#England itinerary

[cute-moosey]

Complete itinerary for 48 hours in London with a toddler (+ packing list and hotels)

If you’re planning a quick trip to London with a little one in tow, you might be wondering what to do and see to make the most of your time. At least, I know I do. With so much to choose from, it can be overwhelming to plan an itinerary, but fear not! Here’s a complete guide to 48 hours in London that will keep both you and your toddler happy. (more…) “”

[rillabrooke]

wasn't hungry so didn't cook. got (productively) sidetracked for two hours. am now hungry. too tired to cook.

[roadtripnewengland]

3 Days #LeafPeeping In #Stowe, Vermont https://bit.ly/3PHKbNw

[stilltravels]

English & Ireland

England & Ireland in 12 Days

Explore the eclectic sights of London, the royal capital, before heading to Ireland to discover the cultural treasures of the Emerald Isle! Get to know Temple Bar in Dublin, fall for the traditional charms of Galway and admire the natural beauty of Connemara and Killarney National Park. Experience the heritage of Limerick before witnessing the dramatic coastal scenery of the famous Ring of Kerry!

Price includes flights, accommodations, breakfasts and tours

Total Package Price - $3,657.90 (per person)

Call or text 6784691977 or email yourstilltravels@gmail.com

www.stilltravelsllc.com

**Prices and availability are subject to change

** Can price different departure airports, numbers of travelers, hotel rooms and dates.

#london#ireland#england#slowtravel#slowtravelling#travelling#travellingram#travellingtheworld#travellife#luxurylife#luxurytravel#luxury#vacations#travels#travelinspiration#travelagent#travellovers#traveltheworld#stilltravels

[foundationsofdecay]

also i found a really good deal so i did buy plane tickets for next year :-| they're fully refundable so it's not the end of the world if i ultimately decide to not go, but i'm admittedly really excited about the idea

[sparrowsfallingfromthesky]

I wish I had a stronger sense of exactly where in Kansas Ted lives

[wileys-russo]

Emily Fox, “we should really get up.” “we should….but we won’t.”, cuddling in bed on lazy morning

lazy dayII e.fox

your girlfriend should have known the moment she woke up that she was a goner.

for one, it was a sunday, and with arsenal playing on a rare saturday afternoon emily had the day off. but despite that had insisted on filling it with an itinerary that extended from breakfast to dinner, and it all started with the first of the five alarms she'd had set.

you knew it normally took at least the first two before she'd get up the morning after a game, body sore and limbs aching after a rough match against aston villa yesterday in which as usual she'd played nearly the full ninety.

which is why you'd argued that the two of you have a lazy day, the plans she'd floated about not needed as you assured her despite the rarity of a sunday off together you were perfectly content just spending it with her.

but with how uncommon it was for the pair of you to have a mutual day off, and an entire day at that, the defender pushed that the pair of you make the most of it.

always chattering randomly about things you wanted to do together emily seemed determined to shove all of them into one gloriously busy day in which it seemed you'd step foot in every corner of london, starting with breakfast and coffee at a cafe you walked past everyday on your way home from work.

you were always sending her photos of the lavish pastries in the front window, knowing just how much your girlfriend appreciated her sweet tooth, yet somehow the two of you had never actually gone there to try any of them.

then came a trip to portabello road market, both you and emily having wanted to go since making the move to london but never actually following through.

that was to be followed by a walk around hyde park, autumn making the paths drowned in shades of burnt oranges, auburn and copper reds as the dead leaves crunched beneath foot.

then emily had been begging you to go to the natural history museum since you'd gone together to the one in new york, the defender forever fascinated with fossils and history you often teased her for it but did find her excitement utterly adorable.

then just when you assumed that was the end of your plans she'd thrown in that she'd booked for the two of you to go to dinner at sexy fish, and then get tiramisu at the small family run italian restaurant at the end of your street which was infamous for having some of the best around.

all in all you were exhausted before your day had even begun but unable to say no to the way the americans eyes lit up as she recounted her plan you couldn't say no, far too head over heels to deny her what she wanted.

however when that first alarm rang, your own lower half aching from last nights...celebrations, you were quick to sit up and click stop, though to your surprise you heard the defender beside you stir.

"morning." came the raspy grumble, hands tugging at your hoodie and pulling you back down into her embrace, inhaling and smiling as your face pressed into her chest, arms wound around and a hand rubbing up and down your back.

"is that rain?" emily broke the bubble of silence you were wrapped up in, pausing as neither of you dared to breathe, sure enough the gentle pitter patter of raindrops splashing against your window sounded, growing heavier with time.

"noo our plans!" the defender whined tiredly making you chuckle. "you do remember that we live in england now babe? and it's autumn? and a day without rain is like a needle in a haystack?" you lifted your head with a smile.

"don't remind me." the girl grumbled, pout locked into her lips as you let out a quiet laugh. "don't! babe its not funny, i have to re-organise our day now." emily huffed but as she tried to reach over for her phone you quickly moved to lay on top of her.

"hey!" she laughed in surprise now as you pinned her arms to the bed. "or we raincheck? if you'll pardon the pun." you winked as she gagged playfully at the dad joke.

"we should really get up." emily encouraged as you smiled coyly. "we should, but we won't." you shook your head as she cocked an eyebrow up at you in amusement. "oh we won't will we?" your girlfriend questioned as you shook your head.

"em, baby its cold, its raining and we have an entire day off. we can have a lie in, order brunch, watch the new season of outer banks, maybe a couch nap?" you wiggled your eyebrows making her smile and yank a hand free, honking at your nose.

"have a lie in, so british!" the brunette teased, shifting herself beneath you as her hands now free snick up the sides of your her hoodie. "lazy day together, and then we can still go to sexy fish later, get some tiramisu-" you ducked your head and kissed softly at her neck between words as she exhaled happily.

"mm, that feels nice." "does it? shame if we got up and i had to stop." you kissed beneath her ear as her eyes closed and her hands squeezed your hips.

"you are dangerously convincing when you want to be." "well you're dating a lawyer miss fox, what else did you expect?"

[celticcrossanon]

Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby has been seriously MARKLED! I wish Welby had gotten Markled for allegedly christening Archie when Welby's real itinerary as Archbishop showed he was nowhere nearby Windsor Castle when Archie was "christened" .... and Welby's office continued to refuse to answer inquiries from members of the public who picked up on that strange discrepancy.

Hi Nonny,

Yes, there were some very shady things about that christening, The Archbishop's attendance being one of them.

I am appalled that Welby allegedly knew about the actions of a serial sex abuser for decades and did nothing about it.

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Never Loved

One more Blood of My Blood cinderblock for you @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush. Put on your most dramatic breakup song playlist.

Summary: Castle Dracula is abandoned. By son, by subjects, by its Master. The latter finds himself dwelling in the dirt and dark as he waits to strike the English shore once again. Thinking on traitors and thieves. And on his dear friend, who makes him bleed still into the grave earth.

Warnings for: Violence, coercion with and without hypnotism, and domestic abuse.

He woke with a draining ache behind his eyes. A worse one in his chest.

The surprise had gone out of this nights ago. Anger rushed over the sensation like a balm. More, he rushed toward anger. Spurred it, stretched it, wrapped it around himself like a gossamer membrane. It would thicken as the night wore on and his mind roamed its new gamut of bile and rage, snapping at itself until the sky overhead should have roiled in time with his internal tempest. But no. Only favorable winds here. Not that such winds were wholly necessary now. He and his grave earth rode a ship without sails. How fast the mortal mites and their innovations worked in this age.

Jonathan had spoken of traveling by one. An idle comment in their talks of England. One of many. The travel, the choice of estate, the precautions needed to counter the possibility of a second attempt to thwart the setting down of roots. Always in that measured way. Always with the mien of one laying out itinerary rather than laying the foundations of an invasion. Always looking his Master in the eye. Always with that sad grey shade in his pallor, the face of a man who hates his work and knows the alternative is worse.

Poor villain against his will. Poor martyr. Poor Jonathan.

Thunder grumbled high overhead. He heard voices through his box, warm bodies exclaiming and jumping. One of them was close. There was a spiced whiff of cigar smoke. A cheap odor.

Not like the ones you gave him. He dropped so many vices after the boy was born. Smoke and drink vanished from his lips overnight. Just in case they might have tainted him somehow. Spoiled the blood. You told him it was nonsense. Even she did. But he would not have it. Not until this year. He used his allowance for one single box of cigars; cheap, like the ones he’d had back in his shriveled nothing-life in Exeter. You caught him at it in January. Within the month he found the little box gone, replaced by a pack of Romeo y Julietas. One, maybe two a month since then. And what did he say when you asked him why? Why return to the habit now?

“Almost time,” he’d said. That’s all. “Almost time.”

He had pressed Jonathan on it. Oh, gently, gently. Barely a nudge of the mesmer; because he’d thought he already knew.

Jonathan had looked at him through the coiling smoke with those dead starlit eyes. The same glowing shade of the ghost-light on St. George’s Eve. And he had simply raised his hand to his chest, rubbing the place over his heart as if there were still a crucifix to wear there. Worry and sorrow had rolled off him like cologne.

“I may as well, Sir. I think I am saying good-bye to it this year. In whatever way.”

And oh! Oh, what an idiot child he had been in that instant! Later that night he had laughed aloud at himself. He had actually felt a pang of fear. Had even strained his ears to be sure of his friend’s heartbeat. It had drummed steadily enough, he thought. Mostly. Steady, but thin. Always thin, for the tide of his blood was necessarily fickle by his exsanguinations, but…

But you did not know for certain if there was some threshold near to being crossed. You’d never had a case like Jonathan Harker before you. Not even to experiment with. Why bother? You never thought in terms of keeping a single body as your reservoir when you were content to either starve or glut yourself at random. No one like Jonathan existed to you until he offered himself up as the living meal to you and two other hungry mouths for twenty years. And, childish thought, you’d wondered if he could do thirty. Longer. However long the charade could last before the inevitable came and you bled yourself back into him, feeding him from your heart’s blood to end the game of humanity and lock him in your thrall. And then, finally, you would get to see him drink. Master’s orders, my friend. Gorge yourself.

But that presupposed there would be no issue come the time of turning.

That this state, the ghoulish and gauntly haunting form that existed on the line between life and death, was not itself a spoiling factor in the process. Would the rules change if he died as this creature? Would he rise at all? If he did, would he be a Vampire or something else? Something still beholden to his Master only because he was chained by love and not the unshakable tether of being sired into undeath?

He did not know.

Having acknowledged that he did not know, he had almost ripped the cigar from his friend’s mouth so that he might force the man to drink from his veins that second.

Jonathan had seemed to read this in him. He tapped his ash into the tray with something very nearly like a smile.

“No, Sir. Not now. There is every chance I could be wrong. Perhaps it’s age alone whispering to me. Many men start to dwell on these things once they reach the 40-year mark. So I was always led to assume. For myself, I remain shocked that I have lived this long in the first place. I only feel as if there is now a clock ticking somewhere in all this. That it will end before the year is out because…”

He had paused to puff and shrug.

“…because it must end. Either because this state is finally preparing to collapse or because, with three adults to feed, I have begun to deplete too much to sustain the meals and myself.”

It was true. The boy was now a boy only in feeling. Somehow the calendars had piled up and the child was now a young man. Careful with his Papa—and no, even now he did not envy the boy learning his Lesson from his mother the night his adolescent hunger had slipped too far and left the man as pallid as his hair—but still taking more than he ever had in his boyhood. He and his mother had agreed in silence to feed a little less, alternating on their meals each feeding. Even he had stopped short of a full draught more than once. And it was not enough.

Still, Jonathan had been unperturbed. His Master had thought little of that calm. Time had not broken so much as smoothed him. An unfinished stone sanded and shined by a waterfall’s endless pressure until what had been his nightmare was reduced to mundanity. Ah, he woke to the New Year feeling that death was imminent? Hmm. A shame. May as well enjoy a smoke first.

Months passed since that scene. Though his blood did not change, his mien did. Each turn of the calendar’s pages brought some unknown weight down heavier and heavier on him. Distraction drew his attention away, his ghost-light eyes blazed like warning flares in the dark sockets, he lost himself for minutes or hours at a time at the desk, and once, in the far end of March, his Master had caught him weeping silently while eating. A tear would roll every few bites. Savoring and saying farewell at once.

Whether this unknown mortal clock really was ticking or not, his friend believed in it. Felt it was real enough to say his good-byes to human sensation. Such a fuss, his Master had thought. Tried to think.

You did try. Truly, painfully, you tried to make yourself laugh. Jeer. Hold to certainty and joy at the approaching finality. Humanity shed to give your friend his stalled eternity. Still, you caught yourself worrying. Wondering. What if something went wrong? What if something was wrong already? What if, ha, he was making plans to short you at the last? What if he had made plans with some conspirator in the towns to pierce his heart and take his head? What if the turning somehow did not take at all? What if, what if, what if?

What if indeed. You fretted so much over those months, old devil. You worried about every little thing that might go wrong before you made your move. Before you ended the game and took your prize and burned the nuisance of mortality on the pyre it deserved two decades ago. 

The prize you never thought was waiting at the end of someone else’s long game.

He made a noise into the soil. A coughing bark of a laugh. Out in the cargo hold, the smoker stirred.

“Hello? You down here, Mikhail?” He leaked himself out of the box. Fog to flesh. The smoker squinted in the half-gloom, coming closer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he echoed. The smoker swung around to face him. There was not much to face, as he stood still in shadow. He watched the man’s brow furrow. Trying to squint his way toward recognition.

“Who are you? One of Arnold’s new boys?”

“No,” he answered, stepping into the glow of the man’s lighter. The squint turned to a gawking mask of horror bordering on disgust.

“Jesus,” came out in a gasp that reeked of cheap smoke. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Trouble at home,” he admitted with a flash of teeth. Within a blink, he was tearing into the man’s throat. He inhaled blood and cigar fumes until he was iron-grey, until he was at his prime, until he was a youth. Hating the taste with every gulp. Unable to glut himself further, he sighed and twisted the man’s head off. The heart he tore out with more relish than he preferred to admit. He crushed all three pieces of the body as if crumpling paper and did not rise to the deck until he sensed it was unoccupied. Up he went, tossing the balled up remains into the waves. “My thanks,” he whispered after it.

The corpse had provided him with something like a lackluster disguise. A jacket to match the rest of the seafarers.’ He hoped the sight of it might let him go unbothered on deck. Though it was an easier thing to simply slip back down to the cargo’s shade, he wanted the openness of the night and the sympathetic frown of the moon peeking through the clearing clouds. He looked up to it now the way a drunken man sulked up to his barman. A barman who had waned a few phases since he was last seen.

The moon had been so full the last time he saw Jonathan. Rather, times.

Once while alive. The other…

“Which one are you, then?” Swallowing a curse, he slid his gaze to his right. A man with a flask stood there, pausing mid-sip to scrutinize him. His lip curled as he gestured with the liquor. “Who said you could have hair like that and work a vessel, eh?” He did not pause for an answer before shaking his head and taking a full drink. “Arnold’s getting sloppy if he’s hiring from…from…” A cloud of hazy concentration came and went on the ruddy face. “What? The Nordics? The Slavs? One of those lots with hair to their knees.”

He did not answer. Only looked again to the moon. He imagined the wedge of it gazed back at him with apology. The man blundered forward a step, reaching to take him by the shoulder.

“I’m talking to you, boy—,” A callused hand passed through his shoulder like mist. For it was. The flask made a tinny sloshing sound as it struck the deck. “Oh.” It was a small sound. The frightened moan of a child in a rancid dream. Feeling the moment warranted it, he turned his young man’s head to fully face the man. Letting him see the maimed display of the left eye. The dried maroon crust that streaked his cheeks. The man made another noise, even reedier. “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Arnold never said anyone died on this one. It’s too new, he said.” His throat worked like a thin tangle of pulleys. Bloodshot eyes bulged. “The Persephone’s only been on the water three years and no one’s ever…”

“Newness is no guarantee against death any more than age is a guarantee against foolishness,” he grated out.

“Right. Right, of course, apologies. I’ll just—I’ll just—,” the man didn’t seem to know what he’d ‘just’ for several tediously agonized seconds. But, between the drink and the rarity of the moment—How often did one cross paths with a spirit, after all?—his feet remained anchored. Then, “…How did you die?”

Of idiocy. Here and now. Requiescat in pace.

“I was betrayed. Over a woman.” Sour needles pricked along his throat. “Over a child. The years made me blind. Soft. Comfortable. So certain that all was in order, that I held everything in my hands. But I lived among thieves without knowing it. I woke one night to find all that was mine was gone, stolen, and the one I had handed my heart threw it away as though it were the sole piece of filth that could not be bothered with. And then…” He gestured to the mark upon his face. His eye now a ball of blazing arterial red set in a spray of wild scarring from the lightning bolt. Even after a deep meal, he felt that the damage had scarcely receded. Had he not twisted in time, the blast would have struck him square through his skull.

The wretched woman had fine aim.

And that’s not all she has, is it?

“Sorry to hear it, son,” came from his right. The man had retrieved his flask again. It winked like tarnished silver in the moonlight. Though his face showed a bleary bafflement as to what exactly the manner of death could have been, he went on, “And here I figured the worst that could happen to a man at sea was drowning.”

“Terrible ends can happen anywhere. But if it saves you worry, I will not remain on this ship forever. I will disappear once it docks in England.”

“Reckon you’re off to haunt the bastard who did this to you?”

“Not yet. First I must go to my son, who they sent away all oblivious to their work. Then,” his hand drifted of its own accord to his chest, dipping under the hanging coat to feel at the lump in a high pocket. It sat cold and out of place there, like an elaborate little tumor. Touching it brought back the pain to his chest and eyes. “Then I shall see to the traitors.”

“Cannot say I envy them.” Another sip, nearing the bottom.

“Few would. They thought me a monster to slay together. But they have yet to meet the worst of me. For they grew comfortable too, seeing me docile, hospitable, giving them my home and my love and a thousand allowances that no other in my life has ever wrung from me. Yes, I will haunt them. I will hunt them. And I will deliver to them a recompense so much worse than death.” The man was trying again to drink from his flask and finding himself thwarted. “Empty?”

“Afraid so. Do you ever miss that, being dead? Getting to drink?”

“No. I still drink. But I am full for the evening.” He bared his teeth in a gleaming crescent. Some of the man’s crewmate still stained his fangs. He watched the man’s face abruptly lose all its tint. “I am glad you got to enjoy your own. It is a rarity not to face this part sober.”

So saying, he plunged his hand into the man’s chest. He twisted out the heart with the ease of one plucking a ripe apple from its bough. The man croaked out only a small noise at this. Nothing more than a damp little bleat, smothered by the steady roll of the waves. He was still gawking at his heart in one clawed hand while the other snared him and hurled him overboard. The sound of the splash was nothing. Sighing, he shrugged off the apparently useless jacket and cradled the heart in it to prevent a drip. Back to the cargo hold it was. Down to the dark and the dirt and—

He left it waiting for you. Even in the midst of all the confusion, the haste needed to get out, to be gone, he made sure to leave it right there in the sow’s coffin.

The cold lump shifted in its pocket.

He bit down a curse as his eyes stung, burned, boiled.

A roost was made in the furthest corner of the hold. The heart sat in his hands. Huge and dense with old smoke and liquor and fatty seaside meals. He’d lied to Jonathan before, about how certain consumed vices changed the blood’s quality. There was no alteration in what it fed, but the taste shifted. Between the crewmate he’d siphoned and the swollen muscle in his fingers, he realized he was indulging in the nearest thing he had to slovenly eating after a hard day. He took an experimental taste of a ventricle.

Immediately acrid. A rich and awful tang that ran to the back of his throat.

Nothing like the spigot that had flowed for him like careful clockwork for two decades. So meticulously tended by diet, by caution, by the vessel it sprang from. Twenty years of ambrosia meted out in scheduled mouthfuls and the occasional drop snuck between meals, as was his right.

“No, my friend, not the wrist. The boy would know someone was taking extra. And from his own plate! So to speak. Undo your collar, you know she will not complain…”

And Jonathan had. The brilliant eyes sliding away from his Master as he stole one, two, three, four or more little tastes from neck and shoulder, collarbone and breast. A single sip from each bite. He had not even winced. Not until Jonathan’s Master brought his mouth up to his face. Printing the blood there like a girl with her kiss’ lacquer. It had taken his Master’s hand around his jaw to make Jonathan turn and face the second one, pressed into his own lips. Eyes shut against the threat of a trance, mind fluttering frantically out and away.

He had let him then, back in those early nights. Always so shy, his Jonathan. Even after the whirlwind of that long-ago summer, the thresholds crossed and barriers erased for the sake of playing his Scheherazade, still he quailed from the gentler edges of his better. Hiding up in his head or in his Master’s teeth or under the flimsy shelter of his duties whether they were self-assigned or not. Anything to not accept what lurked and grew under the veneer of mere surrender to an enemy.

Had that too been a trick? Laying bait the way his Master had once drawn the hunting dogs back to his genius loci with the woman already tainted?

A Wolf did not chase if the prey did not run. And he did love to chase. To play. Up to a point. He had tried more than once to smother the overgrowing feeling in him as the years marched and his friend continued to drop his eyes and tense away from tenderness. When that failed, he told himself it did not matter. He owned his friend through the woman and their son, and whatever performance he sought—the rent owed to many a charitable landlord, really—could be ordered from him.

And he had ordered it.

In specific, he had, on a particularly maudlin night, ordered his friend to kiss him as he would her. He would know the difference. He’d leeched through her senses on occasion when they were, quote, ‘alone’ together. Sometimes he thought Jonathan even saw him staring out of her eyes. Or else the woman simply gave him away by some private sign or other. Whatever the case, Jonathan had never once withheld his love with her.

So, the order. Out of curiosity. Out of boredom. An order given without even a trance to smooth the act, just to see how he would muscle past the walls of indignity and a lover’s loyalty as he had back when he thought he had been charming for his life in their supple sabbatical once upon a time.

Instead, a magic trick.

Between one blink and the next, Jonathan had been the self he reserved for the woman. Even the smile kept for her had been there. A necessary prelude to the hands that bookended his Master’s face and pulled him level. Just like that, there were their mouths together. Not the press of a patient doll’s lips as its owner mashed themselves there in pantomime of intimacy. If he had not known better—

But Jonathan made sure he did. As soon as the kiss elapsed, he’d receded into himself. Less a tortoise into his shell than a closing fist praying not to be pried open lest the treasure in it be snatched away again.

“Was there anything else, Sir?” asked in the rug’s direction. Shame and a miserable whiff of apology yet-to-be had stamped him. He would throw himself into making amends to the woman, of course. Whether or not he wounded her with tattling on this little service, he would meet her with whatever kindnesses he could muster that were not already given. It was one of many moments in which he was convinced that his friend would give of himself until he was down to bones and then try with his last breath to gift someone his ribs. “Sir? Am I dismissed?”

He was not. All at once, his Master had a list of tasks for him to perform over the course of days. Weeks. Months. A year and more. And was that not where the mistake of it all had begun? The willing leap at addiction? Commanding his friend, his immaculate actor, his Scheherazade, into a hundred little indulgences. And not just in matters of sampling each other. Sometimes he would wring whole nights out of the man, without even the boy to perform for, trapping him by the fire or in a moonlit room or down in that half-secret glade by the stream where they played hunter and hunted and hid together from the walls of domesticity, spurring his friend into the easy and smiling talk of companions, of intimates, of…

Go on, old devil. You can admit it. Why not? What point is there in pretending he did not perform so well as to leave you reduced to this?

Fine.

Talk of those in love.

Yes, he had used the exact word. More than once.

Do this, do that, do any and all these things as if you loved me. Just as you do her.

And Jonathan had. Always with the bracing misery before and the shuddering withdrawal after. But he served his Master’s wants. He did so with such an ease that his Master had invented half the trap himself; he had convinced himself somewhere that he was giving his friend permission to do what he truly wished to do, freed from the yoke of duty and fealty to the woman, to his morals, to his sanity. Yes, that was it. He was giving his friend release. Lifting away the leaden weight of his beloved martyrdom and letting him know, yes, it was alright, he could want something other than what was ‘right’ or ‘good.’ What had such scruples brought him besides pain? God and humanity no longer had a place for him or his family or his love; that bottomless fount that had more to give than his veins ever would.

Here, my friend, I will take it. I will catch it all as it spills. Love me. Love and be happy. It’s alright.

The cold lump in his pocket felt heavy and frigid as a glacier on his chest. Scrubbing his hand clean on the jacket, he fished the hateful treasure out of its home and glared at it in his fingers.

A brooch the size of a dove’s egg. Antique gold ringing a garnet of such brilliance it might have been frozen claret. Splitting it was an ornate dragon, rampant, seeming to cling to the stone like the mythic hoards of legend. One of few mementos kept in his bedchamber from mortal days and nascent immortal nights that had gone sour in recalling their joy. He had taken it from its hiding place of velvet, shined it until it glowed, and, at the end of another race through their wilds, another capture, another victory drunk from the won throat…

“You have been here five years. Yet still I get word that you are not always recognized as being in my service.” This was fractionally true. At least in the sense that he knew there was a certain level of laxness that existed between Jonathan and a handful of those he did business with in the towns. Little mistakes or a dragging of feet on assorted exchanges and services that his friend would try to paper over with excuses on their behalf.

Once, only once, he had even tried to get away with hiding a newcomer’s attempt to swindle him outright. He had only seen a tourist of means with an Englishman’s lilt and tried to rob him over a new toy for the child and a novel for the woman. Jonathan had not pushed back, only gutted his allowance while the seller’s neighbors threw their shocked and silent looks. Perhaps that would have been the end of it but for Jonathan idly mentioning the encounter to the woman as they shared his bed post-feeding, thinking little of it. His Master, listening through her, had thought otherwise. Enough to find and inform the seller of his misstep personally. The next time Jonathan went to town he came back somewhat shamefaced with a burden of extra wares given ‘as a courtesy.’ The peasants were careful to point him out to new citizens ever-after.

All this in mind, Jonathan had looked at him oddly over the excuse.

“If that is the case, it has not hindered me in any way. The people have been nothing but gracious when I come through.” Gracious and afraid, he knew not to say. His Master had shooed the words away like flies.

“You remain ever lenient, my friend. You would apologize to the wheels of a carriage as they ran you over. It is for your own good that you must wear this, lest you and your goodwill are trampled by the opportunists among the chattel.” Out had come the brooch. “You will have this visible at all times. Be it to clasp on your coat or wear at your throat. Do you understand?”

“Yes, S—,” A look was caught. No, no. He knew the rule out here. Away from mother and child. “Yes, balaurul meu, I understand.”

Not well enough, of course. Not even when he was made to sit still, his chin up so that his Master could pin the thing in place. No, he had not understood then. Not until the next night when he took his place in bed for the family meal. There he had sat, undoing his shirt collar—with the brooch nowhere in sight. Not before the feeding. Not after he buttoned himself up with strengthless fingers. Not even on his nightstand.

The boy and the woman had looked up with curiosity and ire respectively when Father hadn’t taken his usual leave for the saccharine post-bleeding period with Papa. Papa himself had looked concerned and lost. No one had made a mistake, had they?

“Father? Did you want to stay too?” from the boy. A thread of worry in his voice, as was natural whenever Father deviated from his routine, but far more of eagerness. Father so rarely lingered overlong with the entire family in the room. And, he would admit it, it stung to deflate the child’s hope.

“I am staying,” he’d said, “But you and your mother must go for a time. There is something important I must speak with Papa about.” There had been some bristling at that. But he had yanked the woman’s leash and the woman had taken the boy away by the hand, thinking soft assurances and lies at him until they were out of the tower. Jonathan, dear oblivious Jonathan, had peered at him with genuine confusion.

“What is it? Has something happen—,”

His Master had flung the full weight of the trance into him like a boulder. A boulder that became a crushing fist around the flailing mote that was Jonathan’s ostensibly free will. Having hold of it, he wrenched his friend up to his feet and prodded sharply at his mind until he turned to where he’d stored the brooch. There, the wardrobe. Go. Fetch.

Jonathan had managed two steps before the weakness of his emptied veins dropped him to hands and knees. He crawled the rest of the way. Staggered back upright. Worked the doors open and shuffled with trembling hands through the hanging clothes. Here was the coat. There, fastened at the chest, was the brooch. He fumbled at it with twice the difficulty of fastening his shirt. So much so that it pricked his thumb bloody and slipped through his fingers. He made a small despairing sound before falling back down on his knees, searching in the shadows and shoes for it. When his hand finally closed on it, his Master tugged again at his mind, ordering him back the way he’d come. Across the floor, up into the bed. Holding the brooch.

His Master tugged again. Jonathan held the brooch out on his palm. The one now striped and smeared from the bleeding thumb.

“What did I tell you to do with that, Jonathan Harker?”

“To—to wear it in town—,”

“No.” He’d paused to watch Jonathan’s face. The shift of expression that sketched such a perfect epitome of dread, especially in a bloodless face. “I said, You will have this visible at all times. And where was it instead? Thrown away, out of sight, out of mind. Is it not so?”

“N-No. No, I did not mean to—,”

“Must I make it simpler for you? The boy still has the collar he never bequeathed to the trapped wolf. I am certain it would fit you. The emblem would never be misplaced again.”

“Sir—,”

“Do you think I gave it to you as a whim? Another token to cast aside, to ignore like all the rest you are showered with all unconscious to, stewing in your precious stringency, self-deprived as a monk?”

“Please, I swear, I only thought—,”

“What? What did you think? Do tell.”

“I thought,” his voice caught and rasped, trying not to be a cough. “I thought it was meant for strangers. As something official, part of a uniform. I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t know it was…” But here the words dried and his face showed again that crumpled confusion. The pain of a kicked dog unsure of what mistake he’d made, only knowing he had erred. Jonathan’s eyes had found his Master’s, as much plea as fear.

What? the look begged. What is this? What did I do wrong? I cannot act without my lines.

There was no questioning of his Master’s anger. Such storms were known to pass and one could only brace and weather them. This was all he knew.

But you knew better, didn’t you, old devil? It took you a moment to catch up to yourself. To truly admit it to your own mind, even knowing from what happy old era’s dust you fetched the thing from. You made no ceremony of it. You buried the giving of it in a disguise. But the meaning was there even as you fastened it to him without fanfare, without warning. All you did was stitch an importance to the ornament that was invisible to him. And look where it led.

Jonathan hadn’t blood enough in him to hold rigid as he usually did before his Master’s moods. He shuddered even as he fought to be still. Afraid. Cold. Eyes of pale blue glass pinned to his Master, searching desperately for a reason to it all, for the thing he must make amends for.

Still with his hand outstretched. The brooch in a bloodied palm.

Just as it is now. Here in the brine-scented shadows. It looked more precious in his.

It had.

Jonathan had kept the hand out even as his Master joined him on the bed. As his Master plucked the brooch up, tasting it clean of the red stain, then kissing away the same from the bleeding thumb. As his Master gently tilted the quivering chin up and fastened the emblem in its proper place. As his Master did not move except to close the last of the gap between them, stroking the white curtain of hair from his brow.

“I am sorry, draga mea. You did not know because I did not explain. It is too easy to forget you are the only one here who does not go walking into others’ minds. So often you fool us all into believing otherwise.” The stroking hand traveled down to trace Jonathan’s jaw. No longer shaking. Not as badly, anyway. “You did not recognize that it had a mate, did you?” Jonathan turned his head an inch, frowning. His Master tilted up his own chin. For a moment, more confusion. Then realization.

The stone worn at his Master’s throat had no beast stretched across the stone. His was a coil that encircled it entirely, an ouroboros of a dragon.

“I know that rings are the tradition. But you are a creature of loyalty and I did not wish to test my Harkers’ ire in demanding you remove the gold band for something of mine, be it a signet or a stone. This is as close as we can come the way we are. At least until the night of consummation. Baptism. Whatever you prefer.” He trapped Jonathan’s eyes with his. “When that time comes, we can talk of more classic rites, insofar as our arrangement allows for such things.”

Jonathan had nodded at this. Perhaps tried to speak. A ‘yes, Sir’ seemed to snag on his tongue. The shock was too much to work around on his own, so his Master hoisted him over it with a final hook of the mesmer and gave him words to say:

“Of course, balaurul meu. I look forward to it.” His mouth had snapped shut around the last word, pallid eyes huge and almost teetering in their sockets. He was shaking again. Ah, it was too much as he was, poor thing. His Master had left him swaddled in another blanket, asking if he was prepared to see mother and child now. Jonathan could only nod, his hand rising and falling away from the space before the brooch. As though he feared the thing would bite him.

Good.

Good enough, you reasoned. He would grow into it. He would accept it. He had accepted it already. Enough that you had to deal with a particularly entertaining round of aftermath from the woman’s mind. For all her collaring of herself when she had to grovel for something—and was her own peasant’s past not fine training there?—the Vampire of her could not be smothered when it came to theft. Not even sharing! This, when you could have ordered the ring off him. Could have had him write up divorce papers for the dead, if only as a prop to hang in the office. But then the boy would have questions. Perhaps even tears. Was Papa not allowed to love more than one parent? It would not do. To think you offered to let her be Maid of Honor.

Amusing fireworks had ensued.

They had cooled, he thought, as the years continued to stack. On and on until the end of their second decade made its way to them. Jonathan never misplaced the brooch again. The woman appeared resigned to joint custody of both her Loves in her sullen way. And the boy, his little diavol, barred from full knowledge and unhappiness, had grown to manhood under their care.

A fine excuse the latter had made.

He thought back to it now. That last scene with the grey and ghastly shape of his friend in his surreal mortality. Another cigar lit, the smoke curling out the library’s window. What a strange image he’d made. He had looked like…

A month or so ago he had found his friend thumbing through an American magazine of all things. Some publication or other that had made its way across the Atlantic and the Channel to join its English siblings. It had been one of his few vices over those latter years, catching up on the newsworthy pulses that beat outside their mountains. The American one had shown an advertisement at the back. A rather charming illustration of a man in what had to be a modern eveningwear suit. Arrow Collar and Shirts for Every Occasion the image declared.

Jonathan had seemed to be a macabre translation of the man posed in the picture.

Seeing this, an abrupt needle of mourning had pierced his heart. Twenty years of feeding had made his friend into this wasting enigma. Twenty years of allowing the arrangement to unspool on and on without end, simply for the fact of Jonathan continuing to breathe and bleed unimpeded, as if his will alone were enough to hold his half-life existence together. Twenty years of letting his friend’s incessant need to give of himself down to the marrow get in the way of sense. Of what was right. Of what was long past due.

How did you allow this? How did you agree to let this carry on so long? Look at him, look at the calendar. So many years lost in which he could have already been what he was meant to be. Why? For your agreement? For the charade of the bitter conqueror taking his consolation trophy? It made sense at the start, perhaps. Those early years of gloating. It was your due. But once the sting was gone, once it became clear what he was to you under the vitriol of old, what excuse was there to drag this on, to make a living ghost of him? What excuse is there now? Look at him, old devil. Look at him and think of what he could have been, should have been, for the last quarter of a century.

And he had. He’d stood in the doorway, staring, overlaying the haggard reality with what should have been. Here was Jonathan Harker, forever young, the flesh back on his bones, his eyes free of shadows and crimson as an opened throat. Jonathan Harker, still and strong, a beautiful killing thing like a spider waiting in its silk.

Instead, he was this. A ghoul waiting to find out the when and how of his death before the year concluded, seeming far deader than the thirsty revenants he called his family. The unfairness of it wrenched in his Master’s chest. Worse still was the hindsight of its pointlessness. As if this arrangement of the household had done anything but ruin his friend and cripple their son against the reality of the wider world waiting for them. He had even felt a twitch of pity for the woman, if briefly. She had lost her Love to the needs of their hunger and their Master’s whim, watching every year as that Love was shriveled and shifted into a wretched grotesquerie of what he ought to be. Her prized possession spoiled by mishandling and a refusal to simply tear their Jonathan free of his scruples and do what needed doing.

“Was there something you needed, Sir?” Jonathan had asked without turning. His eyes were on the moon. Full as a pearl.

“There was. Is.” His friend did not jump upon seeing him abruptly at his side. Nor did he turn his head. “You are almost replenished.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am.” A tap of ash. Still not taking his attention from the sky. “Did you wish to steal a drink ahead?”

“It is not stealing. Only taking what’s owed.” There was a soft sound of fabric pulling away. Jonathan had turned and froze. His Master had removed his own clasp and the cravat under it. Vest and shirt hung open. The skin above his heart was already cut open. “And giving what is long overdue.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary. Not already.”

“When, then? How much longer will you reduce yourself like this? They are beginning to go hungry even with your sacrifice, my friend. Mother and child both. But he is not a child anymore, is he? He is grown. He must feed as such. Yet he tries to feed only as a boy, just as his mother feeds in her little halved tastings. Even I have taken less than my share. All to bow to your craving for self-destruction. No more of it.”

“This seems somewhat—,” Jonathan first tried to sidle away from the sill, only to have himself caged back against the stonework by his Master’s arms, “—abrupt.”

“You have until you finish the cigar.”

“Case in point.” Another drag was taken, neither rushed nor prolonged. Jonathan blew his stream of smoke out into the breeze. Then, “Was that why you had so many of these on hand before? The food and drink and assorted sensory comforts?”

“Before?” Jonathan looked at him. Waiting for him to—, “Ah. Then. No, not precisely. There was an act to perform. Had it been Peter Hawkins there in your place, he would have had the same to consume before his…dismissal.”

“That’s what I mean. You were always planning to either ‘dismiss’ or ‘retain’ your solicitor of choice. You went out of your way to provide the equivalent cuisine and indulgences of a noble’s home, even when the reality of things had set in. I might have had, say, a week’s worth of fine dining and then bread and water from then on. But you kept at the kitchen regardless. Why was that?”

“To drop the quality would be to ruin the masquerade,” his Master said, wondering at the turned subject. Knowing not to be swayed. “Had you proven to be a lowly churl not worth my time beyond the completing of paperwork, you would not have eaten at all. The wolves would have had your bones for toys in the same week.”

“Mm,” another puff. Jonathan was halfway through. “My mistake, then. I had assumed you were interested in giving your pawn a long last meal before his life ended, permanently or otherwise. That or fattening the metaphorical calf. It was hard to imagine you enjoyed playing the role of host and staff without it being part of some standard habit.”

“So it might have been when you returned home.” Oh, only twenty short and endless years ago. Still with their enemies’ blood under his nails. Begging sanctuary for his Loves, bartering his own throat. Memories, memories. “For some reason, you seemed hesitant to trust my culinary skill a second time.”

“Yes, well. Blame that on a joke too many made about the wine and red meat on the menu. I’d not expected you to throw aside pretense to the point of…” Jonathan nodded at his Master’s bleeding chest. “…this.” More ash tapped over the stone sill. A third of the cigar was left. Jonathan’s eyes floated from the oozing cut to the moon. The effect erased all but the furthest edges of blue from his irises and made them into coins of silver. His brooch glowed like fire. “Do you know what I ate on my wedding night?”

Stop. Plug your ears. A trick. A trap. Laying bait again, old devil, do not listen, do not let him talk, do not hesitate, this is how he works, how he has always worked, how he has been the only one in all the infinite hell of your unlife able to steer the storm of you. In pain, in suffering, in servility or supplication, the silver of his tongue did more to tame you than any holy relic, and you knew it and you did not care, did not think to care, because he made himself satisfied with crumbs, with vapor, even when you tried to force bounty into his hands and down his throat, do not listen, do not wait, take him, own him, seize his mind and soul and senses now now now before it is too late—

But this was the bellowing of the present into the past.

All he could do in the ship’s dark was muffle his curses by biting into the bloated heart as the memory unfolded in all its hopeless reality.

“No,” he’d half-whispered to his friend. “You never said.”

“I had what I’d been having since I was taken in by the nuns. Broth and bread. Small simple soft things. I was half-dead then too, albeit in a different direction. Mina and I married and made love on my sickbed, in a rush of joy and tears and illness. I left our wedding venue with one hand in hers and another on a cane. Now I am here, twenty years on, with another marriage to begin in haste. The marriage that will also be my death knell. Lenore again, but without any hope of resting in peace.”

Jonathan watched his Master through his lashes.

“When I am drunk from a last time and I drink in turn, it will be the moment I say farewell to what is left of the good man who existed before I turned the kukri on those I trusted with my life and who I would have died to shield, had it not been for God putting my Loves on the same altar He set before Abraham. The last of that good man will die to the blood baptism, to an unbreakable chain of connection with what is reviled by the divine. Fickle thing that it is. But before I was a Christian, before I was taught the lie that God is absolute love, I already held Love as holy. I held kindness unto others as a mission. It hurt me then as it hurts me now to envision pain wrought on another without cause but profit or cruelty.

“But that feeling will be sunk into a spiritual chasm once I turn. Already I dropped a piece of it into the dark when I bloodied my hands. The rest will follow and I shall become a Judas not only to a select few, but to the whole of humanity. While I can see the logic in throwing myself into consummation for fear of turning back at the last second, I do not think I can stomach yet another threshold where I do not get to walk, but must hurl my way across. Another sprint, another crash into one world out of the last. I would ask—,” his throat had caught, eyes gleaming, “—I would like to have the day.” He cracked a sad smile. “St. George’s Day. A fitting hour to say good-bye to the good of me. And for our son’s birthnight, we shall have our last family meal. No meager shares. No restraint. I shall be too weak by then to hold off. And it will not be done behind closed doors. Behind my Loves’ backs, like another secret. Please.”

The eyes, the eyes, no power in them but what his Master put there, but they held and they drowned and pleaded for this, this last meal, this final allowance, and—

And you swallowed it. Inhaled it. Drank it from him like he’d slit himself open over your mouth. You did, old devil.

He had.

He’d looked his friend in the eye—eyes still vulnerable, still susceptible, still able to be hooked and pinned like the rest of him, ready to be stolen away into his thrall without another puff of the cigar left between them—and said, “Very well. But know that I will accept no hesitation tomorrow. No rescinding, no stalling, no last-minute dawdling. You make your good-byes to yourself tomorrow. Make your peace and apologies to the world if you must. But then I will eat the martyr out of your blood and fill the space with something better. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” This he said before taking his handkerchief from its pocket and wiping the dark smear from his Master’s heart. For almost a minute said Master held still enough to pass for a waxwork as Jonathan righted the shirt, the vest, the cravat. He took his Master’s brooch from a clawed hand that had turned suddenly feeble before pinning it to the silk. It wasn’t until Jonathan tried to pull his hands away that they were caught.  “Was there something else?”

“Yes. You finished,” he’d nodded to the smoldering nub of the Romeo y Julieta, “and I will not go without something for my patience.”

“I need my hands if I’m to open my collar.”

“Everything I want is above the neck.”

“As myself? Or is this a commission, balaurul meu?”

“Surprise me.”

“Only if you do not bite your tongue.”

He’d not understood. Not until his face was brought down and he had seen the flash of parting lips and teeth and then—

You should have bitten your tongue. Should have trapped his head in your hands as he played at catching yours, should have bitten and fed yourself into him while he was snared. If he would dare lie to your face your deserved to bleed yours into his. Bastard. Delilah.

He thought these and a thousand curses even as he warred with the recollection of that taste, that consumption in two directions. What he had thought was a mere prelude to all the ages yet to come for them. Never thinking for an instant that it was only the last helping of honeyed poison. Even the sheepish fraction of a laugh that had left his friend was another dose of venom to numb him with.

“Forgive me. I just now imagined how we must look. An old man preying on the youth.”

“Indeed. You are still all but a gamin, draga mea. In any case, this is hardly novel for us, is it? Merely a change of position. A slow dance.”

“We must all be cautious about said dancing in England, you know. The laws are still—,”

“I am aware. Just as I know what lawmaking parties are at the top of my list to be invited to dinner once we secure the new estates…”

And they had talked. And talked. On and on toward the sunrise. Jonathan had insisted on taking himself to sleep lest he spend his grand farewell to humanity passed out the whole day. Away, Master, away. Shoo.

Off he had gone. Dense and careless.

Did you smell coffee on the way down? Did you? If so, did you think it only imagination or just shrug it away? Your friend, ever disdainful of wasting an hour. Fine, fine, let him wring St. George’s out in his way. What did you care? Fool.

The boy had still been up with his books and, he saw, some his Papa’s magazines. Odd. No less odd than seeing him return to the coffin rather than exercise his ability to doze where he liked; his miracle of a child, born alive and undead at once, able to sleep without a grave earth as bedding. Odd, odd. But he had not cared, had he? What reason was there to care when he had tomorrow night already dangling before his eyes?

The woman was already in her coffin, either sleeping or feigning sleep. He had not bothered to check. Had not cared whether she knew of her husband activity or not. If she now mulled the vision of her Master tasting what was hers, his, theirs, making plans for the future while she gathered dust in the chapel. How pleased he’d been. How sure.

“Father? Are you alright?”

The boy, the child, the son. His son. A young man who’d looked now so agonizingly like his fathers it sent a shamefully fond dart through his chest. Bless the fluke of the woman’s own features, kin of his kin, blood of his blood, by design or accident. He had smiled. Not grinned, not leered, but smiled with an ease he had forgotten he was capable of for so long. The look had made the boy’s face go even slacker with wonder.

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

“You look different.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You look…I don’t know. Not younger, but,” the boy had fumbled for a word, “lighter, I guess. Did something happen?”

“No. But something will. Ah-ah, no prying,” when the boy perked up in his coffin, “Go back to your books. You will know more tomorrow.”

“Alright,” came the half-false sulk. “Good-day, Father.”

“Good-day, diavol.”

And he had gone to bed in his tomb fattened on bliss and craving more.

And then.

And then.

Bastard. Delilah. Thieving scheming viper of a traitor.

So much accomplished and destroyed within a day and night. Oh, his treacherous Harkers. Had they only been loyal, been wholly his in mind as much as will, he would have drowned them in praise and prizes for such work against a foe. The patience of it all. The skill. The performance. It surpassed the immaculate and made him ponder for one dumbstruck instant in the midst of his rage whether they had ever been human and not some stealthy pair of incubi come to prey on him.

Such a theory was only an excuse, he knew. It would not do to whittle down their ability to that of mere imps. No, they were but a man and a woman, however altered now, and they had proved themselves to be of such sterling cores of concentrated resolve that their Master had laid barely a scuff mark upon their joint machinations all these years. Their labors had born an unthinkable fruit; one it would have doubly shamed him to behold had he been victim to anyone less canny. But no, no. He had harbored his Harkers for a reason. They were uncommon creatures. Singular. Rare pets he’d thought he could tame. And given another century, perhaps he’d have managed it.

But like the fool who mistakes a tiger for a housecat, he had let his guard down too soon. Too quick. A mere two decades. And now his beasts had bitten and torn and robbed him.

His boy, his son, gone inside a day. Shipped away and on toward the teeming masses of England. This alone had been enough to spur him on. Or would have been.

If not for the impetus that the clever sow and her stolen Lessons from the Mountain had brought down on his head. He had fled before the next bolt could strike. Running, running. Just as he had been running since missing the boy’s departure, since realizing he was the only one left in the castle.

What had actually come first? His mind still spun when he tried to concentrate things into a clear order. The entirety of that period was still a swimming blur in the way the events of a nightmare will reach the waking mind as disjointed pieces.

He had awoken to the nettling pressure of the wild rose upon his coffin lid. The annoyance, the struggle, the hard toss and soul-deep agony that had come with booting the thing off. The blossom crushed. A resignation letter crumpled under the cracked ebony of the lid.

He had known his son was missing.

He had thrust his mind throughout the castle and known he was abandoned in full even before he tore away the lid of the woman’s box.

He had seen the glint of Jonathan’s brooch left on her pillow.

He remembered a vision. Sent from her. Brief. Teasing. Baiting.

Jonathan looking upon her with exhaustion and exultation, with relief, with want, with Love. Drinking from her like a man in the desert finding his oasis. Just the two of them in that boxed dark of her coffin. Mere hours before he found them gone. Eloped. So to speak.

She had left a message for him too, though it had come later. The one that came firing out of the roiling sky he’d thought was solely his. Once again the bait had been too much to ignore, even in his hunt.

It had been him.

How long had it been since he’d first tried to claw his way back into the woman’s mind, into her senses? He could not say. Only that he had been shocked to find himself barred except when the moon was high. She had been hardening herself up from within. There was more of a fortress around her will within two decades than his first trio of Loves had built up in centuries. She had been playing lame all this time. Preparing. Working in the shadows cast by her the distraction of her husband. Sharpening herself all along.

What irony, that they had left Jonathan’s old toy behind. The forgotten memento left in its hiding place in favor of being out and away before their Master fell upon them. Before he thought to whip them into the chase after their child. He’d had the kukri on his hip when he came upon the mist. A tell-tale wisp made visible only by the flash of lightning.

You recognized the essence in it. You knew it and you knew what it would lead to. And still, old devil. Still you threw yourself after him, maddened as a Wolf outran too long by his prey.

Only now it was not a Wolf and a hare, a Wolf and a hart. This was the bitch’s dog, her hunting hound, made to race and tear and follow commands—but not his. Not directly. No lashing of his will into Jonathan Harker’s mind would slow him. No order, no threat, no curse found traction upon the spectral rush of him. Cloud and man and spirit and beast flitting away, away, away, a parody of the hunts of old down their hill. It seemed his friend had been playing lame too.

He knew the speed of the Vampire, as was natural. Man or woman, fit or ill before their change, would have roughly the same gait.

But where he and the woman held that equal speed, Jonathan Harker was lightning on the ground. What had he truly been before he was turned? What blight or miracle had he kept hidden under a guise of constant frailness? He had not cared enough to mull it then. It was simply another frustration for the pile. Another nettle, another spur. The whole of it grated to the point of torture as, idle as a child at play, Jonathan had slowed long enough to throw a look back over his shoulder.

Grinning. Mocking. And there, at last, his own internal voice flying back into his ex-Master’s face:

Have you truly grown so slow, Count?

Through trees, over hills, onward, away, steering him off course, away from where the coast waited. The ships. The boy on the other side of the Channel.

Again, you did not care. Once in bliss, now in wrath. You went blindly after. Never learning your Lesson, old devil.

I see you wear my knife. Is it for my head? Or is it just to let you pretend something of me will still hold you against my will?

His own mind had leapt out after the fleeting shape, all champing teeth and thunder. Not in words. There was too much anger to fashion into coherence. Only the intent made its way out. Hate-fury-hate-fury-hunt-catch-punish—

Mine!

It had slipped from him. Flown. Bright and cutting and horribly naked in what was both a craving and a declaration. Had his eyes stung? It did not matter. The thought-snarl came again.

Mine mine mine mine mine mine you are Mine as the boy is Mine as the woman is Mine and you You YOU were Mine first by right by claim MINE and I will not be robbed by her by you thief traitor bastard Delilah—

Here came an echo from the deepness of the past, that cruel Lesson that Jonathan had once taught them all as his preying family warred over the greater claim to him, tugging at his mind like spoiled children over the same plaything, and Jonathan had thought those horrid sharp thoughts, the woman think-scream-ordering…

You can't, Darling, no, no, no, never. Don't you take yourself away, no one can steal my Jonathan, not even you.

But now here he was. Jonathan stealing himself out of reach. Just out of reach. His claws had scraped the back of his shirt, a lock of his hair. Close. So close.

Never yours, Jonathan had thought back. Never. You knew it then, you know it now. If you were ever so oblivious as to think otherwise, my Darling would have been slain the moment the Conqueror became the Coveter. When it stopped amusing you to see us huddled together and instead began to fester. Red eyes turning green. Because you knew. For all you made us do, all you ordered from me, it was only possible because I belonged to my Love. First, foremost, always. While you were only ever the thief stealing from her bed.

A thunderclap above. A pounce upon the quarry below. Just slow enough. Just as they made it to the clearing.

They had tumbled and Jonathan had thrashed until he was pinned in the grass. His grin had curdled then, deforming into an expression barely an inch removed from that of a bat’s grimace. He did not look at his captor, but bared his teeth in feral loathing at the hands locked around his wrists. There was a hiss as the grips tightened; enough to have broken bones had he been human. Jonathan’s face contorted into a horror of twitching muscle, his fangs crowding with the spires of sharp neighbors that jutted out and snapped so close they might have torn a swatch of flesh from his ex-Master’s face.

“Off me,” came a glottal excuse for a voice. The quintessence of revulsion.“Off me get off me off OFF—,”

“No,” he’d grated back, daring the nearness of the rabid jaws simply to press himself nearer. The closeness itself seemed to repel another bite as Jonathan twisted under him. “I am Master of your Mistress, thief. I am lord of your lady. If she is above the Son, I am above All, and the moment I loop my thrall through her blighted skull, I shall make a noose of the collar your soul donned for her and drag you screaming by it.”

Thunder had rolled again. Louder, louder, until it had irritated. He could not hear himself aloud and was barely better in his mind.

Why so coy now, draga mea? You have missed the wedding night and your funeral! Not to worry. I have what you left for me. It will stick so prettily in your throat.

The sky roared. And its Master, its Weathermaker for over four-hundred years, puzzled at that. He was not ordering the tempest to make such a din. Under him, another change. Jonathan was still. The monstrous face smoothed. Still unhappy, but abruptly devoid of any emotion greater than disdain. Perhaps with a hint of disbelief.

“Even now you insist upon the act. I had thought you would finally drop your mask entirely for the sake of rage, but no. Still you insist on pretense as though sincerity were as great an anathema to you as Him.” The grimace shifted briefly to an upturned rictus. In a lilting voice, brittle and musical as tinkling glass, “You yourself never loved. You never love! Ha. Twenty years of playacting fooled me no more than it did them after half a millennium.” Jonathan’s face hardened again, the grin turned to a razor. “I will never return to your stage again, Dracula. No more acts. No more charades. No more using me and the imitation of affection as another thing to steal from her. We are all but finished with you.” His fangs bared to the gums with a smile. “Now comes the denouement, balaurul meu.”

Then, fired into his head:

This is the last time you will touch me.

And like that, Jonathan Harker was gone. Dissolved and slithered away with such speed he might have been a puff of smoke blown away by the storm. The thunder boomed again. Not by his will.

There was a sound almost lost under the noise. An animal’s cry. A bird?

He looked up, feeling the skim of something familiar—

Her, her, the woman, thief, wretched bi—

—and had only a heartbeat in which to notice first the silhouette of a great owl outlined against the clouds, then the bolt of lightning racing down to find him.

He had dodged. Not quite fast enough.

Not before the pain landed and made its home from face to neck to arm to everywhere, everything, every possible niche of being that could feel agony. A blast that would have killed a mortal man. Had it taken both eyes, the second bolt may have landed too. But he was not blind and so outpaced that one. And the next. The woman was trying to track his motion once again, the old reverse turned on her Master, but he threw up the wall of fire between them and shot away toward the waiting coast. Running from his own sky. His own creatures.

Now here he sat in the present. In the gloom and the sea-salt air, crammed hastily away with a bed of thin earth in a stolen crate, hunting after his own son while his subjects herded and hounded him, dancing through the gaps they had found in his grip upon them. The old tricks of his perished Loves who had known that his hold was not as complete upon a mass as he would have wished. Animal minds were simple to coerce. The Vampire was its wants before all else and that very nature could war with a Master or Mistress if the focus was split enough.

And his focus was in splinters now. 

You would have laughed to see another suffer it, wouldn’t you, old devil? You took all that was hers once upon a time. Now she takes away all that is yours. Even your storm. Even the shapes of the animals. And him, of course. But then, he gave himself away. Is it not so?

“Silence,” he hissed to the cold mound of the heart. The blood was already starting to congeal within it. “Silence, damn you.”

If you have resorted to talking to yourself, you may do well to keep a diary of your own. Record your last nights for posterity.

He sat up quick enough to crack his neck.

I do apologize for the interruption, Jonathan hummed on. I can only assume you are terribly preoccupied. Either trying to pry into her head or trying to keep her out of yours. Even now, I remain banished to the outskirts of the conversation.

He felt himself smile for the first time in too many nights.

Oh, dear. His poor unschooled friend, who had not had needs or means to build up the walls as his wife had. Well. Let this be a Lesson for him then.

His own mind sprang upon Jonathan’s like jaws snapping shut. He felt the younger psyche spasm and raise phantom hackles at the intrusion. Scrabbling with an unpracticed grip at the Presence that bulled its way in, clawing, breaking, crushing his way across the waters that he could not pass in flesh, and then they were—

How do you like flying now, my friend? Everything you hoped it would be?

In the theatre of the mindscape he was launching himself and his catch back across water and shore and hill and mountaintop, wind whistling around false bodies. He was the Bat, Jonathan pierced a dozen times in his teeth. They were—

This is enough for me.

In the snow, the sun frozen an inch from setting, dead men watching as Jonathan brought down the kukri. Head, heart, limbs, over and over, carving and splitting. There was no collapse into elemental dust here. Only the mincing of a carcass. Even here, even wearing the skin of the living man he’d been, his eyes ran red. They were—

Ah, for a thief, still you go after too little. Let us at least be comfortable.

In Jonathan’s bed, each bite into his throat another night, and all those nights were his ex-Master’s. Kissing, mauling, drinking, sinking teeth to the gums. Only now his friend fought in his jaws. Jonathan’s teeth and claws tore at him as if he meant to shred him out of existence. To no avail. He was the practiced mind, the greater mind, greater will, and in mind and flesh his will was Law. But now he heard the whistle of air overhead, metal and timber swinging down. They were—

You still feel this one, don’t you? Mina feels the one in her throat on the same day it cut her. Does yours come like a blow at the end of each June? Again, Count, my apologies. You’ll not suffer the headache of me once your head is gone.

In the morning of departure. The shovel was in Jonathan’s hands, the edge bloody. No basilisk gaze pinned him now and his ex-Master’s brow was not merely scratched, but cracked like a grisly egg. The spade came down again. His ex-Master’s hand came up. They were—

But my friend, you know from experience how much I love to suffer you. To suffer for you. Saving—

In the ladies’ chamber, Jonathan torn out of three different suckling jaws as the dead Loves of old shrilled and grasped at him—

and sheltering—

In the grim first night, the woman in a deathly Limbo in Jonathan’s arms, the boy barely more than a twitching thought in her belly, on his knees, knife cast aside, bartering and pleading for the safety of his Loves, thankless and ungrateful already in his traitor heart—

 and supporting you all this time. Even now! Do you think me angry for your little trick? Your theft? Your lies? Why, it is nothing but heartening! To think I ever worried you were too soft for the eternity ahead of you! You, so cunning and patient, laying your tripwire over twenty years’ worth of convincing me—me!—that you were a thing worth trusting. Once we clear up this mess with the boy and your pending penance, I could see you eating holes through whole countries with your sweet venom.

Jonathan was in his hand now. A cursing, struggling mote trapped in a fist the size of a small house. The hand tightened. Jonathan howled. Not with pain, for there was no real sensation here. But the revulsion was true enough. He fought and pried at the knuckles of his ex-Master’s grip as if trying to break free of a cesspit.

The fist broke into other hands. A hundred thousand flashes of as many memories, cold clawed touches finding him wherever they felt like landing. Not injuring, of course. Would he hurt his dear friend? No! Only come closer, draga mea, the better to see you, feel you, count your pulses, that is all.

Jonathan bayed and swung and shuddered in the flurry. Every forced turn of the head with a hand on his jaw. Every talon of a nail tickling along chin and throat. Every idle raking of hair or stroke of his shoulder. Every seized arm, caught hand, grabbed hip, rubbed back. All of these blasted Jonathan’s unvarnished hate and disgust through the shared plane of their mind. And the worst of them all had been—

There.

The window in the library.

Their last night as man and monster. When he had spoken his last lying promise and slipped it into his ex-Master’s mouth like candy. Only hate had been there. Hate, disgust, shame. The weight of it staggered.

He staggered.

Jonathan broke free, but did not run, pausing to bare psychic teeth.

I can feel your scandal from here, Count. Even had you been short all the hundred other evils I had to ignore, I think your hypocrisy alone would have nauseated me. How do you sit there stunned at the obvious? Did you seriously believe my mind so pliant a thing that it would ignore the cruelty you held over our heads at every hour and fool myself into think you capable of love? This, when we both know you only consented to the terms for the sake of my payment in pain. Another performance, meant to last all of eternity, as you reveled over how I sunk to nightly agony behind every measured word, every smile, every taste of me ‘freely given.’ Our precious little summer together made infinite.

Here was the crackling fireside, a client and his solicitor beside it, white hair and dark switched around again. One of the early nights to judge by the healing cut on Jonathan’s cheek, the newness of the shadows under his eyes. Eyes whose fear had been so carefully reined in as he’d goaded his host into talk of the land, of its history, of himself in the guise of ancestors. Rapt young thing. After, he had sat then as he sat now, trapped against the arm of the couch, his host almost crushing him into the tufting as the old devil purred incessant questions about what there was waiting for him in England. Were there others like Jonathan there? Ah, he should not build up his hopes too much, souls such as his young friend were a rarity in any place…

Now the pleasant-pleading eyes flamed. Running red again.

This here. Even before the Weird Sisters laughed the truth in your face and you insisted on a lie of a rebuttal. This game was the core of all the years to follow. And now you complain because I played it too well and ran away while you were having fun? Over four-hundred years old and still a petulant child throwing tantrums over a lost toy.

The castle fell away into the heart of a storm. Veins of lightning wound through the black of it as the ex-Master loomed over his subject, his vassal, his traitor, his—

A toy? This alone?

Jonathan was seized in thunderbolts. Marionette strings that burned scarlet.

This is what you think would earn my interest? My protection?

Jonathan bowed and danced and split his face with grinning as the strings pulled.

I could have that from anyone, Jonathan Harker. I could have had that from you for twenty years, no longer leaving the sword hanging above your head, but walking and talking you through every night while your mind sat bound and mute behind your eyes. I could have laughed in your face that November night after I had twisted your head off your shoulders and burned what was left of your wife on my fire. I would have too. If you were anyone other than yourself.

The strings were a net were a web. Jonathan strangled in it, unable to die, to move, to look away as the parade of that prelude to his life in Castle Dracula came and went before him. The deaths and undeaths, the pains and the promises. Mother and child, Master and vassal with the blood never clean from their hands.

 All of this, my friend. All of this is because of you. You, who came to make the sale of Carfax. You, who refused to stay in your proper place among my lost Loves, waiting for my return and all the future I would bring. You, who set the hunting dogs upon me and so forced my hand with the woman. You, who faced the consequences of going among good men, pretending you were a mere hound instead of a jackal, striking them down for a Love you put above their mandates and their cherished divinity. You, who brought that Love to my door, groveling for the sake of your selfish heart.

You, Jonathan Harker. You are my equal in this ‘game’ you say I played. It is one impossible to play alone. If you had not baited me, not teased and strung me along, not made yourself into a vital thing to my heart rather than a mere curiosity, all would have ended swiftly.

 Something shifted. He couldn’t say what. A tipping, a sliding. The fraying of some final tether left straining in his friend’s mind. Jonathan had despised his touch and shown it well enough. Jonathan had raged on behalf of his Loves and the slain and their life that would never be. Jonathan had even managed to offer wrath on his own behalf.

This was not that.

This was an incandescent, a righteous, a Holy conflagration of fury that turned the clinging threads to ash and boiled away the storm into a flaming void. For a moment, Jonathan was not Jonathan at all. He was only a blistering red light. The fire trailing behind him spread like wings, either those of Eros or one of the Fallen. Whichever he was, he seared in his ex-Master’s mind like a torch.

Your heart? YOUR HEART?

A hand of flame pierced him, cooking the centuries-old heart before it was torn out as a cinder.

Even now! Even in your own skull! Even with the stage forsaken and the audience of our son finally free, still you must shroud yourself in this act!? STILL YOU FEIGN KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE BEYOND USING IT AS COLLAR AND CUDGEL!?

Jonathan fractured then, an inferno of indignation and devotion, flaring with the memory of all he had cherished and loathed in his life. Mother and child for the former. His ex-Master for the latter. All smiled for, all made happy as he could endeavor. Yet only mother and child were given all of himself in earnest, their own love reflected back into him, keeping filaments of joy alive even as he brutalized himself with the conviction of his being a worse monster than they could ever be in potentia, deserving of nothing, of worse than nothing, of—

Flashes of his ex-Master, of his voice and embrace and the steady grinding away of his sanity and will and soul under the lord of the castle’s heel, crushed by the weight of self-loathing, dragged up and eaten again and again by the bottomless pit of his ex-Master’s want, of the threat that he must play the game or leave his family to suffer, of a conviction that all of this, every minute of every night, was no more than entertainment, a distraction to grow bored of and smash to pieces should he fail to cozen and serve and be a good Scheherazade ever-after. His penance for the dead men. For his wife. For their son.

That was all it was. All it ever was to Jonathan Harker.

The shock of it came on too quick and too heavy for its owner to catch before it tumbled into the mindscape. It shattered open as it fell and showed all that had been true behind its owner’s eyes. Twenty years’ worth of truth. What he had taken for truth.

The woman, no longer even dreamt of as a companion, but a brittle-bitter comfort. A sibling he had never asked for, but could not deny for her use in keeping his own barbs sharp and for the guarantee of what she anchored to him.

The boy, so suddenly grown, his love uncomplicated and real and awed, an experiment fostered and festering, burrowing into his Father’s heart as blithely as an insect left to gratefully build its nest in the home of a welcoming corpse.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

The keystone against which the sheltering of mother and child, the performance played for the boy, the willingness even to entertain the farce in the first place, all leaned. Why? Why, when he would not have suffered any other victim, any other enemy, any other dear friend to wring such a feat from him like blood from a stone? Why, unless..?

He could not hide it. Could not bury it. Could not raze or deny or shred it into dust. It was too loud, too vivid, too strong. Too starved.

It lunged at Jonathan like its own living thing, an excited Wolf gone mad with hunger, seeing the only thing it wished to eat. Raced, leapt, pounced, dissolved into a frantically grasping wraith of red tears and a heart, unburned but hanging open and raw in its cleaved chest, coiling around Jonathan’s mind and forcing the reality of itself down his throat. Choking on it, the fire of Jonathan Harker went out. Only the man—what had been a man—was left. Staring.

Now would come the laughter. The insult. The dismay. The sour-mocking questions. Oh dear, old devil. Had he really tripped and fallen so? Had he really dared to think that the feeling was returned?

Jonathan, no longer flame or fury, only stood in the black of their shared mind. Still staring. Still…

The shock was not just his ex-Master’s.

The void cracked and splintered. Now. Now the laughter would come. Now another act. Now a sardonic bat of lashes, a false swoon, a coo of cloying flattery, or else the woman herself would dare to graze his mind with her own, the better to jeer alongside her Love, yes, yes, any moment now. Now. Now.

Count. I did not know.

The laughter did not come. No act. No sneer. Not even a ripple of disgust. Nothing. Nothing but—

I’m sorry.

The sentiment was attacked with a thousand tearing teeth. Shredded down to psychic atoms in the hunt for the disingenuous core, the hidden chuckle, the lie, the trick. But Jonathan was no less bare than himself in this space. There was no more to find in the sensation than the feeling itself. It repeated:

I’m sorry. And, just as sincere: I never intended to break your heart. Only to impale it.

The whole of it saturated with an honesty and apology that cut deeper than any bludgeoning of hate.

Sorry is not good enough, my friend. There is no taking it back.

Jonathan, a pillar against the abyss, nodded.

I know. Not for either side. I did tell you. This will end before the year is out. We shall kill you or you shall kill us. It is all that’s left.

Now came a laugh; a familiar hideous sound that unfolded into a trail of chuckling. Giddy, almost.

No, Jonathan Harker. You misunderstand once again. Yes, you and the woman mean to slay me at last. But I remain nothing but loving in my design. All that is left is that you kill me, or—

The void was gone.

They stood in the castle’s chapel. With the certainty of a dream, they knew that the boy was returned. Their only witness as he clung and wept over his mother’s coffin. She had been willed into paralysis by her Master, moving only to maim herself in the box or to gorge herself. Her meals’ dried carrion lay piled and broken around the coffin. The infants’ heads lined in rows while the tiny hearts were left to shrivel.

‘Please, Papa, you have to, please…’

And Papa was, of course. The woman’s Master had slipped the noose of himself through her at last, and now her orders were his orders, and the order was being carried smilingly out by their dear Jonathan. Pardon, his dear Jonathan. The picture of bliss despite his running eyes. Under his chin, the brooch shined. On his knuckle, the gold band had been replaced with a matching stone and clutching dragon. His vows, leaked through the permanent stamp of his grin:

‘I will never look at her again. I will never respond to any word from her. I will speak of her only as if she were dead. And I will love you as you are owed. I will be yours alone. Always. This I will do, or she shall never leave the box or know a moment without pain again. Te iubesc, balaurul meu.’

‘Te iubesc, draga mea.’

And then they were together, in the snug gloom of the great coffin that had been built and delivered in secret months before, undetected in the same chamber as the kukri. Two Grooms lay within it, one joyous and one merely smiling as he wept a stain into his Master’s breast and eternity finally began.

This is how our game ends and the next begins, draga mea. There are consequences to becoming what a monster loves, by accident or intention. He crushed Jonathan to him in their box, hissing. You stole our son. You stole my heart. You stole yourself. I will have all back in time. And you will never slip free again.

 For just a moment, he felt it. Fear breaking through Jonathan’s miasma of shocked anger and distaste. But it was not the whole of him. Horribly, cruelly, crawling up and out from the center of his friend, was that unbroken condolence.

Again. I am sorry, Dracula. This will not come to pass. And even in the dreams where you paint this future as reality, you will still have my sympathy in this single thing. Your love is only a chain. Never an embrace. Only a noose, not a held hand. Our son is perhaps the first and only soul to love you without coercion, and he does so only because we spent his life hiding the worst of you from him. You will shatter that illusion if you think to steal him back. And then what will be left? Only this?

Jonathan’s hand was on his cheek, sweeping away something damp.

I had thought your pretenses only another knife to twist in us. But the performance was for you as well, wasn’t it? It was as close as you could get.

Jonathan was crushed again. Tighter, closer. Enough to snap an ordinary man in half. The arms, illusory though they were, trembled.

 Do not dwell like this. You have your conquest to think of, don’t you? Your march on the Living? Return to that, if it helps. You are four centuries deep in this existence. Twenty years should be nothing to scrape aside. We were a distraction, all of us. Let us go. Let us be enemies. It will hurt less.

There was no need for breath here. No more than there had been a need for breath for anything but speech since the day he ceased to live as a man. Despite this, he buried his face in Jonathan’s neck, his mouth opened to bite, but releasing only a choked and shaking sound. It was followed by more. Then:

I will—I will conquer. I will slaughter. I will rule. But I will not be alone. If I must have you all on tethers, so it will have to be. You should not have made me happy, draga mea.

There was no true contact in the mindscape. No touch, no sense. He shivered just the same as Jonathan’s arms slipped around him.

I promise to make you very unhappy once we cross paths in person. My hate is rivaled only by my Love’s and her endings for you are as imaginative or worse than my own. In the interim, I shall do my best to gain your hate, Count. But that shall be another time.

There was a change. A softening in the phantasmagoria of the dark as the characters in it began to lose their edges. He grasped at Jonathan all the tighter.

I have not dismissed you. It is a long way to England yet. I hope the woman is satisfied with riding the rest of the way with you in a coma.

The thoughts leered, but the intent begged. It wound around Jonathan in a serpent’s coils, holding, clutching, trapping—

Let me go, Count.

No.

Tighter and tighter on the disintegrating form, becoming a cage, a coffin, a clutching fist, a dragon winding around and around its treasure, no no no, mine mine mine—

Before it’s too late.

No!

Within the mind and above the Persephone, thunder cracked and lightning struck. A great, blinding, devastating bolt. It had her voice and a single message to share.

MINE.

And with that, he was back in the cargo hold. The sailor’s heart had been crushed to pulp in his hands. His fingers and eyes ran with the same scarlet runnels. Above deck, he felt the riot of a storm that was not his battering the ship. He cursed and threw himself out to it, wrestling until dawn to hammer the weather smooth again.

In another patch of water, under the same voyeur moon, the Aurora cruised on under a starlit sky. A girl and her young man stood on the deck, her hand over his as he gripped the railing so hard it bent to the shape of his fingers. The young man’s eyes snapped open, lungs jerkily refilling with a gasp they’d not yet learned was reflex more than need.

 Jonathan?

“I’m fine. …How long was that?”

Less than two minutes.

“It felt longer.”

It’s like that. Even when conscious, it will try to drag things into dreaming. Ever a showman.

“Did you trace him? Do you know which ship?”

Yes. The Persephone. Our ports won’t be far apart.

Her smile curved, red as rose petals, thorn-sharp.

And I believe their vessel has hit some stormy weather just now. Though it is endeavoring to ease the worst of it.

“Do you need..?”

No, Darling. I only press when I feel it slacking. It will be wrung out by the time it reaches shore. I will merely be peckish. 

Her smile dimmed a shade as she searched her husband’s face.

Are you certain you’re alright?

“I am, Mina. Even if I weren’t, we could not risk it being you. Not while he’s still scrabbling to take your reins again.”

It showed you, didn’t it?

“Showed what?” Mina looked at him. Read him. Turned over the stone that her husband had freshly laid over the revelations bled out into his mind. “Ah. That.”

That. Was this what hurt you in there?

“I am not—,” Her hand went to his cheek. A rust-colored drop was swept away. “Oh. I thought I felt lightheaded.”

Do not distract. Was learning it what hurt you?

“It did not hurt. Only shamed me, somewhat. It casts a different light on his pending demise.”

A slaying made into euthanasia?

“…That is certainly a word for it.”

There are few others to choose from. Extermination. Justice. Recompense. Safety. But, in its thinnest terms, yes, euthanasia. I would not be surprised if he welcomed it in the end. I think I would.

His hand seized around hers.

“Why?”

She smiled back. The ghost of the living girl made its edges soft.

You would not understand. You do not know what it is to love and be loved by you, Jonathan. To imagine the latter was a lie? Worse, a lie you assumed was known by the one who loved you? I do not know if I could suffer it. More, you remain Love himself. Coveted and giving and, even for the Thing we hunt, pitying. For you champion the feeling in its own right, even as you did not guess that you were more to the Thing than a trophy.

They were silent for a time. Feeling the creep of dawn coming for the horizon. Jonathan looked to her again. Searching.

“Mina. Did you know?”

The possibility occurred to me. It did not mourn the Weird Sisters for more than a year, despite their time with it. Lucy it was bitter for losing only because she was the first conquest of a new land, slain before she could be enjoyed. I, the supposed new companion, was relegated within months to an afterthought. No more or less than a necessary evil in its mind—the hostage there to keep you there. With it. And it speaks volumes that it kept even a fraction of its word to you at all.

It could have taken you at any time, Jonathan. Pounced and bit and fed and turned, all with no one to stop it. But it didn’t. Not merely to see you suffer through the performance as you had before, but because it wanted to hide in the fact that you had free will. That you were immune to all but the most superficial pulls of the mesmer rather than the permanent leash upon my mind. It wanted you free and human and in its company, ‘of your own choosing.’ Or near enough. I can think of no reason for it beyond the Thing hoping for the act to become real.

“I cannot tell if that’s a mark of insanity or sadness.”

Perhaps both. And you do not have to cover yourself in barbs here, my Love. There are things we do not wish on enemies, even if they are deserved. That being said—,

“My plans have not changed, Darling.” He leaned his face into her palm, smiling. “We will dance on his ashes for what he’s done. For what he means to do.”

When we finish, we can pour what’s left of him upon a garden of wild roses. Perhaps it will carry some peace after him.

The rest of their conversation was not in words. It carried on even as they pressed their lips into the perfect mold of each other’s, the tableau of them spied only by another couple who thought they must be their elders as they went along to their own room.

“Now when was the last time you kissed me like that?”

“Oh, hush. I’m sure it was only yesterday I did. Sometime after the banquet, wasn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“And anyway, it’s not the sort of thing for our age, dear. These young people are growing ever brasher out in the open.”

“Yes, in public, on a boat. Most brazen. Lord knows there’s scads of witnesses…”

Daybreak came and the storm departed with it. The one in the sky, at least.

Down below, in the dark, in the dirt inside a box, a smaller tempest raged. Tried to rage. Tried to hold to thunder and lightning and hail. But the death-sleep melted it down into its truer shape, freed from the whipping of desperation in the guise of anger. The grave earth became rosy mud as new tears rolled. Between this and the toll of keeping back the storm, even nursing from the crushed heart had barely helped in stalling the change. Black hair had turned to iron, iron to ancient white.

Dreaming dragged him down and away from his own will. Through the foam of futures yet unborn, through the penalties and precautions yet to be inflicted, all the way to a moonlit window in the library. His friend stood before him. Alive and undead. Wasted and hale. Blue-eyed and red. Cold lips smiling and pressing into his. Joy frozen in place.

In the world outside his mind, the cadaver of an old man moved just enough in his bed of soil to hold the brooch tighter. Enough so that the clasp split his skin and poured ichor over the golden dragon and its treasure. He did not feel it.

But wept just the same. 

[livwritesstuff]

Hi hello!! Summers ending now and it got me thinking, what’s the family’s go to vacation? How does everyone approach vacations in general?

hello hello :)

this is so funny bc I was literally just outlining some back-to-school-related drabbles and realized I literally didn’t make a single summer-related post (probably bc I worked like a dog literally all summer – no different from any other time of year :/)

I feel like while the girls are little, vacations for them look like any other upper middle class New-England family – Cape Cod and Maine, mostly, but maybe they’ll throw in a weekend trip up to northern New Hampshire for the kiddie amusement parks (Story Land ring a bell for any fellow new-englanders??).

I think Steve and Eddie might also consider a camping trip, but it’s pretty evident that Moe at a minimum would be totally miserable and Hazel too probably, and for as much as they both think camping trips are a mandatory rite of passage, they also want the girls to actually enjoy their summer vacations, so they pass on it.

I think they all kind of have their own "wants" so to speak when it comes to a vacation. Steve, as we know, is a National Parks kind of guy, I feel like Eddie's a total history buff and likes to see all the historic sites (esp a historic cemetery). Hazel and Robbie are big into tourist traps, and Moe always has an eye on the sports schedules of wherever they're headed to see if they can maybe catch a game. Planning out an itinerary that hits at least once on all those points definitely isn't a walk in the park, but regardless, their approach to summer vacation is the same -- pick a destination, choose a week in July, and hit the road.

[goblinmatriarch]

Drarry microfic

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt "Follow". 122 words because brevity is not my skill set.

Draco takes Harry to Paris within a month of Harry’s wistful admission that he’s never left the UK – has only left England to travel to Hogwarts.

They aren’t even dating yet, although they are by the time they visit Luxor; Harry desperate to connect to his roots, Draco desperate to give Harry everything.

“Seems like he’ll follow you anywhere,” Weasley says, baffled, on their return from a tour of South America. He scratches the back of his neck as he eyes Harry, laughing with Hermione, tanned and bright-eyed from hiking in Peru, diving off Malpelo, lazing on beaches in Aruba.

Draco startles, then smiles. He may be booking travel and planning itineraries, but Harry’s the one who takes his hand and runs.

[peterrefur]

As long as her hands are so warm ⅏ Wilbur Soot x GN!Reader

Summary: William Gold, a performer, seeks a break from fame and proposes a trip with his partner, Reader, to take a break from life and slow down for a bit. Notes: Hey Mate!!! I’m Peter and I say right away that English is not my first language. I’m curious to hear your opinion about this work in the comments! Enjoy!

𝒜s LoveJoy and I extinguished the candles marking our 100th concert celebration, a wave of relief washed over me. The weight of the relentless schedule lifted, granting me the rare opportunity to relax and simply be; free from the ceaseless churn of thoughts and obligations. 

I couldn't help but marvel at artists who thrive in the whirlwind of weekly gigs, or even more frequent performances! It's crazy. Especially for someone like me—an introvert who grapples with panic during crowded spaces. 

𝒮o, now lying in the cocoon of our hotel bed, I steal a moment to gaze at my beloved, my anchor amidst the chaos of life on the road. They nestle closer, their rhythmic breaths stirring gentle wisps of air against my unshaven chest. With tender fingers, I weave through their hair, finding solace in the simple intimacy of our connection, knowing they'll stand by me through every storm, even when words fail to express my love. 

Continuing to stroke their hair, but as I reach for distraction, checking my bank account on my phone, a peculiar sensation grips my stomach and tightens around my neck—a prelude to either nausea or panic. 

I try to calm my racing breath and look towards the window in the hotel room.  

𝒯he notion of living in America flits through my mind, a tantalizing prospect amid the newfound respite from the relentless demands of fame and performance. 

Maybe? 

Perhaps now that I'll have a break from everything... From social media, from singing, from fans, from spotlight.  

Am I able to take a break? Do I even know what that means?  

After all, isn't the pursuit of self-discovery worth the risk of venturing into the unknown? 

* * * 

“𝒮o, if I understand you correctly, you want to spend New Year's Eve in New York?" Reader inquires, their voice tinged with curiosity as they zip up the suitcase resting on the bed.  

I scratch the back of my neck and lean against the bathroom door, brushing my teeth. "Not really, I want to go back to England with you for two days, maybe three. Repack. Then, we could return to New York and stay there for a while. Until March, perhaps even April?" I respond tentatively, uncertain of how my suggestion will be received. 

Knowing Reader's preference for structured plans and aversion to spontaneous ‘getaways’, I brace myself for their response. “Of course, I'll organise it; I've already found a small flat, not even a studio. One bedroom connected to the kitchen and living room, but enough for us. Plus, there's a sofa if we need extra sleeping space. And don't worry, we have enough savings for it, we have enough savings for that." I say and resume brushing my teeth while listening to the silence of the hotel room.  

𝒜s the moments tick by, the absence of Reader's response weighs heavily on me. Did I say something wrong? Should I have approached the topic differently? Doubt creeps in, mingling with the lingering fear of disrupting Reader's plans and inadvertently coming across as selfish. 

𝒫erhaps, I muse silently, I should take matters into my own hands. Maybe Reader already has plans in mind, and my impromptu proposal is throwing a wrench into their carefully crafted itinerary. Am I being unreasonable? Self-cantered, even? Self-obsessed bitch? 

I spit out the toothpaste and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

A sudden realization dawns upon me. Perhaps Reader is looking for a change, just like I am. Maybe my impromptu proposal has struck a chord within them. With newfound determination, I decide to approach Reader and express my thoughts openly. As I approach them, their eyes meet mine, mirroring the flicker of curiosity that dances within me. 

𝒲ithout hesitation, I blurt out my idea, stumbling over my words in a rush of enthusiasm. 

"I'm tired ... mentally. I know how much is waiting for me..." I manage a faint smile, the weight of anticipation and expectation pressing down on me. "as well as for you in the new year. 2024 promises to be very good for me. For you. For us. And I not only want a break from Wilbur Soot, but I want William Gold, to be with you now. Even if you were to force me out of bed like you used to. All I want is to rest.  And I will fully understand if you say no. Because at the end of the day, I'm the one dragging you on tour and changing your plans for months." As the words spill from my lips, I can't help but acknowledge the weight of my confession. I admit, perhaps for the first time, that I haven't always prioritized their well-being amidst the whirlwind of my own ambitions and aspirations.

𝒯heir eyes fix on me, penetrating and perceptive, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I instinctively avert my gaze, unable to withstand the intensity of their scrutiny. In that moment, I feel naked, stripped bare of pretense and facade. 

Yet, even in my vulnerability, I find solace in the knowledge that I've spoken my truth, laying bare my desires and vulnerabilities before them. 

"Is this what you need? No. Wait," Reader pauses, their brows furrowing in contemplation as they gaze into my eyes. Their smaller hands gently cup my cheeks, grounding me with their touch. "Do you want me to be there for you while you relax? I don't want to be a problem or a distraction," they inquire, their voice carrying a depth of emotion that eludes my grasp.  

"You, a problem?" I shake my head, disbelief tinging my words. "I could be the problem. All you are is a sun in my day, even when the day is full of rain. I want you by my side," I declare, the sincerity of my words reverberating in the air between us. Yet, even as I speak, a nagging doubt creeps in, whispering the fear of sounding manipulative or imposing my desires onto them. 

𝒞an I truly allow myself to lean on them, to relinquish control and accept their support without reservation? And can they, in turn, offer their presence without feeling burdened or constrained? As I search their eyes for answers, I find solace in the warmth of their touch and the tenderness of their gaze. 

I realise that perhaps, just perhaps, I have found the person I have been looking for so, so long. 

"I will be there for you," their words, simple yet profound, stir something deep within me. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, an inexplicable surge of emotion welling up within my chest. Without hesitation, I envelop them in a tight embrace, seeking solace in the warmth of their embrace and the sanctuary of their presence. 

As I bury my face where their neck meets their shoulder, a sense of peace washes over me, chasing away the shadows of doubt and uncertainty that have plagued me for so long. In their arms, I find refuge from the storms of life, a haven of acceptance and understanding that I've long yearned for. 

"Thank you." 

* * * 

𝒮pending days together with them feels like a waking dream, each moment steeped in a timeless embrace that defies the constraints of the world around us. We walk hand in hand, weaving through the bustling streets, our laughter mingling with the rhythm of life pulsating around us. 

 A trip to Whole Foods becomes an adventure in culinary exploration, as we meander through aisles adorned with vibrant produce and artisanal delights. With each item we select, we exchange knowing glances and playful banter, our shared excitement palpable in the air. 

Exchanging knit-caps becomes a symbol of our bond, a tangible reminder of the warmth and comfort we find in each other's presence. Exchanging knit-caps becomes a symbol of our bond, a tangible reminder of the warmth and comfort we find in each other's presence. They specifically learn how to knit to make me a cap. 

 Every US monument we encounter becomes a portal to the past, as we recount its anachronistic history with fervent enthusiasm. With each story we share, we delve deeper into the rich tapestry of American heritage, finding connection and meaning in the echoes of the past. 

Spending time eating popcorn while watching movies becomes a cherished ritual, a sanctuary of relaxation and intimacy amidst the chaos of the world outside.  As we snuggle close on the couch, the glow of the screen illuminating our faces, we lose ourselves in the magic of cinema. 

 Burning one joint for two, as we pass the makeshift torch between us, sharing in the euphoria of a shared high. With each inhale, we surrender to the intoxicating embrace of the moment, our bodies melting into the blissful haze of mutual contentment. 

 Sex becomes an act of pure devotion, a celebration of our connection and mutual desire to make each other feel truly alive. With each touch, each caress, we lose ourselves in the ecstasy of the moment, our bodies becoming vessels of passion and pleasure. 

In those fleeting moments, as we bask in the warmth of each other's presence, our hearts overflow with gratitude for the gift of love and companionship that we share. Whether embarking on a little trip to visit mutual friends or eagerly awaiting their arrival at our doorstep, every moment spent in the company of loved ones becomes an opportunity for joy and connection. 

𝒪ur journey to Niagara Falls with Leandra, Joe, his partner, and Ash. As we stand in awe of nature's majestic spectacle, the roar of the cascading waterfalls echoing in our ears, we find solace in the shared experience and the laughter that bubbles forth from our lips. 

Yet, amidst the beauty of the natural world and the warmth of friendship, it is the presence of Reader that truly fills me with a sense of fulfilment. With each glance exchanged and each tender moment shared, I feel myself growing more and more ready for a future with them by my side. 

𝐼n their eyes, I see the promise of endless possibilities and the unwavering support of a true partner.

[starlingflight]

15 questions for 15 mutuals!

Thank you for the tag @themaraudershavethephonebox 🥰

1. Are you named after anyone? This story is going to tell you everything you need to know about my parents: my maiden name is Scottish and begins 'Mc' - my parents couldn't think of anything to go with it until Die Hard randomly came on the TV and they decided that 'Holly McClane' had a ring to it, and that's how I was named Holly.

2. When was the last time I cried? Two weeks ago my husband and I had a fight, and I, as an only child, obviously can't handle conflict and started crying in the car lol

3. Do you have kids? No, I'm a grown woman who cries in the car

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Me? No, never

5. What sports do you play/have you played? I was never into team sports. I swam as a kid and I did ballet and tap dance into my mid-teens! Now, most of my exercise is in the form of dog walking

6. What's the first thing you notice about other people? Hair - you can tell a lot about a person's vibe from their hair imo

7. Scary movies or happy endings? Scary movies with happy endings! My favourite film franchise is scream (current terrible decisions not included)

8. Any special talents? I'm a qualified lifeguard, so I can save your life, if required, does that count?

9. Where were you born? Yorkshire, England

10. What are your hobbies? Writing (obviously), I'm also trying to learn embroidery but I'm bad at it lol

11. Do you have any pets? 3 dogs & a cat

12. All time favourite piece of media? The Haunting of Hill House - it's a masterpiece from start to finish

13. Fave subject in school? I have a degree in history, hands down my favourite!

14. Dream job? Literally everyone tells me to quit my job and become a travel agent/planner. I love planning trips, if you tell me you want to go on holiday, I will drop everything to find you the best deals and make you an itinerary. Sadly, my current job pays better 🥲

15. Eye colour? - Brown, which I hated as a kid but if it's good enough for Ginny Weasley, it's good enough for me 😂

Tagging: @lanaturnergetup @solongdaisymayy @merlinsbudgiesmugglers @artemisia-black @ginnyw-potter @sophie-hatter-jenkins @thelighthousestale @my-patronus-is-a-champagne-glass @corneliastreet28 @corneliastreet28 @ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey @pitchblackveins @takearisk-x @fizzyginfizz @pocket-lilacs

[hexpea]

Ch. 17 - Anemone In Victorian England, Anemones were given as symbols of love and anticipation. It's believed that the blood of Adonis caused the flower to spring for the first time, Adonis having loved Aphrodite.

The morning sun painted streaks of warmth across the tatami mats as you stirred from the cocoon of tangled limbs you shared with Naoya, your body still humming with the aftermath of the night prior. A soft knock on the fusuma door interrupted the fleeting tranquility. You extricated yourself from Naoya's embrace and, with a sigh, approached the door.

Opening it, you found Daisuke standing there, a small smile playing on his lips. "Good morning," he greeted, his gaze briefly flickering towards the single futon that gave way to the shared warmth of your night.

"Morning, Uncle," you replied, doing your best to hide any signs of dishevelment or discontent. Naoya, still half-asleep, muttered about his mother leaving as he often did in sleep, the words lost in the haze of drowsiness.

Daisuke's eyes fell upon the purple hickey against your neck, a knowing glint in his eyes. You instinctively covered it with your hair, the action not escaping Daisuke's perceptive gaze. "Your flight back to Tokyo is leaving soon," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I suggest you and your...husband," he emphasized the word with a sly smirk, "get ready."

Naoya's mumblings persisted in the background as you nodded, your patience wearing thin. "We'll be ready shortly," you replied, annoyance lacing your tone. 

Daisuke handed you a set of papers, holding onto them sternly as he looked into your eyes. "Your honeymoon information. Remember what's expected of you."

You nodded and accepted the papers with a yank out of his stern grasp. "Thank you, Uncle. I won't forget."

As Daisuke turned to leave, Naoya's voice, still muffled by sleep, resurfaced. "Mother, don't go..." he murmured, the words lost in a sea of his dreams. He slightly flinched and twitched in his sleep.

Daisuke's eyes bore into yours, the weight of his gaze making it clear that he meant business. "Don't let him linger too long in dreamland," he advised, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Remember, you have duties to attend to."

A surge of anger flashed in your eyes, and you shot back with a defiant tone, "I know what I have to do, Uncle. Thank you."

Daisuke's smirk never wavered. "Good. Get it done," he said, his gaze lingering on you. It was clear that your once loving uncle's patience was also wearing thin.

You nodded curtly before sliding the door shut, turmoil boiling within your chest as you turned to look down at Naoya's sleeping form. You knelt beside him, gently shaking his shoulder, rousing him from his sleep. He stirred groggily, his eyes fluttering open with a hint of annoyance. "What's going on?" He grumbled, his voice thick with sleep and a touch of attitude.

You sighed softly, your patience wearing thin already. "We have to get ready," you explained, your tone clipped. "Our flight back to Tokyo is soon."

Naoya let out a low grunt of acknowledgement as he stretched out on the floor, his expression souring at the reminder of their impending departure. "And what's this?" He asked, gesturing toward the papers in your hand as he slowly rose to his feet.

"Daisuke gave us the itinerary for our honeymoon," you replied, your voice tinged with exasperation. "Plane tickets, the villa, the whole nine yards."

Naoya's lips twisted into a smirk. "Oh joy," he muttered sarcastically. "At least I get to meet my death in paradise."

You rolled your eyes in exasperation. "We have some more talking to do first," you mumbled under your breath, more to yourself than to Naoya.

He chuckled darkly as he got up and began to dress, his movements lazy yet deliberate. "At least you didn't deny your task," he quipped while buttoning his white shirt.

Your eyes narrowed at his words, your frustration boiling over. "I wouldn't have let you cum in me last night if I was planning your death anymore," you shot back sharply, your voice laced with venom.

Naoya's smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he masked it with his usual cockiness. "Well, lucky me then," he replied, his tone still dripping with sarcasm. The thought of accidentally impregnating you sent a shiver down his spine, a wave of panic threatening to engulf him. He wasn't usually so reckless, he cursed himself for jeopardizing your already fragile situation with his impulsiveness.

As Naoya loaded your luggage into the car, you stood by, feeling a sense of impending doom creeping over you. Just as you were about to join him, your father and Daisuke approached, their expressions stern and disapproving.

"Y/N," your father's voice cut through the air like a whip, "we need to talk."

You tensed, already dreading the conversation that was about to unfold. "What is it, Father?" You asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Daisuke's gaze bore into you, disappointment evident in his eyes. "You know the gravity of your mission, don't you?" He said, his tone laced with accusation.

You nodded, a knot forming in your stomach. Daisuke had tattled on you once again... "Yes, Uncle. I understand," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how many times I have to confirm that with you."

Your father's voice turned icy as he reminded you of your failure at the reception, the bitterness in his tone palpable. "You ruined what your uncle had planned," he spat, "you jeopardized us."

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words crushing down on you. "I won't disappoint you again," you repeated your promise, grinding your teeth together.

Your father leaned in close, the slightly blue hue over his aging pupils staring you down. "You had better not. You know what will happen if you fail me again, daughter."

Your heart sank at his words, the threat hanging heavy in the air. You knew all too well the consequences of failure in your family. You'd seen many family members face such punishment. As your father and Daisuke turned to leave, you hugged them tightly, the sense of finality in the embrace weighing heavily on your shoulders.

"Goodbye, Father," you mumbled, your voice choked with emotion.

Naoya's impatient voice interrupted the moment, his irritation clear as he called out to you. "Y/N, stop wasting time!" He snapped, his tone cutting like a knife.

You gave your uncle and father a small bow before turning to join Naoya, a bitter taste lingering in your mouth. As Naoya closed the trunk, you couldn't help but mutter under your breath regarding your father, "you have more in common with Zenin Naobito than you think..."

Naoya shot you a curious glance, but before he could question you further, you plastered on a fake smile and leaned against the car, ready to begin the next phase of your travels.

As the car pulled away from the Kamo estate, you couldn't shake off the heaviness you felt in your chest. The fading image of your home stirred conflicting emotions within you, the thought of never being able to return crossed your mind. Naoya, sitting beside you, noticed your somber demeanor.

"You're acting like you're never coming home again," he scoffed, a smirk playing on his lips.

You shrugged nonchalantly, trying to mask your inner turmoil. "Maybe I won't," you muttered under your breath, your words barely audible.

Naoya shot you a sideways glance. "What's got you so spooked?" He asked as you leaned forward and gave the driver an address to a certain gynecological clinic. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when you gave the address. "What are you going there for?"

You sighed in exasperation, "I need to consult a doctor to get the emergency contraception," you explained bluntly, leaving no room for further questioning. Your bluntness startled Naoya for a second, though his face didn't show it. "Do I need to remind you what happened last night?"

Naoya raised an incredulous eyebrow at your revelation. "Emergency contraception? You're overreacting," he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rolling your eyes, you retorted, "overreacting?" You shot him a pointed look, your frustration evident. "It only takes once. It doesn't help that I was on fertility treatments prior to Naohiro's death. Who knows if that's worn off yet...? I'm no fertility expert."

He let out a low, derisive chuckle. "Well, aren't you just a diligent little wife. Can't have any accidental heirs, can we?" His tone dripped with sarcasm. "It's been four months. I'm sure you're fine."

You shot Naoya a withering glare, your patience with his arrogance on its last ropes. "Shut your damn mouth, Naoya," you snapped, your frustration evident. "This isn't a joke."

Naoya just shrugged, his smirk never fading. "Hey, just offering a suggestion, princess," he replied casually, leaning back against the seat. "Maybe a little bun in the oven could buy you some time, give you an excuse to delay your little mission."

Your jaw clenched in anger at his insensitivity. "I'm not going to get pregnant just to stall for time, especially with your child," you retorted, your voice sharp with indignation. "And I certainly won't let you manipulate me into it."

He rolled his eyes, the mask of indifference slipping for just a moment as he cleared his throat. But what started as a simple throat-clearing quickly devolved into a fit of coughing, two bloodied cherry blossom petals spilling onto his palm.

Concern flooded your expression as you reached out toward him. "Naoya, are you okay?"

He quickly hid the petals from your view by enclosing them in his palm, his usual smirk back in place as he waved off your concern. "I'm fine, princess," he says, his voice strained. "Just a little tickle in my throat."

As you stepped out of the clinic, relief washed over you as you clutched the small package containing the pill. You wasted no time in getting back into the car where Naoya sat impatiently. Once settled, the driver pulled away from the curb and began their travel to the airport.

"About time," he muttered, eyeing the package in your hand with mild curiosity.

You shot him a glare as you tore open the package and swallowed the pill, washing it down with a bottle of water. "Don't start," you snapped, your nerves still frayed from the whole ordeal.

Naoya rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of concern in his voice as he replied, "just making sure you didn't get lost in there."

As you pulled up to the airport, your anxiety spiked at the sight of the looming planes. You gripped the armrest tightly, your knuckles turning white with tension. Naoya observed you with a raised eyebrow, his usual smirk replaced by a more contemplative expression. He had remembered the stress of flying to Kyoto that previous Friday.

The two of you navigated the airport with ease, this time Naoya kept his tanto knife stored safely in his checked luggage so as to not cause a scene at security. As your gate and departure time got closer, your anxiety continued to spike. Your blood pressure had gotten so high, it almost felt like the entire airport was spinning.

"You're not gonna faint on me, are you?" He quipped, though there was a softer edge to his tone this time. The two of you were walking down the air bridge to board your plane.

You shot him a glare, but the fear in your eyes betrayed your bravado. "Shut up, Naoya," you muttered, your voice trembling slightly. 

You felt sandwiched on the plane as you walked down the skinny aisle toward your seats. This time, with Naoya in front of you, he took the window seat. Despite, you found yourself shaking like a leaf beside him, trying to ground yourself with the 5-4-3-2-1 method, though it provided little comfort. 

Without any shared words, Naoya extended his hand towards you. You hesitated for a moment, uncertainty warring with your pride, but the intensity of your anxiety won out in the end. With a shaky breath, you reached out and grasped his hand, surprised by the warmth and reassurance it offered. Your eyes met briefly, and in that moment, you saw something flicker in Naoya's gaze, something softer and more genuine than you had ever seen before. It was gone in an instant, replaced once again by his trademark smirk which quivered slightly, but it left a lingering warmth in your chest.

"Thanks," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper and essentially inaudible from the rumbling of the plane. To your surprise, he gently squeezed your hand in response.

"No problem," he replied, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Just try not to pass out on me, okay? I don't want to carry your ass off the plane when it lands."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his attempt at humor, the tension in your chest easing slightly. "I'll do my best," you replied, offering him a small, grateful smile. He returned your smile with a small nod, coughing into his free fist and looking away.

Once arriving back in Tokyo, the familiar surroundings offered a temporary respite from the whirlwind of emotions. The echoes of your father's threats and Daisuke's warnings still resonated in your mind, the mounting tension between duty and personal desires had yet to find its resolution.

Upon returning home, the need to unpack and repack for the upcoming honeymoon gnawed at you. You dragged your luggage into the bedroom, sighing audibly as you unzipped the bag. Clothing spilled out, a chaotic mix of memories and necessities. Naoya lounged on the bed, a lazy smirk on his face as he observed you.

"Unpacking is such a hassle," you grumbled, glancing over at Naoya. "And we have to do it all over again for the damn honeymoon."

Naoya chuckled, his eyes tracing your movements. "Well, lucky for me, I've got a wife to take care of all that now. You'll handle the packing; I'll just reap the benefits of a well-prepared suitcase."

You shot him a wicked grin. "No way, Naoya. You're a big boy, you can do your own packing."

He scoffed playfully, getting off the bed to pinch your side, causing you to yelp. "Oh, come on, princess. Where's the fun in that? Besides, it's a wife's duty to ensure her husband's comfort, right?"

You rolled your eyes, pushing his hand away. "Your comfort isn't exactly my top priority, believe it or not."

Naoya leaned back, smirking. "Well, it should be. Happy husband, happy life, isn't that the saying?" He gave a sarcastic grin as you glared up at him.

"Happy wife, happy life," you grumbled with a smirk of your own as you separated your clothes from your luggage. "And it's still a fucked up saying."

He stretched his arms above his head as he let out a satisfied sigh as if savoring the comfort. "Well, you did good conquering those flight jitters on the way back. Bet the trip to the Maldives will be a breeze for you," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Don't remind me, it's a seventeen-hour flight," you muttered, shivering involuntarily at the mere thought of more flights.

Naoya, ever the opportunist, gripped your shoulders and leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he teased, "oh, please. Our honeymoon is going to be exciting, and not just because of the destination." He released you with a smirk, adding, "I've got some business to discuss with my father. Can you at least do something useful and empty out my luggage?" His tone was demanding, as if he expected nothing less.

You stared up at him suspiciously, the gears in your mind turning as you rolled your eyes. "And what's in it for me?" You retorted, refusing to let him think he could boss you around without consequences.

Naoya's gaze darkened slightly, and leaned toward you once more, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "Well, who knows? Maybe I'll reward you later, princess." He chuckled lowly before straightening up and leaving you to your thoughts.

"Stop calling me that!" You called out to him as he left, grumbling to yourself as you leaned back over your luggage.

Naoya entered the main room of the Zenin estate with a purposeful stride, his jaw clenched tightly as he approached his father, who seemed entirely absorbed in his paperwork that was sprawled out on the tatami mat in front of him. Naobito remained inattentive to his son entering the room, focused solely on the documents spread out on the mats.

Without looking up, Naobito spoke in a disinterested tone. "If you're here to whine about your marital duties, Naoya, spare me the theatrics. I have more pressing matters to attend to."

Naoya's fists tightened at his sides, his patience wearing thin at his father's dismissive tone. Swallowing his pride for once in his life, he forced himself to remain calm as he spoke. "No, Father, it's not about the damn honeymoon," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "It's about some...symptoms I've been experiencing. I need the clan physician to look into it."

Naobito finally lifted his gaze from the papers, his eyes narrowing as he studied his son's demeanor. "Symptoms?" he echoed, his voice laced with skepticism. "What kind of symptoms?"

Naoya hesitated for a moment, his pride warring with his desperation for assistance. "It's nothing," he muttered dismissively, his gaze flickering away for a brief moment before locking back onto his father's. "Just some coughing and...other things. I need to make sure it's nothing serious."

Naobito regarded his son with a scrutinous gaze, sensing there was more to the story than Naoya was letting on. But he chose not to press further, instead nodding curtly. "Very well. I'll let Dr. Kikuchi know," he sighed, his tone giving no hint of warmth. "But remember, Naoya, this illness doesn't get you out of your duties. You're going to the Maldives to satisfy the generosity of that Kamo asshole whether you like it or not."

Naoya bit back a retort, his fists unclenching slightly as he suppressed his frustration. "Of course, Father," he replied with forced civility, a bitter taste lingering in his mouth. "I'll see to it that my...duties...are fulfilled."

With a curt nod, Naobito returned his attention to the papers before him, effectively dismissing his son. Naoya turned on his heel and exited the room, his mind swirling with conflicting emotions. As he made his way back toward your room, he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that his carefully constructed facade was beginning to crumble, revealing the vulnerability he had worked so hard to conceal.

Naoya returned to the bedroom, his steps heavy with the weight of his frustrations. As he entered, he noticed you kneeling on the ground, diligently unpacking his suitcase. His irritation spiked when he saw you folding his button-up shirts instead of hanging them up as he preferred -- as if you would know.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He growled, striding over to you with purposeful steps. Without warning, he yanked you by the hair, causing you to gasp in pain as he forced your body slightly upward.

You gritted your teeth against the pain, refusing to show any sign of weakness. "I'm unpacking your damn bag like you asked," you hissed, your voice tinged with defiance.

Naoya's grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. "Well, you're doing it all wrong, you incompetent little bitch!" He spat, his words dripping with venom. 

You couldn't help the surge of anger that coursed through you at his demeaning words. With a swift elbow to his stomach, you managed to break free from his grasp, causing him to double over in pain. "Fuck you, Naoya!" You snapped, your voice laced with contempt. "Be grateful I even bothered to unpack your sorry ass suitcase."

As Naoya staggered back, clutching his abdomen, a sudden fit of coughing overtook him. His coughs were rough and ragged, each one wracking his body with violence. He stumbled to the edge of the bed, his hand pressed against his chest as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Jesus, Naoya, you have to get that looked at," you muttered, concern evident in your voice as you watched him with furrowed brows.

Naoya nodded weakly between coughs, his face contorted in pain. "I...I know," he managed to choke out, his voice hoarse and strained. "I'm going to see Dr. Kikuchi before we leave for our honeymoon." He did his best to add a sarcastic tone to the word 'honeymoon' but the coughing drowned out his tone. 

As he pulled his hand away, your eyes widened in shock at the sight of blood and petals in his palm. For a moment, you were taken aback, but as he glared up at you, you lifted an eyebrow and scoffed. "Maybe you just opened your arrogant-ass mouth too wide near a cherry tree," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Naoya's glare intensified, his frustration palpable even through his fading coughs. "Sakura season was over a few weeks ago, idiot," he muttered between ragged breaths.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, refusing to let him see any sign of concern. "Well, it's got nothing to do with me," you declared with a defiant tone. "If I'd made my move, you'd be dead already."

Despite the pain etched across his features, he managed a smirk, his eyes flickering with a mixture of annoyance and something else -- something softer, hidden beneath layers of arrogance and pride. "Don't flatter yourself, princess," he retorted with a strained voice. "You're not that deadly."

You gave a soft smile and stepped closer to him, gently tilting his chin up so he looked up at you. "Come on, Naoya, let me take a look," you said softly, your voice devoid of the usual tension between them. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

Naoya hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering with uncertainty, but ultimately he complied, albeit begrudgingly. As you inspected his throat, you noticed the irritation, furrowing your brow in concern. "Your throat looks pretty irritated," you remarked, your tone more serious now. "But cherry blossoms aren't poisonous unless eaten in large amounts, so it's not that. Unless you've developed a craving," you giggled.

Naoya, still looking up at you while you inspected him, felt a warmth spread across his cheeks, a blush coloring his usually stoic expression. You noticed the blush and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Are you feeling feverish at all?" You asked, your concern genuine despite your usual banter.

Suddenly, Naoya yanked away from your grip on his chin, his expression hardening as he stood up and stormed out of the room without a word. You watched him go, shaking your head in exasperation. "Typical," you muttered under your breath.

A few days later, as you finished zipping up your suitcase from re-packing, you glanced over to see Naoya sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression tense as he awaited the arrival of Dr. Kikuchi. You couldn't help but feel a pang of worry gnawing at your insides as you observed him. Had Daisuke done something to him without your knowledge? Despite his usually hard facade, there was something vulnerable about him in that moment, something that tugged at your heartstrings despite your better judgement.

The sound of soft knocking at the shoji door broke the silence, signaling the doctor's arrival. Naoya's jaw clenched tightly as he stood up to open the door, his demeanor rigid and guarded. You watched him from a distance, your curiosity piqued as Dr. Kikuchi entered the room, his presence exuding an air of professionalism and authority.

"Zenin-sama, good afternoon," Dr. Kikuchi greeted with a polite bow, his expression neutral as he glanced around the room. "Shall we proceed with the examination?"

Naoya nodded curtly, going back to sit on the edge of the bed. The doctor placed his bag next to him and opened it, retrieving the necessary items for taking vitals. As Naoya was being examined, you couldn't help but eavesdrop, pretending to fidget with your suitcase and packed belongings. Dr. Kikuchi began the examination, his movements methodical and precise as he checked Naoya's vitals and listened to his breathing. You watched with bated breath as the doctor then proceeded to examine Naoya's throat, his brow furrowing in concern as he inspected the irritated tissue.

"I'd like to discuss the result of your x-ray that you'd gotten the other day," the doctor began, his tone grave as he pulled up the images on a tablet. "There appears to be an abnormal growth in your bronchi, but it doesn't resemble cancerous tissue. Instead, it appears to be...roots of some kind, the core of it spawning outward from your heart and into your lung tissue."

Naoya's eyes widened in surprise, his mask of coldness slipping slightly as he processed the information. "Roots?" He echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. "What the fuck do you mean roots?"

Dr. Kikuchi sighed, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair in frustration. "I wish I could offer a definitive answer, Zenin-sama," he admitted, his expression troubled. "But this is unlike anything I've seen before. It's as if...something is taking over your respiratory system, but I can't say for certain what it is without further testing."

You listened intently, your heart skipping a beat at the gravity of the situation. Despite his callous demeanor towards you, you couldn't help but feel a surge of empathy towards him.

Dr. Kikuchi continued, his voice somber as he discussed the next steps. "I'll be running further tests on your blood work and the samples you provided," he explained, his gaze focused on Naoya. "But for now, I advise you to be careful and enjoy your honeymoon. We'll reconvene when I have more information."

Naoya nodded, his expression unreadable as he absorbed the doctor's words. You watched him closely now, noting the tension in his shoulders and the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. Despite the usual facade of indifference, there was a hint of fear lurking beneath the surface.

As Dr. Kikuchi prepared to leave, you couldn't help but step forward, your concern bubbling over. "Dr. Kikuchi, is there anything we can do to help Naoya?" You asked, chewing on your bottom lip. "Is there any treatment or medication that might alleviate his symptoms until we know more?"

The doctor regarded you with a sympathetic smile, his gaze softening. "I'm afraid there's not much we can do until we have a better understanding of what we're dealing with," he admitted, his tone gentle. "His cough is moderate and he should be stable for the entirety of your trip. But for now, I suggest he take it easy and avoid any strenuous activities. And of course, if his condition worsens, don't hesitate to contact me immediately."

You nodded, your heart heavy with worry as you watched the doctor leave. Naoya remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor as he processed the information. You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, a desire to reach out and offer comfort despite the animosity between you.

"Naoya..." you began tentatively, your voice barely above a whisper. "Are you...alright?"

Naoya glanced up at you, his expression unreadable as he met your gaze. For a moment, there was a flicker of warmth in your direction. But before you could say anything else, he masked it with his usual facade of arrogance, his smirk back in place as he shrugged nonchalantly.

"I'll be fine, princess," he replied with forced bravado, his tone tinged with uncertainty. "Just another bump in the road, that's all."

Dates: June 24, 2018 - Naoya and Y/N depart from Kyoto to go back home to Tokyo. June 28, 2018 - Dr. Kikuchi examines Naoya but doesn't have any definitive answers.

[wileys-russo]

"Let's never speak of this again!" with mearps in the zoo?

mary earps

"oh and look they have two kinds of elephants!" you gasped shoving your phone in your girlfriends face who hummed with an amused smile, knowing there wasn't a point in her saying anything anyway since you were so caught up in your excitment.

"you're such a nerd man, they're just animals!" ella turned around with a laugh from the seat in front as you shot her a filthy look, alessia tugging her back down as you huffed.

"ignore her love. what else do we need to see?" mary squeezed your knee to gain your attention back, your head falling to her shoulder as you flipped from the zoo website to your notes app running her through your ideal itinerary.

"you realise we have like the whole day yeah? we don't have to rush, i'm sure loads of people can see it all in a few hours." mary smiled as you stressed how you didn't want to miss out on anything, the goalkeeper kissing your cheek affectionately.

"look, babies!" you perked up as esme dangled over the back of your seat showing you a live feed of the new lion cubs as you gasped and the two of you fell into conversation, the blonde probably the only person as excited as you were for today.

"alright alright jesus you're gonna yank my hand off woman!" mary groaned as the bus parked up and the girls made their way off, your hand firmly gripping onto marys as you dragged her toward the entrance much to the amusement of everyone else.

"yeah we need those hands thanks, safest hands in england!" rachel yelled after the two of you with a grin. "okay baby. where to first?" mary chuckled once the pair of you were inside, a map tucked into her back pocket.

you'd claimed you'd stared at it on your phone long enough to know the zoo like the back of your hand but mary knew you too well and wanted to be as prepared as possible.

the first couple of hours you spent dragging your girlfriend from animal to animal, rattling off fact after fact much to her amusement and the rest of the girls annoyance and it didn't take long until it was just the two of you.

"see? my plan worked." you sang out with a grin as you and mary stood alone watching the otters, the goalkeeper sending you a funny look. "i knew if i waffled on about the animals enough everyone would leave us alone, much more romantic." you beamed, mary letting out a laugh of surprise.

"oh you're evil, i love you so much." the girl tugged you into a kiss, both of you pulling away with a smile as mary interlocked your fingers and the two of you strode off toward the next animal.

marys grin grew as you both waved at a small group of your united teammates, the girls waving back but making no move to join you much to her pleasure. "see? like our own private zoo date." you winked, the taller girl kissing your cheek.

"did i already tell you i love you?"

though your facts may have driven everyone else up the wall mary genuinely enjoyed learning more about each animal and seeing the way your eyes lit up when she'd asked a question.

your childhood dream had always been to work with animals but once you did a back gate keeper for the day tour of london zoo and realised the job was ninety percent cleaning up after them you were grateful to have chosen football instead.

arriving to the aquatic section was when the dynamic flipped, mary now the one to rattle off fact after fact about the different types of penguins and seals, her interests in whales meaning she'd watched an endless amount of oceanic documentaries.

in fact much to your friends endless teasings that was how most of your date nights when you'd choose to stay in would go, the pair of you happily curled up together on the sofa eating a takeaway and watching some sort of animal documentary.

marys david attenborough impression was even getting better by the day.

pausing your travels to eat lunch with the team you both settled back in with the group, your animal facts banned from the table as you rolled your eyes but indulged their wishes. instead you took ella and maya up on a game of finger football, taking turns to kick a small ball of rubbish through goals made with one anothers hands.

taking an easy victory and leaving behind a fuming tooney for alessia and katie to deal with you and mary eagerly left the group behind again, making a beeline for the africa section.

elephants were your favorite animal and mary knew this, watching on with disgustingly lovesick eyes as the two of you spent well over a half an hour watching them.

next up was the tigers and with the zoo closed to the public for the day and most of the girls having started at this section it once again left just you and mary alone together, the taller girl hugging you tightly from behind as your intertwined hands sat against your stomach.

the two of you watched as two of them began to playfight, mary making quick work of commentating in her infamous attenborough impression, heart swelling at the sound of your laugh.

only it took a split second for the two of you to realise they weren't play fighting, yet you were both seemingly unable to drag your eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of you, wide eyed with both terror and curiosity.

once they'd finished there was a tense silence between the two of you, mary letting go as you spun around to face her. "did we just watch two tigers have sex?" you questioned bluntly as the goalkeeper nodded.

"yep, like a couple of perverts." mary confirmed, another silence falling as you both opened your mouths and spoke again at the same time before hurrying away.

"lets never speak of this again!"

[ninihousebears3000]

Go rant about ur ocs love lives... NOW‼️‼️

THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!

You just kicked down a damn!

The love lives of the House of Gloria members.

Soto Gloria x Walter C. Dornez

This old unassuming gardener and resident doctor(with unusual methods) actually had one interesting affair with a well-known butler. Yeah, he and Walter were a thing back in the day.

What year was it, Soto will never divulge any details.

Maybe Walter had visited South America multiple times before? And maybe there was a certain beautiful young man he met when he was at a restaurant? What started as sharing drinks to maybe a sleepover, maybe a summer fling?

Despite being alone for a lot of his young life Soto can't stand being alone. Walter found Soto to be a very peaceful man to be around. Like the world slows down when the two are together.

When Walter left Rio there was this light tugging feeling in his chest. What if he never returned to England?

Once summer ended Walter returned to England as his work was done in Rio. And Soto returned to college. They kept in contact by letters (Walter has his own PO box) often talking about their lives, well as much as they could share. It seemed only Soto expressed wanting to meet again.

The letters slowed down eventually with only Soto updating Walter on his travels around the world and how tired he is from school.

Years later Soto had been traveling Europe and just so happened to be staying in London.

Walter received a letter from Soto informing him he was in England on business. Walter sent back an itinerary of the best local spots.

Although Walter can't quite remember if the two met up in London he feels like they spent a few days together but he can't pinpoint any details.

At the same time, mysterious assassinations started to occur of high-ranking people from a rich secret society who were found with a poisonous plant sprouting from their bodies. This didn't catch Hellsing's full attention as there was no evidence of a vampire involved. Until a vampire randomly killed another member of this society but said vampire was left barely alive with the effects of the poison running its course but not killing it.

The last Walter remembers is when Soto left a letter stating that he was going back home to the States. And the assassinations seemingly stopped.

Madam Zoella A. Gloria x Soto Gloria

Let's just say being betrayed by loved ones may have affected the Madam's love life.

She tried having relationships but often felt she could never be truly open with her partner. Madam Gloria was fine with having an affair with a married person. She found comfort knowing it would amount to nothing. Until she found out that the married couple was just using the affair to try to drain her of her power via absorbing her soul. As if the past was repeating itself out of self-defense she pulled an uno reverse card.

After a while, Madam gave up on romance entirely, feeling as if no one would truly love her. At this point in time she was alone with no one friend.

Then she came across this beautiful man named Soto working at the flower shop. An acquaintance turned into a pleasant friendship it was nice taking things slowly. Although there was this nagging feeling that Soto wasn't just a simple plant enthusiast. But it felt nice pretending to be a normal human being.

Until she walked on him telling a plant to grow and it grew.

Some sorceress she is and she didn't notice anything. Ripping the band-aid off she revealed her magic to him and offered him a job as her assistant.

He accepted starting a pleasant work relationship.

Assassination attempts were strangely common for Madam Gloria. Soto offered to negotiate peace with their enemies across the seas in London.

That was the first time Madam Gloria called him 'my heart'.

Maybe their love isn't the healthiest? Maybe Madam expecting her lover to give her 200% 24/7 is a little unreasonable? And maybe Soto not hesitating to massacre an entire room of people that insulted his lover may not be very healthy or safe? But what's important is that they are happy.

Oh wait they got married.

Zo Gloria x Alucard

'Canonically' Zo doesn't really have any love interests.

That's not to say that she doesn't have a line of simps that find her intimidating.

But if she was to be shipped with Alucard I kinda picture them having a weird relationship.

Yes, it did start with Alucard bothering Zo. And her ruthlessly ignoring him.

She has a spell cast over her mind that prevents Alucard from reading it. It's one of the reasons why he found her intriguing—a mind he couldn't waltz into, how fascinating.

Zo hates to admit it but Alucard feels familiar?? She feels the urge to tell him to don't die again.

She doesn't know why she cares about him either.

Why does Alucard have dreams lying down on a damp green pasture watching the sun rise whenever Zo is in England?

Until Madam Gloria gives the word Zo has no desire to fight Alucard.

And Alucard is very curious about her powers and her true identity.

They both have sporadic conversations about philosophy while in battle or someone is walking on the ceiling during this discussion.

Alucard does try urging her to stop self-loathing feeling that she is 'innocent' compared to him.

The most intimate they get in their 'canon' is that they sleep together.

Harveen Saint x Seras Victoria

I do have it in 'canon' that they are besties but I mean who wouldn't want to give Seras a girlfriend?

Okay, and how could I not ship the students from different schools together?!!

Harveen and Seras both relate to each other in the sense that wow we chose this life but man there was a lot of fine print I am just now reading.

They also relate to having masters who are whack teachers.

Harveen: And then Zo said 'Are you going to slow me down again?' This was after I was stabbed twice!

Seras: So mean!

Seras: Alucard yelled at me and called me a coward after questioning him about massacring a human SWAT team!

Harveen: So out of pocket!