flinch as you hear the metallic step of his sharp sabatons, scraping against the floor. They become more distant and faint, until you are certain that he is walking away, away into the labyrinth to do God knows what, only you hope he does not come back to punish you.

You cannot sleep after that. Fear and hunger gnaw at your senses; you fed your apple to your captor’s mare. Miserable, you try distracting yourself by humming that innsong, but you find you have forgotten the tune. Little by little, your past life is slipping away from you.

When he opens the great door, you cannot stop him. But this time, he does not pass the threshold. You watch as this massive armoured being does the most unexpected thing: he kneels before you. His flames burn brightly, as deep a blue as Summer’s night sky. In his sharp, unsure gauntlets he offers up a bundle of fabric you quickly recognise as a collection of your old clothes, and between his fingers he clutches a beautiful red poppy.

This… You stare at him, unable to think or speak.

He does not move, only remains bended at the knee, awaiting your response. Your mouth is dry. Even you recognise this as a romantic gesture. Your captor is trying to court you, his own prisoner. You want to laugh at him for his absurdity; laugh madly.

“…I’m not taking it unless you let me out.” You say.

But he does not agree; or he cannot communicate without action. Still you know that your attempt to escape is futile, and that refusing the gift would ultimately be pointless. Slowly, hands shaking, you receive the gift. The fire on his neck hisses, flaring so suddenly it would’ve made you jump in the past. Now, you expect it. As a show of defiance, you still shut the great door on him, and he makes no effort to stop you. Soon, you hear his footsteps again, fading into the dark unknown.

You look down at your hands full of items. The poppy almost appears as if it will wilt in your fingers; in this place without life or light. You know now that it is Summer, and some sense of peace and calm washes over you. Now, with your old clothing, with a reminder of the overworld, you feel at strange ease.

Autumn

By now, you have adapted well to your new routine.

There is no sun, and the only way you can measure days or weeks is by the frequency of his visits. Each time he returns, he kneels upon his knee to meet you, offering a poppy. Each time you reject him, only you ask if he will let you go, or let you see your home again. He refuses, then leaves to resume his duty. Thus begins and ends the cycle of day and night.

Your suitor is not forceful, but he is persistent. He brings you other things, too, to make your cage more homely. It is the most comfortable and warm place you know in this underneath, catered to your fragile human body. You feel betrayed by your own emotions, as you find yourself touched by his consideration. You know you are a prisoner here, but somehow you see him in new light; with no others to talk to, you have started to confide in him despite your risky position here. He stays close and endures your occasional insults, and now you suspect he delights in your better mood, or at least in the idea that you have accepted your fate.

You speak, he listens, and watches you. Before, no one would ever do this, and dismiss you. All your flights of fancy, no matter how strange, are humoured in a way you never expected. When you express a desire to see something that will grow still in this barren place, your idea for a mushroom farm is fulfilled. It gives you something to do and look at; you adopt hobbies and pastimes you never considered before, too burdened with your work.

Still, you refuse his love. But as time passes, you feel less discomforted by his presence. His aura is calm and steady, reassuring like something ancient that has been in existence forever, like the stone circle you remember from your home. Then, as you feel more secure in your standing here, you leave your room again to explore the labyrinth.

Now when you meet him here, you greet him. You are no longer afraid, for you have learned with time that he detests to harm you. He starts, as if he is just as surprised as you yourself are. Together you sit in the dark, two prisoners at peace. When you feel tired, he extends a hand to you, offering to pull you up. You hesitate for a moment, remembering how he snatched you before. Still, you take it, and though it is cold it is not discomforting like you expect, but solid and cool. Without thinking, you hook your arm into his, though he is tall and dwarfs you. He leads you happily back to your room so you may sleep, and when you watch him leave you find yourself wondering what his hand, underneath the gauntlet, truly feels like.

After that, the connection between the two of you begins to strengthen. The barrier that kept you from touching now has seemingly been broken, and when you walk to and from your chamber it is together, arms linked as if you were both on a leisurely stroll. When you pretend that it is, it makes things simpler, so that you can forget the gloom that surrounds you. Better shackled as one than divided and alone, left to rot in this desolate place.

So your affection for him is not only of the heart, but rational. You make the most of your shared imprisonment. Perhaps you forget that it was he that dragged you down here, but as he caresses your face so lovingly, it no longer seems to matter. You learn then that his embrace is strong and enveloping, and see ashen skin beneath the armour which you kiss, falling further into the abyss, losing sight of all that you had sworn to fight against. He is, to you, as devoted and passionate a lover as any human man could be, and far greater still. You no longer have the willpower to deny your heart’s desires.

Perhaps now the outside world had begun to wither and die, as the seasons change and the leaves begin to fall, rotting into the dirt. You, a trifling mortal, should see fit to be buried with them; but your fate has been altered, changed now. Loving so utterly has transformed your heart and mind, your soul, and you still eat of the sweetest fruits and drink from the clearest spring, boons earned by your lover’s exploits. You now wish to become like him, without end. To become deathless, and forget, forget it all…

Winter

Still, you recall the sweetness of spring, the fruits of summer, the colours fading in the harvest, giving way to cold and deathlike winter.

This time, when you ask him once again to bring you back to your mortal world, it is not to leave him, but to experience these joys once more before you must let them go forever. To be his forever. He agrees, though reluctantly, as if you are terribly fragile and sick; though you feel so feverishly cheerful, as if you have gained new life and new being now. Only he bids you to hold on tightly to him, gripping your hands firmly in his as he holds the reins. You obey and bury your face into his travel cloak, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. The atmosphere shifts, the air is fresh, and you breathe in deeply, crisp and serene.

Your eyes, accustomed to darkness now, sting painfully in the light. Even though the skies are grey, sombre clouds brooding over the land, you see life once again for the first time in an aeon. Dying now - or already dead - to be reborn in the next life.

“I want to see my-my old home...” Your teeth chatter. He squeezes your hands that tremble against his chestplate. It is cold; not like he is cold, but from the bitter chill of winter. Under your shared shroud of fog, the grass is frozen, you see all around you the pale glaze of white. All is still, and the howling gale quiets in your lover’s commanding presence, pacified.

Together you ride across the moor, concealed by shimmering mist. Though you still recognise your country, you soon realise it has been changed. Then, with horror, that your old house has long been gone. All is replace now with new, alien structures and colours and brightness, a future so grotesque you are repulsed by it. You regret coming here now.

How many years have passed? The familiarity, the comfort you expected to find here, is gone. All that is left now is urgency and confusion and noise. Time has abandoned you as readily as anyone you have ever known; except for him, your lover. You no longer belong here, but to him, to his world.

You look at your hands. What is your essence, now not human, but also not like him? Now you feel that you wish to turn back, return to the dark and quiet of the underneath. But your folly leaves you untethered to your lover’s cloak, and in that moment his mare draws up and you slip off her back.

Then, you fall from the horse. You hit the ground.

As your body touches bitter soil and earth, you revert entirely; for you always have belonged to the overworld, a mortal fool. Your hands soon appear gnarled and withered, your hair overgrown and grey, as you age into a feeble elder, returning once again to the dying land. The last thing you see is that black gauntlet reaching out for you, as longingly as it did on that Spring day. But Death takes you first and steals you away, a cruel twist of fate that ends your story, as pitiful and as unfortunate as it had began.

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @the-pinstriped-hood, @goldrose-star, @soupbabe, @bluecoolr, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @flower-crowned-lady, @solmints-messyocdiary, @probably-a-plant-thing, @myers-meadow)

[vickyvicarious]

Count Dracula and Jonathan Harker — Dark Mirrors

As Dracula Daily goes along, there has been an increasing reversal/exchange of traits between Jonathan and Dracula. There's a lot of parallels or contrasts to be found with most of the cast and the Count, to be fair, but I think Jonathan goes a step further. In some ways it's as if Dracula's early identity theft came true, and they really are beginning to exchange places, or at least meet in the middle.

As I started noticing more and more, I became curious about how often they are directly mirrored, using the same language to describe both Jonathan and Dracula. So... that's what I'm doing here! Below the cut I have collected quotes as much as possible for all the traits I can think of being shared/stolen/exchanged between these two. There's a lot to work with, so it's all divided into three subsections: physical appearance, abilities, personality/role/relationships. (Plus a bonus section for things I want to mention that don't have good quotes to pull or don't fit anywhere else for some reason.) Nothing is in any particular order within each section, but I have arranged any quotes I use for a single trait chronologically.

Enjoy - and feel free to let me know if you find one I've missed! I already plan to update as we go for things that would be spoilers at the moment, so I'm happy to add in anything else relevant too. I can also make a cheat-sheet of all the similarities listed off in bullet-points without all the lengthy quotes, if you want something shorter to reference (because, I will warn you now - this is long). Just let me know. EDIT: cheat-sheet available here.

Physical Appearance

These are some of the most obvious/dramatic changes. I wasn't expecting as much language matching exactly here, since the changes themselves are of such a visible sort. However, it does match surprisingly often.

HAIR COLOR - Dracula gradually goes from white to dark, while Jonathan more abruptly goes from dark to white. Dracula's color change is associated with the youth he regains while feeding, and may thus revert if he doesn't feed. Jonathan's trauma-induced change appears permanent so far.

[Dracula, May 5 - note, the names in brackets are just referring to who the quote is about, not who it's said by] Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere.

+

[Dracula, June 30] There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck.

+

[Dracula, September 18] There wasn't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a 'ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin' through it.

+

[Dracula, September 22] He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl.

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 3] Harker was still and quiet; but over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look which deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when the first red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out against the whitening hair. [...] Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face.

+

[Jonathan, October 11] Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked:

AGE - Dracula begins the novel with the appearance of an old man, and regains youth and vigor to a degree. Conversely, when his hair changes color Jonathan begins to look very aged as well. While it's true there's only one mention of this, and it may thus be more hyperbole or descriptive language to describe his state in the moment, it still feels worth including.

[Dracula, May 5] Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:

+

[Dracula, September 22 - his noticeable features no longer include age when Mina describes him. Jonathan remarks upon the contrast.] He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. [...] "I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!"

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 3] Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face.

CLOTHES - Dracula directly wears Jonathan's clothes specifically to impersonate him on two separate occasions. There is a possible element of mirroring on Jonathan's end as well, but it is largely speculative and you can feel free to consider it a stretch on my part: when Dracula isn't dressed up as Jonathan, he consistently wears all black. Later on in the story, Jonathan is the chief mourner at Mr. Hawkins' funeral. I think it may be reasonable to imagine him wearing mourning clothes as long as a child would for a parent, thus reflecting their relationship to one another. This appears to have been around 6-12 months, though men often only wore a hatband, armband, or ribbon. That may have been based on them going back to work however, which Jonathan didn't really do. Basically... it's possible that Jonathan has also started dressing in large amounts of black (and a change I have seen people make in fanart, etc.), but there doesn't seem to be anything confirming it in the text.

[Dracula, May 5] Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere.

+

[Dracula, June 24] It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me.

+

[Dracula, June 29] To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes.

+

[Dracula, October 3 - first Seward's, then Mina's description] By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black. His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised the Count—in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. [...] Then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside the bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist—or rather as if the mist had turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared—stood a tall, thin man, all in black.

+

[Dracula, October 5] A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the time.

-vs-

[Jonathan, September 19 - referencing Jonathan's role, and the first day Jonathan may have started to dress in mourning. The funeral itself was September 22] I dread coming up to London, as we must do the day after to-morrow; for poor Mr. Hawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father. As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief mourner.

+

[Suitor Squad, September 29 - Jonathan is not present in this quote. However, it references 'being in mourning' affecting clothes, and even those not officially doing so also wore black at least that particular day] A little before twelve o'clock we three—Arthur, Quincey Morris, and myself—called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct.

ACCENT - Dracula speaks perfect English at the start of the novel, but he has a noticeable accent. He specifically asks Jonathan to help him practice his English accent and manners. Then, once he arrives in London, no one ever comments on his accent. Even the zookeeper and dockworkers, who otherwise describe his appearance and tone freely and rudely, make no note of his accent. It seems like Dracula has learned from copying Jonathan how to affect an at least somewhat passable British accent (contrary to common portrayal in film).

[Dracula, May 5] The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:—

+

[Dracula, May 7] "I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, 'Ha, ha! a stranger!' [...] You shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking."

COLD HANDS - A single mention in both cases, but notable for using the exact same phrasing. (The phrase 'cold as ice' is used only one other time, to describe how Seward's heart feels as vampire!Lucy approaches.)

[Dracula, May 5] The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man.

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 25] We men are all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the Count if the edge of that "Kukri" ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!

BLAZING/BURNING EYES - The Count's eyes are described as red multiple times, but Jonathan's never are. However, when they are angry or full of bloodlust, the same language is used to describe the look in their eyes - specifically 'blazing', and more generally fire/hellfire imagery. This only happens once for Jonathan, but it's still significant for mirroring the exact wording, and because as far as I could find, this wording/imagery is never used for anyone else who isn't actively being influenced/corrupted by Dracula (and it is overwhelmingly associated with him the most). The closest we come is one mention of "fire in his eyes" when Arthur is asking how to help on September 7th, but that has a different tone in my opinion, and in any case doesn't match the exact wording used for Dracula and Jonathan both.

[Dracula, May 8] When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat.

+

[Dracula, May 16] But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them.

+

[Dracula, May 28] "See!"—he must have looked at it—"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality!"

+

[Dracula, June 30] Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. [...] There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror.

+

[Lucy, September 29 - a bonus other vampire!] Lucy's eyes in form and colour; but Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. [...] The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of the flesh were the coils of Medusa's snakes, and the lovely, blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of the Greeks and Japanese.

+

[Dracula, October 3] A dark mass spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and then He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red—like His, only smaller. [...] His eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great nostrils of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the white sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth, champed together like those of a wild beast. [...] It would be impossible to describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity—of anger and hellish rage—which came over the Count's face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound.

+

[Dracula, October 5] A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning.

-vs-

[Renfield, October 1 - a notable exception to the vampires being the only other ones with this phrasing. The timing of this description being given after he has aided Dracula to access Mina and is regretting what he's done, seems significant as well.] Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. "To hell with you and your souls!" he shouted. "Why do you plague me about souls? Haven't I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already, without thinking of souls!"

+

[Jonathan, October 3] I told him exactly what had happened, and he listened with seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed as I told how the ruthless hands of the Count had held his wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to the open wound in his breast. [...] To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame.

Abilities

These are all pretty much only in one direction - namely, Jonathan acquiring these abilities. They vary on how much you can say "that's not normal" versus Jonathan performing a human version of a vampire activity, but either way they still tend to come from Dracula first.

WALL CLIMBING - One of the first and most noticeable changes in Jonathan stealing traits right back from Dracula. While the Count's version of climbing is definitely supernatural (lizard fashion), Jonathan's freeclimbing is at least upright and subject to gravity, as well as initially shorter and limited to moving sideways rather than down. However, it could be argued that the circumstances under which he does so/speed he uses may be a little inhuman. The language used to describe their climbing on the castle does sometimes echo, though not usually exactly. That said, Jonathan is directly imitating Dracula's technique and mention is made of that (fingers and toes grasping mortar). They also are described climbing Castle Dracula the same number of times, though Dracula only gets described going down and Jonathan's descriptions cover both directions so the actual number of trips is different. Also notable: when Jonathan is attacking him/the group has crucifixes aimed at him on October 3, Dracula's flight out the window involves neither lizard climbing nor turning into mist/a bat. He has transitioned to a more normal/undignified manner of exiting, while Jonathan's climb after him seems much smoother/has greater ease based on the description. It's as though in London, or at least in that moment, they've swapped.

[Dracula, May 12] But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.

+

[Dracula, May 15] Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good deal to the left.

+

[Dracula, June 24] I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge.

+

[Dracula, June 29] As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him.

+

[Dracula, October 3] The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker's arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass, he tumbled into the flagged area below.

-vs-

[Jonathan, June 25] I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. [...] The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. [...] I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall.

+

[Jonathan, June 29 - an extra detail: Jonathan's final climb out of the castle was from the Count's window, not his own bedroom. So the way he left the castle mirrored the way Dracula had left while impersonating him. Also, if you subscribe to the belief (as I do) that Dracula drained Jonathan's blood the night before, then Jonathan is doing this extra-long climb with blood-loss which may be a point in the more supernatural tally.] Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count's room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. [...] With a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. [...] I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.

+

[Jonathan, October 3] Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had lowered himself from the window to follow the Count.

KUKRI KNIFE - This is rather speculative. I feel like there is some kind of parallel to be built with how often Jonathan is mentioned carrying his knife, mirroring how often Dracula's teeth are mentioned (their respective weapons). The language isn't quite the same though it would have been relatively easy to do (sharp, white teeth = sharp, silver knife) which is why I hesitate to say it is a definite mirroring. I also didn't quote all those moments because they don't fully match and there's so many of them. Aside from that though, Dracula's reaction to the knife was slightly unusual. He was unbothered by the mate's knife on the Demeter, but actively dodged Jonathan twice, once before the others even had their crucifixes lifted. Given the myth about this type of knife being made to draw blood (per @thegoatsongsngs excellent meta), perhaps there is some level of symbolism with it matching Dracula's teeth and being dangerous to the other. Of course, you could just say Dracula was being wary because of the situation/timing of the attack/the money in his pocket, more than actually fearing the knife.

[Mate of the Demeter, August 3 - Dracula is unbothered by the knife] "It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the air." And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into space.

+

[Jonathan, October 1 - the knife is intended only for mundane threats; Van Helsing doesn't expect it to harm Dracula] "Keep this near your heart"—as he spoke he lifted a little silver crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him—"put these flowers round your neck"—here he handed to me a wreath of withered garlic blossoms—"for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we must not desecrate needless."

+

[Jonathan, October 3 - another option for why the Count avoids Jonathan's knife may be due to him aiming directly for his heart. We don't know exactly where the mate's knife would have stabbed. That said, the Kukri is more for slashing while the usual danger to a vampire comes from being impaled in the heart (the mate seemed to make more of a stabbing motion), so it's still unclear.] I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold fell out. The expression of the Count's face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. [...] The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker's arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window.

+

[Jonathan, October 4 - Van Helsing now describes the Kukri as dangerous to Dracula after seeing his reaction to it] "We can know now what was in the Count's mind, when he seize that money, though Jonathan's so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant escape."

SUPERSPEED - While superspeed is never specifically noted as a vampiric ability, Dracula is known to move quickly. Jonathan's flight to Budapest from Castle Dracula happens at an alarmingly speedy pace which strains the limits of credulity. I know that there has been a more intensive meta/breakdown of the timing, but I can't find it at the moment so I will link this post instead, which shows the distance he was able to travel on a map. He leaves Castle Dracula on June 30th, and on August 12th Sister Agatha says that he has been with them nearly six weeks. A full six weeks would mean he arrived July 1, the very next day after he left, and anything close to six weeks means he only took at most a couple of days to travel to Klausenberg (where he caught the train to Budapest). While this is doable (Google maps tells me it's a 31-hour hike from the Borgo Pass, which is in the rough area of Castle Dracula), that would have been on foot through the mountains with no warm clothes, after climbing out of a castle window, possibly with heavy blood loss. Your mileage may vary on whether this was just Stoker not paying close attention to the timeline (something he has certainly been guilty of at other moments) or whether Jonathan moved with supernatural speed/endurance. Similarly, Jonathan's attack with the Kukri on October 3 is described as something Dracula only avoids via his superspeed - but that may simply be down to a human-speed blow that Dracula needed superhuman reflexes to escape since it was an unexpected/sudden attack.

[Dracula, September 30 - speed is not specifically listed as one of the vampire abilities, but it may be included under the umbrella of superstrength] "This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and the bat—the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown."

+

[Dracula, October 3] Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something so panther-like in the movement—something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober us all from the shock of his coming. [...] The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. [...] The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker's arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window.

-vs-

[Jonathan, August 12] He has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. [...] He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached.

+

[Jonathan, October 3] The first to act was Harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before the door leading into the room in the front of the house. [...] Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart.

PSYCHIC CONNECTION - You can interpret Jonathan as possibly reading Dracula's mind right before attacking him with a shovel. If so, there's a parallel there to Mina first gaining access to his mind via hypnotism the morning after she had begun turning into a vampire. Of course, that parallel only exists if you believe that Dracula drank Jonathan's blood the night of the 29th (which I do, and gave evidence for below). There is little other evidence for Jonathan knowing Dracula would spread vampirism across London, but he does express a fear of being locked out of Heaven if he dies via supernatural means, and he's aware of the existence of multiple vampires/could know they may have once been human, so he could also have been extrapolating from what he has seen. I've included both the possible mind-reading passage, as well as other relevant quotes below.

[Jonathan, May 16 - Dracula references possibly being the one to turn the vampire ladies into vampires in front of Jonathan] Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:— "Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will."

+

[Jonathan, June 25 - Jonathan seems certain that a natural death will allow him into Heaven, implying he fears that won't be possible otherwise.] The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me.

+

[Jonathan, June 29] Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:— "Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!"

+

[Jonathan, June 30 - either he is reading Dracula's mind here, or he's had a theory building up over time since May and this is just the first he speaks of it. I also quoted Dracula's bloated appearance to support the previous quote/theory that he drank from Jonathan very recently] There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. [...] Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad.

+

[Mina, October 4 - the day after becoming linked to Dracula, she is able to read his mind while hypnotized] "I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured without my knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I shall be able to speak."

SUPERSTRENGTH - Incredible strength is listed as a specific vampiric power, and is referenced multiple times throughout the book. In the final battle, Jonathan displays an incredible strength by lifting and moving Dracula's box of dirt, with him still in it. While normal humans have been known to exceed their usual limits of strength in extreme situations (hysterical strength) and thus it's possible this wasn't supernatural, it sure seems like it.

[Dracula, May 5 - the first two references are to the driver, the second two to the Count himself. Of course, we know and Jonathan later confirms they are one and the same] Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been prodigious. [...] When the calèche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen. [...] The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man. [...] The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:—

+

[Dracula, September 30] "This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and the bat—the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown."

+

[Dracula, October 2] When I had promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly, and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes—"main heavy ones"—with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. [...] "There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin' in the 'ouse at Purfleet. He 'elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an' him a old feller, with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn't throw a shadder." [...] "Why, 'e took up 'is end o' the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and me a-puffin' an' a-blowin' afore I could up-end mine anyhow—an' I'm no chicken, neither." [...] I had gained a new painful experience; the Count could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself.

-vs-

[Jonathan, September 29 - just one more note on the weight of these boxes. Though the workers were emphasizing the weight as a clue to buy them a drink here, the boxes are mentioned being heavy several other times as well] Their tally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that the boxes were "main and mortal heavy," and that shifting them was dry work.

+

[Jonathan, November 6 - remember, this box is the same as the ones the workers struggled with above, and likely heavier given that it has the Count's body inside it] In an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground.

PARALYZING GAZE - Both times when someone actual seems about to physically harm him, Dracula is able to stare at them with a gaze that seems to sap their strength and force them to fall back. In the final battle, Jonathan seems to drive away the men Dracula has hired through the force of his gaze alone. You might say he just seems very ferocious and they don't want to mess with him; however, Quincey dies because they do not fall back for him in the same way and he gets stabbed while forcing his way past them, so there is at least some support for Jonathan's gaze being supernatural here.

[Dracula, June 30] There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight.

+

[Dracula, October 3] "So when He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power. Ay, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to struggle with me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to win, for I didn't mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned into me, and my strength became like water."

-vs-

[Jonathan, November 6 - his gaze isn't specifically described; however, Mina is too far away to see his eyes clearly, and the contrast to Quincey is notable] In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun should set. Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their attention. Jonathan's impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr. Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of Szgany.

Personality/Role/Relationships

The title of this section is pretty loose, and encompasses attitudes and outside perspectives of them as well. Basically a catch-all for anything to do with ideals, personality, narrative role, their relationship to one another or others, etc. Several of these, especially further down the list, also start pulling away from direct quotes mirroring the same language, to being more about contrasting narrative arcs and the like.

LIVING FLAME - This was partially covered in the entry on 'blazing eyes', but I feel like it warrants special mention of its own. When Jonathan is hunting Dracula after Mina's attack, he is described with a turn of phrase otherwise only ever applied to the Count's warrior ancestors (in a very proud, bragging-about-why-they-are-conquerors context). Dracula is also described as looking/moving like a flame several times (usually from a distance or when he can't be seen clearly), which goes along with the hellfire imagery.

[Dracula, May 8] "We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?"

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 3] To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame.

HUNTER/HUNTED - Initially, Dracula is described as a hunter. Later on, this language reverses and he becomes the hunted. While Jonathan is by no means alone in hunting him, he started off the book in the role of prey and so in his case it becomes a reversal/exchange (unlike the other men who weren't directly hunted by Dracula/Mina who was attacked only after they were working against him first). Despite Dracula's taunt at one point about the group being 'jackals', they are clearly the hunters now, not scavengers. (There is also a lot of animal imagery used for Dracula in general, but I didn't get into that here.)

[Dracula, May 5] The Count's eyes gleamed, and he said:—"Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!" Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:—"Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter."

+

[Dracula, September 27] But it may be that he will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he should; his hunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the Un-Dead woman sleep, and the one old man watch.

+

[Dracula, October 3] "Then he spoke to me mockingly, 'And so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs!'"

-vs-

[Jonathan, May 12 - I just picked a couple quotes to illustrate his initial role as prey. If I had tried to gather up every mention of Jonathan feeling trapped/trying to flee the length would be insane.] I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...

+

[Jonathan, June 25] I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall.

+

[Van Helsing, October 3 - these quotes about hunting are Van Helsing talking, to the whole group but (at least in the first two instances) especially Jonathan. Notably, by October 3rd Jonathan now 'understands' what it means to be a hunter... the feeling Dracula accused him of lacking in the beginning of the book.] "And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching and the destroying shall be, in time, sure." [...] "We shall go there and search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt 'stop the earths' and so we run down our old fox—so? is it not?"" [...] "Why take that money? You follow quick. You are hunters of wild beast, and understand it so."

RUNNING HOME - A subset of the previous one in a way, but something I wanted to quote specifically as well. The novel begins with Jonathan trying to escape Dracula and flee home to safety, only to meet his enemy there once more. Then, they reverse: Dracula flees home and Jonathan (together with the others) chase him towards home. If you want to take it a step further, you can note Dracula leaving vampire!Lucy behind alone to face her fate (unaware she already was killed) and prioritizing saving his own skin - and parallel that to Jonathan initially wanting to move on with his life and not confront whether or not Dracula was truly a monster (despite knowing if he is, he might be preying upon other people). I feel that is less distinct of a parallel but it can still be made so I included it here as well.

[Dracula, October 28] "So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube from Turkey Land." [...] "As he fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all."

-vs-

[Jonathan, June 30] And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet!

+

[Jonathan, August 24] 'I have had a great shock, and when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.'

TAUNTING - Noted more because it seems a little unusual for Jonathan than for it being a recurring thing or using the exact same wording. Dracula is absolutely sadistic and takes great joy in mocking/tormenting Jonathan repeatedly throughout his imprisonment. While he doesn't waste time doing so in any open confrontation, saving it for his journal, when Jonathan is in what he perceives to be a position of power he gets in on the mockery of politeness as well. His words somewhat reference one of Dracula's taunts.

[Dracula, May 29 - only quoting one instance, as it is the most relevant one] "But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula."

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 17] Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome the Count on his return from his tour.

BLOODLUST/BLASPHEMY - Not a direct mirror, but Jonathan's dedication to Mina has him willing to damn his own soul, even outright saying he would sell his soul to destroy Dracula. There are also several later moments that imply he would fight his own companions if they ever tried to kill her, despite that being what she requested. While hellish/demonic imagery isn't unusual for vampires in general, Dracula is directly compared to Judas and implied to have potentially made a deal with the Devil while still alive (hence his weather magic not being a normal vampire power). This in addition to Dracula's whole thing being going around damning others' souls to hell (via corrupting them into vampires), which is exactly what Jonathan wants to do to him.

[Dracula, May 29] The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.

+

[Dracula, September 30] "The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due."

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 3] To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. [...] "I care for nothing now," he answered hotly, "except to wipe out this brute from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!" [...] "May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that earthly life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send his soul for ever and ever to burning hell I would do it!"

MINA - Everything about Dracula's relationship to Mina is trying to be a mirror to Jonathan, just in a darker way. The most notable direct contrast is during/after the attack of October 3rd. I've already directly compared the quotes for that day, so I won't repeat it here... but there's a lot of direct contrast. After that day, I think the relationship continues to be the same... while Jonathan and Mina chose one another and are bound by love, Dracula's connection to her is an assault and they both hate one another. An anon wrote me a note on the nature of their relationships while traveling, which I'm just going to quote here: "while Dracula is escaping London for Galatz, he's in inactivity and silence, all while occupying Mina's mind. Jonathan has been made to build "a door" between himself and Mina, who told him to never tell her anything about their actions or else the Count will hear. Jonathan is barred from Mina's mind, all the while the Count is claiming it. He's also silent and increasingly inactive and silent, cold and distant to his peers while this is happening." Generally speaking, Mina and Jonathan seek comfort together; Mina and Dracula use their connection to try and oppose one another. Dracula is (temporarily) tied to her soul just as Jonathan is, but the nature of that connection is vastly different.

[Dracula, October 3] "And you, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful wine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my helper."

+

[Dracula, October 11] "But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us."

-vs-

[Jonathan, August 24] I could only tell him that I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life.

+

[Jonathan, October 11] "You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time."

RESEARCH/PREPARATION - Not unique to Jonathan alone by any means, the research of our heroes is a large part of the reason Dracula is driven back/able to be defeated (Van Helsing and Mina being especially big stars). However, this is in fact a trait that the Count himself shares as well. This is not anything they learn from the other; both Jonathan and Dracula start out the novel as the type of person who tries to do research and prepare for the future when possible. The difference may be that Dracula is too convinced of his own superiority to admit when he makes a mistake (ex: feeding on the wrong person with Lucy), while Jonathan is generally perfectly willing to listen to most others (colonialist racism aside) and adjust his planning to accommodate new information or events. The many boxes are also an excellent example of this, as Dracula's plan to bring/scatter them about the country was very clever, but he didn't alter his plan to hide them swiftly enough or in new places even when he knew the group had investigated Carfax. Meanwhile, Jonathan dove headfirst into researching/tracking them before even knowing how they were relevant, and then took direction on how to deal with them. I'm only quoting from the beginning of the book, as both their research on the new region they were traveling to was what initially struck me here. *Edit: I'm adding a third quote, when Jonathan remarks to himself that Dracula would make a good lawyer. I don't think it quite needs its own section, but does show how their minds can work in similar ways.

[Dracula, May 7] In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the London Directory, the "Red" and "Blue" books, Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and—it somehow gladdened my heart to see it—the Law List. [...] "But, Count," I said, "you know and speak English thoroughly!" [...] He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than I did.

+

[Dracula, May 12] I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful.

-vs-

[Jonathan, May 3 - Jonathan's account goes on into various things that he has learned about the region but I'm only quoting the first part that describes him researching.] Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country.

NO SAFE SPACE - I actually wrote a meta quite a while ago all about Jonathan's privacy being increasingly invaded during his time at the castle, which I'm linking for you. But there are ways that Jonathan actually begins to mirror Dracula's invasion/destruction of his safe space. Dracula gives Jonathan specific paper to write on that will be easily read through a thin envelope; Jonathan retaliates by trying to read his letters as soon as Dracula leaves the room. Dracula later intercepts Jonathan's shorthand letter and burns it while pretending to be Jonathan's friend; in London, Jonathan pretends to still be employed by Dracula in order to gain access to Dracula's documents and read his finished correspondence. Similarly, while staying in Dracula's castle, Jonathan knew that he had no safe space remaining when Dracula had carried him to bed, changed his clothes, could climb in through the window, and had stolen his belongings (more detail in the post linked above). Later on in the book, Jonathan leads the heroes through Carfax, which is meant to be Dracula's safe abode in London. He is almost singlehandedly responsible for tracking down all of Dracula's boxes of earth and thus his other properties, which are what allow him a place of refuge in a foreign land (like Jonathan's private room should have been). Finally, he knows roughly where Castle Dracula is and is the reason the rest of the heroes are able to work out where Dracula is ultimately headed once he's on the run (though Mina is the one who figures out the specific routes to get there). I'm only quoting the letters aspect below, but I think the parallel of the bedroom/home being entered and Jonathan's belongings being stolen/Dracula's boxes being purified is a valid one too. Just very long to quote and doesn't have as distinct line by line parallels to point towards.

[Dracula, May 12] "I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?" As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note-paper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it.

+

[Dracula, May 28] The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:— "The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"—he must have looked at it—"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.

-vs-

[Jonathan, May 12] Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for under the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I could. One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move.

+

[Jonathan, September 29] They all knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count's table before I knew of his diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done systematically and with precision. [...] I saw the invoice, and took note of it: "Fifty cases of common earth, to be used for experimental purposes." Also the copy of letter to Carter Paterson, and their reply; of both of these I got copies.

+

[Jonathan, September 30] Harker has got the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife's typescript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it. Here it is.... [...] The bundle of letters relating to the purchase of the house were with the typescript.

RETURN TO HELL - Not a true exchange of traits so much as an interesting parallel/contrast. To quote an anon, in the later sections of the chase, "The Count is going back to 'Hell' on a dark river, Jonathan is on the same river, also returning to his 'Hell'". I found this particularly interesting. The context of course for Dracula's hell being that he is returning home (hell = home, thus Dracula = demonic) whereas Jonathan is willingly returning to his personal hell where he suffered. This goes along with the Castle being the seat of an old power the likes of which “mere "modernity” cannot kill", as Jonathan says on May 15th (and possibly magical in its own right, as a malevolent ‘genius loci’, per the awesome meta by @see-arcane). Another interesting detail about the river travel as well, is of course the link to the River Styx. Taking a river to hell - of course you’ll think of Styx (though Hades as a whole is not actually a direct parallel to a Christian Hell, it still encompasses the 'bad afterlife' so to speak). But Jonathan and Arthur’s boating accident forced them off the river early, which is actually a good thing in this metaphor, because the further down the river Styx you travel, the worse your punishment will be in the afterlife. So in that sense, them being forced to stop traveling down the river in a boat is akin to saying that though they follow Dracula back to (metaphorical) hell, they aren’t going as far in/won’t be permanently damned the same way.

[Dracula, September 30] Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come.

+

[Dracula, October 4] “Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him even if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!”

-vs-

[Jonathan, October 30] “Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy—with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo? Have you felt the Vampire’s lips upon your throat?”

Miscellany

This is a few notes that I don't really have specific quotes for, and which may not be parallels in the same way as everything else, but which still seem fitting to go in here. Some of these might not be as unique to just these two (not that all the others have been anyway), but they still affect them, so I think are worth mentioning. Some are also just interesting to me but not fully thought out.

COMPANIONS = POWER - Jonathan and Dracula appear to be seesawing back and forth a little bit. In the beginning, Jonathan was isolated while Dracula had his vampiric companions and wolf minions. Then, as soon as Jonathan (together with Mina) enters the story again in London, the tide changes. Until this point, Dracula has been gradually winning and finally kills/turns Lucy. However, when the Harkers arrive, the Suitor Squad (plus Van Helsing) quickly defeat vampire!Lucy, and they all begin working together to hunt Dracula. He seizes back control and gains a new companion of his own (in a sense) once they start leaving Mina alone, though they still drive him away from the country. Then, as tension builds between Jonathan and Mina over her wish to be killed if she poses a danger and his decision to become a vampire with her if she turns, Jonathan starts pulling away from his other companions as well. Or rather, he seems willing to do so if he thinks they're going to harm his wife. At the same time, Jonathan and Mina don't get to talk anymore - and Dracula is able to seize back control briefly and escape their trap, hiring new people to work for him along the way. When Van Helsing slays the vampire ladies and our heroes rejoin one another the balance of strength tips back towards them. Basically there is a pattern of back and forth. When Jonathan is isolated either mentally or physically, Dracula is in power and begins acquiring more companions; when he unites with his companions and especially Mina, Dracula begins to lose.

CULTURAL SUPERIORITY - Jonathan begins the book as a representative of the British, in a way (certainly for Dracula). There is a fair amount of colonialist attitude in his journal entries, dismissing local "superstitions", using racist language/terms, and generally seeming to express a kind of paternalistic fondness for "exotic" ways of life, in a way that reduces them to being lesser than what he knows. This isn't necessarily intended to make him an awful person, or indeed even unusual for someone of that time/place. He may actually be meant as an example of being better/more open-minded than most of his peers, as he does seem to be willing to change his own beliefs and respects their kindness even when he thinks they're being superstitious. But his perspective as a citizen of a ruling empire clashes/mirrors with Dracula's view as a bygone conqueror in interesting ways. Dracula also has a sense of innate superiority that he links to his culture and more specifically his direct family line. Dracula believes that his inherent abilities, his past, and his power all guarantee his success in the future as well. He is looking to conquer a new people, in a way. This divide intersects in interesting ways with Jonathan's status as middle-class employee and Dracula's wealthy nobility as well.

GRAVITY OF CHARACTER - This is more of a meta note. But I've just found it really interesting to watch as many people reading Dracula Daily have reversed their view of Dracula and Jonathan. In the beginning, Jonathan was the subject of a lot of jokes. Dracula too, don't get me wrong - but those jokes still tended to make more fun of what Dracula was doing (cooking dinner, playing maid, etc.), versus mocking Jonathan's character (his awareness, his intelligence, etc.), at least in my opinion. Both of them have been subject to a lot of serious analysis as well as memes, but on the whole, the trajectory has been that people increasingly take Jonathan seriously. Dracula is still being called a dumbass and mocked far more in the late book. There's also a kind of reversal where people who only knew the movies or pop culture didn't care about Jonathan in the very beginning and only knew/cared about Dracula, but now most people seem in agreement that we all hate Dracula and love Jonathan. Just fun to notice the exchange into their reception as well a bit!

[luckydragon10]

KinnPorsche Ep04 Lines of Power

Hello, I’m back to call out lines of power, staging, and framing in the latest episode of KinnPorsche.

There's so much. I can't possibly call it all out, but I'll hit biggest highlights, now with actual IMM logo watermark. Isn't Philippe adorable? 🦩

More of LoP: [Trailer], [Ep01], [Ep02], [Ep03], [Ep05]

📢 ALERT ALERT! Parallel found!!! Remember the scene from Ep 03 where I pointed out the teensy tiny line of power above Porsche's head during the Mes beating?

This damn shot is exactly the same with the tiny line above Kinn's head, the darker half of the screen to the left, and the lighter elements on the right. *eyetwitch* This show, tryin' ta kill me.

(I have a feeling I'll start finding more parallels like this. Maybe later on I'll have enough to pull them together in a special post.)

*mutter mutter* damn mirrors *mutter mutter*

You know? I really don't care about the lines dividing the screen in top and bottom (heh, top and bottom, heh), but the POOL reflections, unf. This show has an obsession with mirrors, and it's absolutely nucking futz.

The symbolism is kind of off the charts. Just...think about inversions, and reversals, and opposites, and hidden selves and...okay, you get the idea.

That beautiful, beautiful line between them, dividing them. In this case, it's a clear separation of dislike.

There's a LOT of this sort of vertical dividing in this episode.

Speaking of which...

Credit to @moerusai for help with this one. I was scanning and scanning. I knew there had to be something in the Porchay Kim scene but kept missing it because it's subtle and brief. So I called in mo for backup.

See the speaker? The edge of the speaker creates a softer, subtler dividing line between the two young'uns.

I'm so soft for these two. You have no idea. 😭😭😭 C'mon, darlings, you can break down that measly little barrier!

And then there are these assholes...

Dividing line. Diving line. FUCKING DIVIDING LINE. Shot after shot, WTF. Okay, okay already, we get it. They are NOT on the same wavelength yet, geez.

These two have issues, and it's everyone's problem, including theirs.

ALSO: In the first and third shots in this set, Porsche has a lighter background. And in ALL of the shots, Kinn has a darker background, especially that last shot. This is a reversal from Episode 3 of the scene where Kinn tended Porsche's gunshot wound, when Porsche had the dark background and Kinn had the light background.

*mutter mutter* mirrors and reversals and opposites and foils *mutter*

Kim, I'm glad they let you out of the cage for a little bit this episode, but I'm sad that they immediately put you back in it. Oof, look at those railing posts acting like prison bars!

This dude is so trapped by circumstances. Kim, darling, it's gonna be okay (I hope).

I try to keep the pics mostly in order of appearance in the episode, but the 10-pic limit for posts is real, so here we are.

I put these together as examples of Kinn and His Fucking Throne Habit. He's SO good at it. Everywhere he sits, he turns it into a throne.

In the sauna, he's in the higher position, in the best lighting, and that line on the left in particular is pointing right at him.

At the auction, will you look at the curved shelf behind him? That damn shelf points right at him and helps draw attention to him, as do the highlights on the top of the blue bench, plus he's very center in the frame. Even in this busy shot, he claims visual focus (while competing with the glow lamp of doom).

I desperately need to see this throne thing reversed in the future, to see a moment when he ISN'T in the king's seat. It's the only way I will feel peace and balance.

In contrast...

Everybody puts Vegas in the corner. Because he deserves it, the sleazebag. (But he's very good at being a sleazebag, and we appreciate that. Thank you for being our villain so we can hate you.)

This framing is shit. The dude in the foreground and the lamp weaken Vegas's attempt to sprawl with his arms and take up space. Nothing is pointing to him, and the foreground dude's mysterious floating head is much more interesting than Vegas. Plus, he just looks shrunken.

He's small. He's powerless. And he haaaates it, precious.

RESCUE MISSION!

These shots have such a feeling of tightness and claustrophobia to them. They're crowded, with tall verticals that make the characters seem hemmed in, trapped. And in the third shot, the closeness of the characters and the camera add to that sensation. All of this framing adds to the anxiety and tension of the moment.

///

Sorry, no smexy scenes this round, but I might do a special LoP meta this week for something I've been tracking that also appears in the smexy scene.

In the meantime, here, have a bonus:

Charmed. He has been fucking charmed. Is there something about the Kittiswasd bloodline that's like catnip for the Theerapanyakul brothers?

Kim's line of power is his stupidly happy smile.

///

Other KP LoP breakdowns: [Trailer], [Ep01], [Ep02], [Ep03], [Ep05]

And here’s color theory from my friend @antique-forvalaka: [Hidden Messages], [Kinn + Porsche], and see the ends of posts for more color theory links.

We have all sorts of meta going on, from costuming from @chaoselmo to vocal analysis from @yeetlegay and even good humor with product placement from @biochemjess. Always more coming from the IMM!

[heliads]

whole

Nights pass in the Graveyard. Some are more interesting than others.

a/n my unhinged haycon agenda never ends

masterlist

Connor only ever comes for Hayden after dark.

That makes the whole affair seem far more treacherous and explicit than it truly is. In reality, Hayden stays too late in the ComBom trying to find some sign that other AWOLs are out there still alive long enough to run, then Jeevan or someone else will send Connor out to track him down and make him rest.

Connor’s job, then, is only to appear out of the murky darkness of the Graveyard, to stand in the frame of the door and tell Hayden to go to sleep. That’s all it should take, really. Connor doesn’t leave, though. Not when he should.

Instead, on nights like tonight, Connor shows up and closes the door behind him. It never shuts all the way– Connor likes to leave it open just a crack, enough that the ghostly sound of Risa’s piano can make its way inside and turn their rattling communications jet into a music box.

On nights like tonight, Hayden pushes his chair away from the computer with a flourish, and Connor sits on the desk next to him, stretching out on any available surface that isn’t covered in papers or pens. Connor will arch a brow, and ask, late night again? so Hayden can roll his eyes and spit out some bravado about how radio heroes never give up the fight, you know. 

Only then, once they’ve both said the established opening lines, can they ever speak to each other like they please. It’s a strange routine, and even though it happens every night, it never fails to disrupt whatever tentative peace Hayden had managed to channel for the evening. Every time Hayden is alone in that small metal room with only Connor and the uneven glow of the fluorescent lighting to keep him company, he can take nothing for granted. Least of all his own irrational heart.

Connor swings his legs back and forth off of the desk. “Listen to anything interesting today?”

Hayden shrugs as casually as he can. “Nothing major. Tons of important people all clamoring for my capture, of course. I’m extremely popular with the parts pirates and unwind camps since I’m such a top tier rebel, you know. I’m basically a hot commodity.”

“I know,” Connor says, laughing once then falling silent. “I know.”

Connor’s eyes are wide and dark in the half-lit shell of the ComBom. Hayden can still hear Risa’s quiet chords echoing across the Graveyard. It makes him insane, a little bit. He wants to shout to anyone who can hear, Unwinds and Juvey-cops, everyone in the world– who cares about the rumors, whatever stories they’ve cooked up about the Akron AWOL and Risa Ward? Hayden’s got Connor right here, and he’s never letting him go. Connor would never let him go.

He turns abruptly to Connor, grasped in the throes of some sort of wild excitement he can barely name, much less explain. “What parts of me would you take if I was divided? My parents preferred to split me in half rather than let either of them have custody. If I was stuck between you and someone else, what pieces of me would you want?”

Connor’s eyes flicker shut briefly with horror. “That’s sick, Hayden. I’m not answering that.”

Hayden reaches across the gulf between them to swat Connor on the shoulder. He’s charged with this strange energy, practically euphoric. “You have to. What parts would you want?”

He moves to strike Connor again, but Connor reacts quickly this time, seizing Hayden’s hand before he can make any more contact. He doesn’t drop it, though, and keeps the fingers firmly interlocked with his own. 

“I’d want your eyes,” he says at last. “They’re nice. Also, I know too many parts pirates who take the eyes as trophies. I don’t want to stare down some creep and see you looking back at me out of the face of a monster. If I have your eyes, though, I want your brain, so I know it’s really you who’s looking. And if I have your brain, I need your heart, so you know it’s me. Out of respect to your dedication to your braces, I’d take your teeth. Although I would make sure they took them out before the— before they divided you. No one deserves to die with metal in their mouth.”

Connor takes a wild, desperate breath. The air is charged now, like whatever freak energy was inhabiting Hayden has moved on to engulf Connor as well. They’re both practically vibrating with the need to continue, the urge to keep going until all words are both said and then heard. 

“I need your hands too,” Connor continues, squeezing Hayden’s fingers between his, “for radio stuff, you know. Arms for strength. Your lungs and voice box so the transmissions can continue like normal. Then I would ask for legs, and ribs, and hair, and anything else I could get my hands on. I wouldn’t let anything go. Whoever I’m splitting you with can die over it, I don’t care.”

One more deep lungful of air. Connor’s grasp on Hayden’s hand is almost painful, but it’s a good kind of pain, reminding him that he’s still here, that this is real. 

“I wouldn’t leave a single piece behind. Not if it was you. I want you, Hayden, and I want you whole.”

Hayden almost chokes on it. “You can’t promise that,” he whispers.

“I can,” Connor asserts, “I can and I will.” He leans back, proud and absolutely sure of himself. “Who would stop me?”

That, of anything, slows the tumultuous rhythm between Hayden’s ribs. There are a lot of things that could stop them. A raid of the Graveyard. Scores of Juvey-cops. The simple truth that neither of them were meant to live long enough to see their twenties. The night is not a good time for confessions, even if they were made with good intentions. When you open up your heart to sweet words, the deadly thoughts can get in as well.

But for now, Hayden is a boy who loves a boy, he is a boy who is loved by a boy like Connor, and he is never, ever going to change that. They’ll get up in the morning and forget about tonight, or maybe they’ll both keep the words they’ve said on loop in their heads just like Hayden always does, but either way, Hayden feels complete. For someone who’s destined to be unwound, that’s pretty much paradise.

unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @locke-writes

[find-the-devil]

I. The Stranger

Night loomed, heavy and important, hanging over the cornfield with only an orange band separating the tall dark stalks from the sky. The breeze carried a scent with its mildness, thick and sooty. In the town, abandoned but not empty, every light remained lit as the children stayed awake and alone, the eldest had their faces pressed to the windows. The atmosphere wasn’t silent, nocturnal birds whistled to one another, small feet pattered in the grass, warning the others of the fast approaching fire that marched on hundreds of legs. The ardent mob appeared to be led by a man who ran a few yards ahead of them. 

He sprinted, straight like an arrow shot by an expert marksman as the swarm behind seemed to jostle and stumble in the haze of their emotion.The calling and clamoring rang faintly in his ears. His breaths came fast and with stinging urgency, ashy air filled his lungs and burned his throat. Rhythmically crunching and scraping the ground, his feet hit the dirt road. In his eyes, you could see the smartness of fire pressing him forward. 

This hunt was not his to lead, he ran like the foxes and snakes hiding amongst the weeds. 

The path stretched out, long and dry, bordered by grasses yellow and sunkissed, scarred by tire tracks. Finding himself in the middle of the gaping opening of the cornfield, some 25 yards away from him and the two hundred sticks ablaze at his back he hurtled himself forward with animalistic survivalism and momentum. Lungs raging and irate from strenuous over-exertion, his heart pounded with merciless desperation and his chest strained to contain it. 

The gap between the man and the field closed. He found himself engulfed and absorbed by a sea of obscurity that rustled and sliced as he ran. One has no bearings at the bottom of the ocean. There is only crushing weight. The dark that pulls you down is the same that draws you up. There’s something swimming beside you and you don’t know it’s there. The sky above and the soil on which the tread matched in color. Direction had no place in his mind, his steps were furtive, impulsive, thoughtless. 

No higher reason governed his movements, his limbs were affixed to a cross bar that moved his feet, the hand that held it was survival. There existed only “away” from the blaze set out to consume him and the crimes for which he was to burn. 

Fire rounded up beside him. 

The pack of wolves on his white tail could be heard barking and snarling as they gained speed on their weary prey. Soon the flame would overpower him and whoever held it would be awarded the honor of affixing him to the pyre. He was going to be taken by the wave that crept up in his peripheral vision. All sound escaped him, sucked in by his frantic breathing before he had a chance to hear it, he refused to feel himself being caught. 

The villagers shouted, wailed and cursed in a sort of mass hysteric fury. The waving wands of righteous flame sent embers like red stars into the sky to lose themselves and burn out like the celestial bodies which they aped. Robin dashed, unsure if the ground moved beneath his beaten feet. 

A scream like that of a deer shot during the hunt crawled out of his lungs and ripped itself out of his throat, like a creature too eager to be born. He carried the haunting sound of acrimonious despair in his gut as he charged forward still, letting it echo and fizzle out among the deaf ears of corn. Someone was buried in his ribcage. With nails uncut and jagged from time and use they tried to tear the flesh off of his bones from the inside out. The orange band that kept earth and sky divided had ducked under the field, below his feet. The air shone, alight by flame encroaching. 

Only a white light, the size of his fist, led him through the ocean, a lure in the deep. The chaos at his back faded, and the flames approached more slowly, as if hesitating not by knowledge of what they were to find but by fateful fatigue that kept them safe. 

Robin met the light, small and artificial. His foot caught the mound that lay unmoving and rigid in the dirt and he saw the man crouched beside it, almost looming above it, shoulders curled over, the only part of his figure visible. 

“You look lost, stranger.” spoke the man with a coolness that stilled Robin’s limbs, unconscious and conscious tremors alike were forced calm by a cooperative instinct “There’s an awful lot of ruckus behind you. Fire too… Tricky thing to bring into a corfield.” he added, standing with shoulders rolled back and flexed, eyes tracking what little movements he made, imposing among the grasses. 

A white, plastic mask obscured his features, his eyes spoke for his expression. His hands were dark as if engorged by the world around him, thought given a different hue by the lantern at his feet, almost claimed entirely from view. 

“Help me take this back to mine, you can stay there if you’d like.” he offered plainly. Robin had met night hunters before, given permits and the like, but he’d never encountered one who hunted without a rifle or camouflage. There was no weapon to be seen, and for dress he wore a simple tank top, the same dark color as his hands and blotched with white. He took the brunt of the game’s heft in his hands, holding it behind his back and waiting for the other to follow suit. 

“What do you hunt?” Robin asked, prompted more by a morbid curiosity as he neared the dead mass on the ground. 

“Deer.” replied the man casually, neck craned to one side to better see him, wavy hair falling limply down over the other side of his face. Robin felt cloth, textile in his grasp as he heaved the other side of the mass into his hands. 

“This doesn’t feel like deer.” he spoke, considering the weight and the fabric he felt. His senses were dulled by his fatigue, his mind was dull and his head throbbed painfully shooting waves of a pulsating ache through his skull and down through his bones as if eating away at the marrow inside and fracturing them each as it passed. Yet he stood, with the weight of this clothed animal in his hands. 

“It’s not.”

Something unsaid in the atmosphere festered and writhed as a pause lingered and shouting people drew nearer. The pair remained still for a moment as realization trickled into Robin’s altered consciousness. Shoes resting just past his palms, the checkered shirt stained, body slit down the middle, not cut deep enough to split but gaping darker than the rest of it all. It disfigured what he carried. 

“My house isn’t far.” the man said. Hands and scythes cut and tore the stalks, the shape of the mob like a circle coming closed at his back, flames threatening to take him, uncaring of the havoc wreaked on the harvest. Move forward, or burn. He righted the weight in his hold and jogged to keep up with the man in front of him. The lantern affixed to his hip illuminated the leaves as they ran past, corn silk like heads of hair kneeling in the grass, eyes of some creature or another shining as they ran past. 

The sounds dissipated, the crowd dispersed, seeping and moving like rivulets divided from an immense roaring river into the field as the two of them ran to its edges, emerging some minutes later into a dark less crowded but just as opaque. His only bearing was a small white light as he marched along the dirt road, leaving an inky trail that he stamped into the gravel with his busted soles.

[recurring-polynya]

The real reason I started my weekly houseplant feature is because I wanted to tell you about my current best beloved, my

Cast Iron Plant

I have found that the little tags they stick in houseplants at the store are not always the most accurate or complete. I like to read up on plants at home, and get a good idea of what kind of light and humidity requirements they have, how much attention they need, how fast they grow. Even though my animals don't tend to eat my plants, I try get non-toxic ones (this is *never* on the label), just in case.

A plant that kept coming up on lists of easy-care, low-light, unkillable plants was the cast iron plant (Aspidistra eliator), sometimes also known as a bar room plant. The more I dug into them, the more interesting they got. Although people have kept plants indoors since ancient Roman times, our modern idea of houseplants really got started during the Victorian era, and the aspidistra was the It Plant.

From Why Victorian People Loved Posing Next to Aspidistra Plants:

Aspidistra is an interesting plant. Native to Japan and Taiwan, this slow-growing, evergreen perennial plant with glossy dark green leaves, was brought to Europe during the 1820s where it quickly earned the nickname “cast iron plant” because of its remarkable tolerance to neglect and abuse. The plant can survive extreme temperature fluctuations, withstand drought, most pests, and even thrive in low light and the poor air quality of a Victorian gas-lit house. The aspidistra became such a popular houseplant in Victorian Britain that it came to represent—as the Oxford English Dictionary puts it—”a symbol of full middle class respectability.” George Orwell, in his satirical novel Keep the Aspidistra flying, published in 1936, used the aspidistra as a symbol of the stuffiness of Victorian middle-class society. The plant also appeared in music hall routines, such as Gracie Fields' The biggest aspidistra in the world, which in turn inspired the British Secret Service to name its 600 kilowatt transmitter, built during World War 2 to disrupt enemy communication, Aspidistra.

Here's a delightful excerpt from Keep the Aspidistra Flying, which I found in the article Once the Queen of the Parlor...:

“It was a peculiarly mangy specimen. It had only seven leaves and never seemed to put forth any new ones. Gordon had a sort of secret feud with the aspidistra. Many a time he had furtively attempted to kill it — starving it of water, grinding hot cigarette-ends against its stem, even mixing salt with its earth. But the beastly things are practically immortal.”

With all due respect to George Orwell and none to middle class respectability, I wanted one immediately. My house is a folk Victorian, built in 1889, and I am always trying to respect the history of the house in my design and decor decisions, so this seemed perfect.

Except that I couldn't find one.

I don't know if it has something to do with my geographic location (they are outdoor-hardy just south of me, and can be used as an alternative to hosta, so I am guessing they are more common??), or because they aren't a very sexy plant, or if it's because you propagate them by dividing rhizomes, which is a bit more of a pain than taking taking stem and leaf cuttings, but I couldn't find them, even at the two fancy-pants nurseries I visited. I didn't love the idea of ordering a plant through mail order, and all the ones I found where either huge and hundreds of dollars, or a single rhizome that I would have to nurse into its own plant. I also did not want to order it in winter time, for fear if it freezing, but I didn't want it to get into summer, for fear of it getting too hot. So, when it was mid-spring, I made another effort. I finally found a botanical garden that sold a bunch of cultivars, except that shipping was exorbitant. However! I then searched some of the rarer cultivar names directly, and found a nursery in New England that also offered a bunch of varieties for a much more reasonable shipping price.

Cast iron plants come in solid green, but there are also come in striped and spotted varieties. The one my daughter and husband liked best, 'Snowcap', grows white at the tips (it's an improvement on the 'Asahi' cultivar, which only does this if planted outdoors??) was, unfortunately sold out, as was 'Mangetsu', which I wanted for obvious reasons (also, it's pretty). I picked 'Akebono' instead, because I liked the striped varieties, and this one was a heritage cultivar, so I felt it was one you would rightly find in a Victorian parlor. Here's a close-up of the leaves:

It arrived in lovely and healthy condition in late May, and I put it in this owl-shaped planter my mom gave me for Christmas (the owl does not have drainage, so it's in a plastic pot inside the owl; they do not like to sit in water).

I am super happy with this plant, I love it so much. It's currently sitting on my writing desk in my bedroom, so I get to look at it a lot. It seems to be doing well, so far, I think it's even made a couple of new shoots since I got it. We'll see how it does over time, but I'm already considering ordered some more varieties when the nursery opens up its fall sales.