#abandoned by what might as well have been another parent in the form of their sire...

[byanyan]

byan in their fledgling verse being more depressed than ever because they feel even more abandoned now than they did in life. byan being angrier than ever because somehow, their life has become even more unfair and they feel like a stupid, worthless kid again, left to fend for themself and figure everything out on their own. again.

this manifesting some days in low energy and them struggling to bother leaving whatever hole in the wall they've crawled into, often sleeping through most if not the entire night. a suicidal urge to step out into the sunlight, but they're physically incapable of bringing themself to do it, to put themself out of their misery. a temptation to let themself get hit by a car just to fucking feel something. hunting around bars and clubs in order to feed on those who are drunk or high so they don't have to spend the night sober.

other times, it manifesting in increased volatility and destruction. they're faster to snap or resort to violence than ever before, many nights spent breaking things, destroying property, and beating anyone who gets in their way. the fights they get into for "fun" are more brutal, get taken farther than they ever used to, sometimes resulting in someone dead at their hands accidentally, still not knowing their new strength and thus not having proper control over it. being more prone to frenzy, but it being as easily triggered by desperate rage as by hunger.

byan being a fucking mess, isolated and furious and not knowing what to fucking do, and concealing this as best they can from the few people they have in their life.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 14

Tim was the best thing to ever happen to Danny.

He didn't mean that just because how much of a sappy romantic he was to Tim, but because he literally saved him from his own mind.

Danny was never going to leave Amity Park so long as the portal was open.

The portal would always remain open between his parents practically treating it like thier third child and thier ability to simply make another if anything would have happened to that one. Not to mention the super creep named Vlad.

So Danny would have stayed in Amity forever, cleaning up after his parents and being miserable.

Or ya know. Until they managed to kill him.

But then Tim came into his life and fixed everything. He befriended Danny over nightime rooftop rendezvous and groaning at his dumb (read awesome) puns.

As they got closer Sam and Tucker seemed to get both anxious and angry. Were they jealous? What right did they have after the Gregor incident?! Its true that they'd both been to busy to hand out with Danny for the past few weeks, leaving Danny with only Tim to turn to for company.

Tim pointed out that they may feel threatened knowing someone else knows his secret and Danny couldn't help but agree.

Tim pointed out that Danny was going to be stuck here cleaning up after his parent the rest of his life if he didn't find a way to stop the portal. Danny had nearly broke down at that and admitted he didn't know what else to do, so Tim devised a plan with that big beautiful brain of his.

They created a machine that ran on ectoplasm and magic that could wipe information from both technology and the human brain. They could remove all traces of ghosts ever existing in this town and erase 20 years of knowledge and research from Vlad and the Fentons minds, but it would come at a cost as magic usually does.

They would have to forget Danny existed as well. Tim offered that they could run away together.

Danny decided that was okay. The only person he had left in this town who had cared about him was Jazz and she was better off without him there to get her hurt.

Tim also had a plan to strip Vlad of his powers as well as his knowledge, and Danny was looking forward to not having to deal with him anymore

It was the day after everything went down, Tim was driving the GAV while Danny flew in the Ops Centers Jet form. They had made sure to swipe everything they could from the labs as well as everything the thought they needed to travel to Tims home dimension.

Danny had promised to help Tim uncover the secrets of his past and who he really was and to do that they essentially planned to travel around the Earth being wandering criminals.

Between Tims intellect and Dannys powers they were undefeated and unnoticed. They stole whatever they wanted and did whatever they pleased, making sure no one had to get hurt unless there was no other options.

Of course they stole cash from bank vaults as well as whatever else was in there. They couldn't stop Phantom from entering since anti-meta tech didn't affect him and couldnt track Phantom due to him being whatever he was plus the collar Tim had helped Danny design that covered up his ecto-signature.

They lived like this for over a year, breaking in to abandoned places, having waterfights in large city waterfountains (and running when they heard police sirens), tagging some of the places they'd hit when they wanted to leave a message, long romantic walks at night, lots of laughter, going on dates to restaurants (they never dine & dash. Some places make the wait staff pay which is bull and they might want to return to that establishment at some point), that one time they stole a $900 wedding cake from a homophobic bakery owner, lots of Fake out-Make outs to avoid getting sent to jail, ect.

They were having the time of thier lives up until they stopped in a little 24 hour diner in Bludhaven. They were doing what they usually do, flirting and laughing until the waiter takes thier order, when a guy approached thier table. Tim and Danny exchanged worried looks before the guy held up his hands in mock surrender, "I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise, I'm Dick Grayson." The man held out his hand to Tim, who hesitated before shaking it, "Tim," he answered honestly.

Danny nudged him with his foot under the table.

The man smiled wide, "Like Tim Drake?"

Tim and Danny looked confused, "Like who?" Danny asked and Dicks smile faltered

[see-arcane]

Before the journal opened

Before it saved his life

Before Hell staked a claim

Before he swung his knife

A storm rolled in with the spring

And hope paved his long way

Through monsters and their red wants

He takes step one today.

WARNING: Contains some grisly imagery towards the end.

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Chapter 2 Preview is available here

Chapter 3 via Substack here

Harker

C.R. Kane

March to April

Spring rolled in more grey than green that week. It dribbled rain through morning and noon, pondering to itself whether it would save an encore for evening in the way of a proper storm. The songbirds and the street noise went on as best they could between showers. They made up the only true din in Jonathan Harker’s corner, not counting the hammering of the typewriter or an occasional rustle of sheets. The usual low cacophony of the firm had been whittled down immensely due to the cough that had been shared at the start of the week and sent the greater part of Peter Hawkins’ small legion home to hack and sniffle in private.

This left Jonathan somewhat abandoned, not counting Hawkins’ presence behind the office door. It was just as well. He’d been splitting his attention between the eternal tower of logistical and legal chores that ruled his desk and the shorthand notes made in preparation for his exam. Such had been his constant state for the past two months. There had been ribbing from all directions, some bemoaning the imminent loss of a load-bearing clerk, others saying now they could draw lots and boot someone else out the door, and still more wheedling about whether or not they could still drag him in place as a shield when clientele of a certain incendiary temperament came around. Please?

Jonathan had remained ominously mum. Groans and lamentations ensued.

This was a joke, of course. Young Mr. Harker was nothing if not dedicated to the task of transmuting Hawkins’ charity to a whipcord child fifteen years prior into a proper investment. Case in point, using a lull in his own workload to get things in order for those bedridden solicitors who had the nearest deadlines pending. Bentley idled through with his tea as he did and shook his head.

“Don’t know what it is that comes with your kind, Harker, but it’s a busier thing that any of us idle English have. We’re down two thirds of the building and here you are doing three-quarters of the work. Get the examination out of the way and you may as well tell the old man to retire.” A thoughtful sip came from behind the porcelain. “Must be something they teach you Gurkha sorts, eh? Some kind of discipline our doughy little English schoolboys never get knocked in their heads.”

Jonathan weighed the decision of whether or not to give Arnold Bentley his bimonthly reminder that he was, in fact, English by birth. His parents as well. But the reminder would likely fall into the same pit between the man’s ears where all the others had gone. Worse, it might risk a tally mark against him in whatever invisible score was kept by peers. The one that determined whether the combination of Jonathan’s physiognomy and disposition really were enough to pardon his status or not. He finished this measuring of scales in less than a blink. A smile was summoned.

“Not at all. Just helping where things can be helped.” He straightened a sheaf of forms back in order. “That, and I cannot go a day without productivity, or else I shall have to go home and carve my hand with the kukri knife in penance.”

Bentley paused halfway through his laugh when Jonathan held his gaze. He gawped over his cup.

“God. Really?”

“No, not really. My penmanship would suffer terribly.”

This spurred a louder guffaw from the man, likewise a rattling clap of his open palm to Jonathan’s shoulder. Then he was out like a breeze to carry on with whatever it was he had drifted from in his own territory of the building. Jonathan resumed his interrupted rhythm. Read. Check. Write. Type. Read. Check. Write. Type. So he went for another hour before his watch told him it was time to check the post.

He stepped out during a lull of rain. The thunder talked with itself in the slate-dark clouds, debating whether or not to turn the spigot on the moment the wad of envelopes was out in the open. Jonathan applauded himself on dodging the first drops of the deluge by seconds. Peeking through the window, he saw there were even a few fitful winks of lightning hopping through the sky. What few pedestrians were left went running for shops they had no interest in, restaurants they had no appetites for, and cabs that turned frustratingly scarce within the minute. Jonathan grimaced in premonition of the dash he and Mina would have to make under the umbrella once she was free of her students.

But that was for later. For now, he flipped through the day’s heap and dealt them out to the waiting desks, occupied or not. The last in the stack was a familiar packet and one of extraordinary make. It was patterned with the stamps of myriad countries with ornate flourishes in the writing. A thick crimson seal sporting a rearing dragon marked it as the second delivery from the same foreign estate that had written to Hawkins in February. A castle set in the backdrop of the Carpathians.

Jonathan had felt his heart twist the first time he’d handled a parcel from the address and it twisted doubly hard now. There had been time in the interim to start combing through Exeter’s libraries for any beginning details to have ready should Hawkins want some background to aid one of the solicitors, especially in the case of a potential trip. If the latter came to pass, it would mean a visit to London and a perusal of denser material. A fine enough excuse to wander the superior bookcases and the British Museum on its own. But the luster of the errand was already gone in his mind. The first glimpse of the prospective client’s territory in the first book he’d cracked open, wrought in illustrations and sparse photographs as it was, sent a spear of longing through Jonathan’s chest that still hadn’t left.

Why would anyone living there want to trade such a place for England?

Jonathan was not oblivious to the advantages of the country. He understood his good fortune in access to modern works, from amenities to entertainments; at least in theory. With cautious budgeting. But all his life had been spent in cramped rooms or congested streets. The presence of a park, a farmer’s field, a distant beach, or a picturesque cemetery were the nearest he would ever come to the broad and chainless beauty of places not yet stomped flat with bricks and smoke.

Imagine! Meadows and hills, valleys and forests, all topped with the great serrated crown of the mountains. Cities and villages worn smooth with generations going back through centuries.

Imagine being there with her. Seeing sunrise flood over the peaks, walking old roads and footpaths, tasting and seeing and playing and breathing in a place without its laces drawn like a noose around throat and purse. The trains alone would be enough for her, true, but we would find somewhere to stop. Somewhere in every swatch of the countryside. At some point, as she became lost in a view, in a meal, in a walk, she would see me on my knee and what I held in my hand, and the wedding could happen right there in an ancient chapel, and then…

But the fantasy turned to dust before it could finish.

The required funds were cudgel enough to smash the whole daydream to atoms. At most they might manage a trip someplace other than their usual heights of hedonism. That was, a brief trip to Piccadilly and back. Maybe a bit of theatre. Possibly a picnic. Perhaps even some further place in the Isles. Somewhere rich with quiet and history of its own, but likely not across the Channel. Never a locale so far and mythic as the place Hawkins’ new client seemed interested in abandoning. Jonathan pictured Hawkins writing back to the noble on his behalf, wailing at the stranger not to forsake his fairy tale castle for the doldrums of a Londoner’s garish crate of a manse, no matter how crusted in filigree.

Save yourself! Do not trade your mountains for an English molehill!  Turn back, turn back!

But that would be a poor way to run the firm, wouldn’t it? Resigned, he brought the packet to Hawkins’ office and knocked at the door.

“It’s open, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ducked in with his smile already nailed in place. It was an expression he now had to work at as recent months plodded on and Peter Hawkins’ complexion failed to improve. The man behind the broad desk was only half as rubicund as he’d been the year before. He had insisted to everyone who dared ask that he was merely suffering from a particularly ugly attack of gout and that he would be fine in a week or so. As it stood, Hawkins could still sit up straight and bellow thanks when Jonathan came by with his delivery. He even turned a shade ruddier upon seeing the dragon’s seal.

“Well now,” he said through a grin. He turned the packet over and pointed it at Jonathan. “Have you taken lunch?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Go on and fill up quick. If this is what I believe it is, I expect I’ll need your ear within the hour.”

So saying, Hawkins slit the packet open and began to read. Jonathan dismissed himself with his fingers crossed in his pocket. Perhaps the British Museum wasn’t too far off after all. That and the London libraries. It would be too brief a visit for anything more extravagant than what Lucy referred to as his and Mina’s ‘academic holidays,’ but it would make an interesting exercise just the same. Plotting the trip was a pleasant enough distraction to eat to.

He finished just as he heard the tell-tale grunt and shuffle that meant Hawkins was hefting himself up to trudge around his desk. Jonathan flew to the door first, only just recalling to swat his knuckles against the wood before opening it. Hawkins looked up with a shock before gratefully flopping himself back into his chair.

“You have a dog’s hearing and cat’s feet. Ought to have a bell on you to give an old man some warning.”

“Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Saved me dragging myself around unduly.” Hawkins thumped a hand on the desk as if patting a horse. “I suppose I need to throw this out and trade desks with you. I can make it past that little square of yours in no time.” He thought further on it. “Less than a minute, anyhow.” He made a face that couldn’t decide itself between a smile or a grimace. “My doctor, who only seems to tell me what I already know, declares that I am not fit for any arduous travel. In his terms, that includes going further than the street corner on foot. Even a train ride is apparently a gamble, being that I should be in bed resting and rotting like a good patient rather than hobbling my way to and from the cab to work. Already I press his orders and my luck. Which means this,” he held up an envelope, “is out of the question for me.”

Jonathan recognized the torn envelope and scarlet seal. What held him up was the recognition that it was the first of the two packets. The February delivery.

“That’s unfortunate. Who was the client?”

Hawkins grinned in earnest now, purposefully turning the envelope so that the address was hidden.

“You tell me.”

Jonathan offered half a smile back. It was an old game that had begun years ago when he was still just a bookish boy underfoot, helping around the office for whatever could be spared for a child’s wage. Even then his eyes had been hungry things.

“Count Dracula, from the castle of the same name, of Transylvania. The address is from a Bistritz postal service situated in the Carpathians.”

“True and true.” Hawkins set the envelope on the desk and tapped it with a thick finger. “Curious taste in property, this one. Likely has the cravings of a renovator. No trouble on our side but for the hunting. But the esteemed gentleman is so damnably far into the Continent that I couldn’t rightly offer myself up in the way he’s asking. I ought to say, the way he insists upon buying. The way our Count puts it, he would rather pay every fee of travel for his English solicitor to and from his keep in the mountains, and play host on top, rather than, he says, ‘Suffer bartering land through stationery.’ In short, he’s willing to ship a solicitor to his door rather than play at this back-and-forth for all his questions, all out of his own pocket. He wants someone who’s not just going to find and sell the manner of place he’s after, but someone who can play encyclopedia if he’s unsure of something.” 

“Hence him being prepared to rent out the owner of the firm for an in-person visit,” Jonathan finished. Hawkins gave a nod.

“And the owner might have been up for it a decade or so ago. But time marches and gout outweighs gold. So I fear that leaves me out of the picture.” Jonathan watched Hawkins fold his hands with a calculated laxness on the desk. “Your examination is coming up.”

Lightning flickered outside. More danced across Jonathan’s brain.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You have been my clerk since you were old enough to rent a flat,” Hawkins went on. “My apprentice and professional living plaster to this place well before that.”

“Yes,” Jonathan breathed more than spoke. He feared his vocabulary was leaking out both ears while his heart tried to climb his throat.

“And,” Hawkins half-leaned over the desk, “you have been holding onto her ring since last year. Haven’t you?”

Heat rushed up to Jonathan’s face as he got out, “…Yes. I have. Sir, are you—,”

Hawkins brandished the packet Jonathan brought through the door an hour ago. This he laid beside the February envelope so that the pair of them seemed like strange square eyes staring up at him.

“I need you to understand: This is not an offer as much as a prayer. If there’s no chance with you, that means Bentley is the next choice. He’s my longest running man here and is liable to set up his own firm before the decade’s out. But for all that, and for all that he is a trustworthy one to patter with most Englishmen, I would sooner trust a cat with a lame canary than Bentley to not choke on his own tongue with a foreigner. Clients of noble lineage included. The man can barely toe his way around an Irishman let alone anyone from across the Channel. And, since the door is shut and no one is around to cry nepotism, I can speak the unvarnished truth.

“You could do with one week what anyone else here could manage inside a month and have it done better. That is not me being rosy about the past or present, that is me having eyes that work and a basis of comparison between how things ran before you began working here and after. The after is smooth as silk compared to the pre-Harker gravel. Stable gravel, I allow, but not nearly as easy a burden as things became once you were attacking the paperwork. And the footwork.” Hawkins raised a caterpillar brow at him. “Any good finds in the local bookshelves?”

“Not as many as I hoped,” Jonathan thought he heard himself say. It was hard to tell as he seemed to have relocated to some remote island in his skull and could only register what was happening as if from across an ocean. “I wanted to stop by the options in London if I had the chance. Just to gather some background on the client’s location if it was needed.”

“I’d say it is,” Hawkins hummed. “Supposing you can tell me you have your schedule open for some traveling come May.”

Jonathan told him it was. Hawkins told him to go to the corner cabinet and move the bust of Alexander off the high shelf. Then to bring down the bottle and two tumblers. There were toasts and there was talk and there was a laughing chide from the older man as he shooed Jonathan’s pocket notebook back from whence it came. No notes today, young man. At least not right now. Actually, perhaps one for later. Did he have time open to visit a tailor? There was a travel budget that was about to go unused if the Count was to have his way. It may as well go toward a good cause. Hawkins could hardly send his best solicitor to a noble’s door without looking his best, and it was for the firm’s image, really, so it could hardly be helped, and the doctor couldn’t grudge him such paltry exercise as going to harangue a suit seller…

Jonathan’s eyes burned and his face ached with smiling. He was mortified to find himself close to a sob before turning the sound into a coughing laugh. Hawkins told him to drink, not inhale. That turned the next sound into a true chuckle. He couldn’t tell whether it was an effect of the liquor or his own imagination that made it seem as if the thunder was laughing too.

“Transylvania,” Mina said for the dozenth time.

“Transylvania,” Jonathan echoed. He turned to face her rather than cling to the charade that either of them were focused enough to continue their mutual study. His pile included the texts that had come to haunt his subconscious with its rules and rites of property law, now with the hypnotic temptation of the library books waiting just an arm’s length away. Mina, who Jonathan knew was as much or more a pillar of solid focus than himself, had not a mote of attention to spare for the papers taken from the realm of educational etiquette or her personal project of mirroring and translating his shorthand. The latter made a certain gleeful anticipation turn over in his stomach. It left him floundering between elation and anxiety with equal force until he thought he might lose his last meal on the floorboards.

Which would be a shame, as he and Mina had combined their efforts into a delightful result in Jonathan’s narrow kitchen. Jonathan had only half-jokingly implied that they were making a child’s ideal feast because he was, in fact, giddy as a boy who’d just shaken hands with Father Christmas. Mina had declared this was nonsense.

“A supper made of breakfast is an entirely sound culinary decision.”

“Yes, Miss Murray,” in his best schoolboy tone. “Did you want crêpes or toast?”

“Crêpes. Extra cream.”

They had giggled like children over their respective plates. Just as they did over the rapidly ignored chores they had planned for themselves after. It was the frightful intoxication of feeling the future unrolling into a new smiling mystery before them. One that whispered, yes, yes, this is real, this is coming true. A future that might include…

Jonathan gulped down a heavy lump of air as his gaze flicked again to the sheet of shorthand messages he had scribbled out for her to translate. She had stopped halfway through. Close, close, close. But he didn’t let his stare linger. Instead he found her face again, still glowing. Jonathan was forever surprised that he had not dreamt her up as a boy and continued dreaming her until now. It surprised him more that he had managed to earn her love and dumbfounded him entirely to think that she regarded herself in the same terms. More, that she insisted she was the luckier half of their equation. He did not follow her meaning then, nor did he think he ever would.

“Mina, anyone with a sliver of sense in their head would feel the same for you,” he had insisted more than once. Each time she had smiled and shaken her head. Her eyes forever bright with a sweet-somber knowledge he couldn’t decipher.

“There is plenty of sense to spare. Loving hearts as well. But there is a different lens that women see the world through and it shows things men shall never have to see. It shows so much to watch for. To be wary of, or to hope for, or to know not to expect because life has made it clear that so much of what’s dreamt of only exists for a few, while the rest make do with storybooks and stage plays.” Her hand had held tight in his. “You were not meant to exist outside the borders of a fairy tale, Jonathan Harker. That you cannot see as much for yourself makes me wonder if someone really did peel you off a page and if you will vanish back to a fair princess somewhere when I wake up.”

“That implies I am either a prince or some clever farmhand. I’m cut out for neither. I am a squire at best. Though I would not settle for a mere princess either way, however fair.” He had dared a grin at her. “Or have you already forgotten Mrs. Westenra’s unique stance on the matter?”

Memory had nettled Mina out of her glumness with a sputter that tried and failed not to turn into shamefaced laughter. She had improved somewhat in the years since the incident itself, back when the whole ring of persons involved had flamed with embarrassment over the misunderstanding of Jonathan’s presence when spotted with Miss Lucille Westenra and her companion Miss Mina Murray now that all of them had stretched out of childhood and into the far end of adolescence. Followed by the ensuing inquiry as to why Mr. Harker had been baffled at the very concept of seeking to gain Miss Westenra’s affection as anything more than a friend.

Jonathan remembered sitting in one of the gilded rooms of the Westenra estate, sat across from Lucy’s increasingly rose-faced mother as she came to the belated realization that Mina Murray’s young man was not trying to court anyone other than Mina Murray. Worse, it had been left on his shoulders to steer the conversation out of potential wreckage by thanking his hostess for clearly being concerned on Mina’s own behalf, as there were too many people in the world who took the notion of seeking out a secret paramour behind another’s back as a matter of course. He was heartened to know that Mrs. Westenra cared enough to be mindful should an actual cad come into the orbit of her daughter or her friends.

Still flushed, Mrs. Westenra had chased agreement in this, poured on apologies for the mistake and had thankfully never brushed the topic since. Though Lucy had words enough to spare on the matter for months afterward. She had languished at them in the garden about it, the image of woe in peach blossom tailoring.

“Jonathan, I fear we must become enemies,” she’d intoned gravely. “You must walk with a cane in hand and I must brandish my parasol so that we keep our distance and never risk breathing the same air. We cannot even deafen poor Mina’s ears with the Bard or eavesdroppers will take us knowing the lines of Hamlet and Ophelia as proof of a tryst. Perhaps we should go around with our hats pulled down over our eyes, lest we give into temptation and acknowledge each other’s existence while being the opposite sex. It is our only chance of salvation.”

“Miss Lindon again?” from Mina, her smile placid. Jonathan knew she wore the same callused shell he did when it came to the patter that trickled down from higher tiers than theirs. Those tiers were many and their squabbles almost alien in what they deemed worth sniping about behind their fans and cigars. The infamous Miss Lindon was apparently a thorn too serrated even for Lucy’s compassion to withstand.

“Very much Miss Lindon again. ‘He would just do for you, Lucy.’ As though she thought I would be doing a charity by going behind my friend’s back and she were doing a charity by her sneering compliment. At least nature was kind enough to spare me having to think of a similarly charitable rebuttal, as a beetle helpfully flew into her hair a moment later and she went running. One must take silver linings when they come. Unrelatedly, Jonathan, when you do become a solicitor in full, should Miss Lindon and her future beau ever approach you for a house..?”

“I shall do what I can to find them a lovely estate,” Jonathan assured. “In Northumberland.”

“Next door to an entomologist?” Mina asked over her cup.

“Of course.”

Jonathan blinked the recollection away, wondering whether it was the dizziness of the day or the ticking of the clock between Mina and the final line of shorthand that was making his mind slosh. Perhaps it was simply the subconscious’ effort to dodge the weight of the evening and what it might promise. His thoughts were fleeing to hide from hope and worry. But Mina knew him too well. She caught him with her eyes before pulling him back into the headiness of the present.

“You will do fantastically, Jonathan. Tell me you know it as well as I do.”

“I will not say I know it. Too much confidence risks laziness. I will only say that I shall give all of myself to the task. It must be done so it will be done. If I think any further than that simple fact, my head will burst.”

“If you do, I promise to sweep you up and put your pieces back in order.” Her smile softened an increment as her hand settled in his. “I mean it.” She squeezed. He squeezed back.

“The same goes for you. We are neither of us allowed to hold ourselves together with string and brittle smiles once the door is between us and,” Jonathan flapped his free hand at the rain-streaked window, “all of that. No acting when it’s us alone.” He flashed her a decidedly less-than-brittle smile. “I promise not to tattle to your girls.”

“You were bad enough today, Mr. Harker. Half the classes were watching.” Her voice tutted, but the grin showed in her eyes. Jonathan had arrived at the school with the umbrella in one hand and a bouquet in the other. A bundle of her beloved lilies that he’d used as a screen behind which to steal a kiss and drop the announcement of Hawkins’ assignment in her ear. Forgetting her audience, Mina had kissed him back, forgetting to mask herself behind the petals. They had absconded to the cab to the sound of a dozen girls cooing their farewells, Miss Murray, see you tomorrow, Miss Murray, has he got a brother, Miss Murray?

“Hardly a terrible thing. If you are one of their examples, mustn’t they have something to look forward to at the end of all their practice?” He assumed a pose of scheming innocence, lashes batting. “I could be especially nefarious come Valentine’s Day. Take a holiday from Hawkins and show up toting chocolates and train tickets and a florist’s worth of flowers.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I can hire an orchestra to follow us around. Have them play waltzes the whole day.”

“Jonathan.”

“No, of course, an orchestra would be too cumbersome. A singer and a violin, perhaps. I can hire a paperboy to throw rose petals after us. Or else I could send them up to the classroom to follow you in procession out of the building…”

The typewriter hammered back to life. Its keys were struck with more force than they needed.

“Sorry,” Mina sang above the din, “no hearing you over this. You will have to be a foul minion of Eros a little louder.” Jonathan bit his tongue against a reply. Yes, she was typing again. Yes, she was reading the last of the shorthand. Tap-tap-tap, clack-clack-clack. So far it was all the lines of a love note—a common enough surprise, if one that fished more than the usual dimpled grin out of her tonight—and she had not caught on yet to the conclusion. “How long will the client need you over there?”

“Between the travel to the estate, the stay, and the return trip, the whole thing should be over within early May. I shall have time to hoard you a while before you and Lucy have your summer escape to the coast. Was it Whitby?”

“Yes, quite near the landmark Abbey. I mean to harass the townspeople with demands for any ghost stories they might spare about the place. Perhaps Marmion is but a single drop in a sea of waiting legends.”

Tap-tap-tap.

“Then I shall try to collect what I can abroad in turn,” Jonathan said from behind a fan of notes. He kept only the corner of his eye pinned on the swimming lines. “There should be spirits in abundance along the route.” 

Clack-clack-clack.

“I would think so. But don’t settle for ghosts alone! I shall happily adopt any devils or revenants or folkloric fiends the locals can share—,”

Her voice died mid-key.

Jonathan looked over the top of his pages. Mina sat frozen as a sculpture. Her hands still hovered at the typewriter, lax and immobile. But her eyes were in motion. Flicking back, forward, and back again between Jonathan’s shorthand and the five words they had translated to in plain ink.

Will you marry me, Wilhelmina?

By the time she finally turned her head back to face him, he was already on the floor, swift and silent at her hip. The box sat open in his hand. Set inside was a petite gold band whose stone gleamed like a fleck of starlight.

Mina looked from the ring to its holder with eyes that were already spilling.

“Yes,” Jonathan heard a dozen, a hundred times in the ensuing night. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand, a million times, yes. Between kisses, between tastes, between touches and takings that skirted the furthest edge of propriety between unmarried bodies. Yes.

“We are engaged. We must prepare for the wedding night as one must study ahead of an examination. Isn’t that right, Miss Murray?”

“It is, Mr. Harker.” Then, furtive despite her position over him, she grew a smile both shy and sly. A lure surrounded by the hanging curtain of her hair, “…Can you say it? For practice’s sake.” He did not have to ask her meaning.

“Mina Harker.”

Her teeth bared in a white moon.

“I didn’t quite hear you. Say again?” As she asked, her hand moved. He gasped in the trap of it.

“My pronunciation must be off. How is this?” His own hand moved. Her eyes went wide and dark. “Mina Harker. Mina Harker. Mina Harker.”

More practice unspooled. Harker, husband, wife, I do, I will. Around and around again until their tongues ran dry and they were left folded into the tangle of each other, their last fig leaf still reserved for the nuptial night itself. As midnight rolled past, the storm slipped off with it and left the moon to throw its rays through the edges of the curtains. Mina’s ring trapped its glow on her knuckle. He almost wept to look at it.

Real. This is real. I am awake and this is real. God, God. Thank you.

“Thank you,” he murmured into the top of her head. Her hair massed into a perfect curling cloud under his chin. The cloud tickled there as she lifted her gaze to him.

“For what?”

“You know.”

“If I must say, ‘You’re welcome,’ so must you.” Jonathan held his tongue. “Exactly.” Her hand cupped his cheek as she went on, “I feel much the same. Like a lottery was won and the prize is an unfair gift by dint of how precious it is compared to the recipient. By how that prize refuses to acknowledge their own value. But there is time yet to filter that all down into something better. We will have our vows to smother each other with and neither of us will be able to shush and insist, no, no, I am the luckier one. All while the pews roll their eyes. For tonight I ask that we have a truce. No deprecation, no hoisting onto pedestals. Just for now, we will pretend we each feel equal to the blessing of the other. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” Mina lifted herself high enough to find his lips with hers. “I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Mina.” He mouthed the words to himself long after she had fallen asleep atop his heart. I love you, Mina. I love you, Mina Murray. I love you, Mina Harker. I love you. Thank you.

Jonathan faced the covered window and the sliver of pane visible at the cloth’s edge. He spotted the moon hovering in a split among the breaking rainclouds. As sleep finally found him, he could not shake an unpleasant certainty that he was looking at a great glowing eye. And that it was staring back. 

Jonathan discovered Carfax Abbey on a clear blue day. His immediate impressions of the place ran in quick succession. First, that the location was so precise in its accommodation of Count Dracula’s specifications that it might have been commissioned. Second, that it looked like a place meant only to exist after dark on a sinister moor. This remained true despite the brilliance of spring stubbornly budding along the edge of its high stone fence.

He sent back a late thanks to himself as he’d been that morning, when he had tossed a coin on whether or not to bring the Kodak with him for the day’s hunt. Though the cab would be trusted to take him to the general area, it would be down to more literal footwork to inspect the properties he hoped to survey as far as he could without increasing the fare. Which would not bother him too much if he were going light. He did have a fondness for a run when it could be gotten away with sans pedestrians. But there would be no jogging with the camera to mind. Only a steady trudge.

Yet even that predicted march was trimmed down to a mere amble by dint of the cabman’s suggestion. He had heard out Jonathan’s description of his ideal quarry and first assumed him to be a tourist who’d gotten lost in a search for haunted houses.

“The area hasn’t much in that way, lad. Only place that comes close is old Carfax. Used to be an abbey, but looks more like a hideaway for the Dark Ages’ ghouls.”

“Do you know if it’s for sale?” This had earned him an odd look before the cabman admitted he had seen a sign staked out front that might have claimed the place was available. Supposing one cleared away the accumulated grime.

“I have to wonder if your buyer will bother with such a place. Ghosts can be dealt with, but it has more unsavory living neighbors to deal with.”

“Who are they?”

“Can’t say I know them personally, thank God, but I know for certain they’re perfectly mad.”

“Really?”

“Well, they’d not be in a private madhouse otherwise.”

The cab passed said lunatic asylum en route to the site. Jonathan was happy to note that it was at least a stately building, clearly a former domestic estate that had been expanded into suitable proportions for the inmates and staff. Better still, it was so far from Carfax as to be invisible through the facility’s wall of tended trees even when standing outside the latter’s stonework border.

Seeing the composition of said fence’s rough stones had plucked at Jonathan’s boyhood itch for play. If it were not for the cabman as a witness, he might have clambered his way up and walked along the edge as he’d done around his aunt’s home before he was declared too old for such nonsense. Still musing, Jonathan thanked the man again for the find and paid for the ride, promising another fare if he would return in an hour’s time. The cabman hesitated even after he had taken the first half of the pay.

“You’re certain you’d rather not go up the whole road first? There aren’t many houses, but they’re each of them empty and all far less a stain on the eye than that evil heap of rocks.”

“Do any of the rest have a chapel attached?”

“Don’t believe so. But if your buyer’s so keen on his prayers he ought to make do with a trip to church like the rest of us.”

“I imagine he means to refurbish it for that very purpose.” Jonathan offered a smile. “I’m certain whatever spirits might be lurking will have to clear out once he’s put the place in order.”

“Or torn the bloody thing down,” the cabman muttered not quite under his breath. He huffed and checked his watch. “An hour, you said? Just to wander around the place?”

“To wander here and across the neighboring grounds. I need to take note of the full landscape as well as the estate.” The cabman snorted at this in time with his horse.

“I hope your buyer is paying what you’re worth, lad. Any more on his list and he’d have you mapping out all of Purfleet to be sure it suits his fancy.” When the cab pulled away Jonathan began the photography. As much as he could manage from outside the fence. But then, because there were no witnesses, and because there was no way of opening the gate without ruining the rusted lock, and because it really wouldn’t be a thorough survey of the property without a glimpse of things on the inside of the towering stone walls, Jonathan shouldered his bag and scaled the rock as blithely as a spider.

He landed in the shade under one of the sundry trees that crowded the interior grounds. Jonathan marveled at how the trees’ shadows and that of the hulking abbey combined to hold a permanent dusk in place. So much so that it was a challenge to find any well-lit spots in which to take pictures without losing details. Up close the chapel was no less imposing than the abbey. It stood apart in its overgrown gothic solitude while the abbey puffed itself out with late additions to the structure. Jonathan made a note to reserve some pictures for Mina once he’d set aside an album for the Count. Sadly there was no letting himself indoors without becoming a full intruder, and so he satisfied himself with touring the rest of the land. A tour he was happy to make at a run.

The camera and his bag were set carefully aside with the chapel to manage this—for he must manage it, seeing as the grounds seemed to cover no less than twenty acres—and sent another belated thanks to his morning self for donning more active shoes than his workplace pair. While the place was no forest, it was an easy enough copse to imagine as such. A private patch of woodlands in which he had no one to be mindful of on a trail or blush over as they gawked at him, wondering what his hurry was. Here the exercise even bore fruit in the form of revealing a pond set at the estate’s southern end. A pool clear with spring water and trickling a faint stream through a grate into denser growth beyond the rear gates. Another run and a returning walk ensured this too got its photograph.

It was as he took these pictures that he saw the place even had some refreshment in the way of brambleberries snarling their way along the masonry. They were still some months away from being in season, but the desire to steal a piece of their thorny nest to plant his own shrub gnawed. At least until he reminded himself it would be hopeless with his current lodging. A mint tin of a flat slotted wall-to-wall with the rest of the street. Mina’s was worse still, he knew. When they married, they would pool their funds to find somewhere with a little girdle of a garden around it. Or else they would have window-boxes to grow things for the kitchen. Or both. Just a wedge of greenery to tame and taste for themselves.

 For now, he satisfied himself with adding it to the marital itinerary and took out his notebook to jot the impressions of Carfax Abbey as he had for half a dozen other estates, all of them falling short on one preference or another. Too new, too near to the hub of a city, too compact, too bright, and, most damning, not a single chapel to spare among them. At least, none that were not in use by the general public. He would likely run around for another couple weeks to check on other prospective options, but he held little hope for a finer match than Carfax.

Carfax, Carfax. I wonder…

The notebook was tucked away in exchange first for his watch, which showed he’d somehow burned only twenty minutes, and then a compass. A minor note from the Count had mentioned a desire to have, ‘an open sky with which to see all the night and day, the dusks and dawns, without men’s brick and smoke in their way.’ Jonathan could not fault such a wish and so had brought the compass to see if he might happen upon a house with the view clear for the east’s sunrise and the west’s sunset. The compass revealed he had done even better with the abbey.

‘Carfax.’ Quatre Face. A four-sided house with its walls facing the four cardinal directions. All clear of any rooftops and their belching chimneys. I’m sure it will please you, Count.

The thought sank his joy like a stone. Jonathan looked again at the abbey. Haunted and a relic of dead centuries, true, but a place of dignity and grand dimensions all the same. A voice rose up in him with smiling malice as he stared at it.

You will never have such space. You will never have a home so broad that Mina can have rooms all for herself and more for the daydream of children. You will live close to all the fruits of a metropolis, as near as the gutters themselves, and only ever know what it is to skim them, to borrow them, to daydream without laying your lesser hands on them except to use them for another. You will have neither the sprawling beauty of nature or the boons of modernity. Not for your entire life, Jonathan Harker.

And, because he could not stop the flow once it was running:

She should have found someone better. Someone with more than your scraps to offer.

He ground the heel of his palm against each eye until they dried.

“What would she say?”

Something kind you do not deserve.

Jonathan shook his head and marveled at the paradox that still found its way to nettle him even with the ring on her finger. Perhaps because of it. It was the miserable uncertainty of the hours preceding his examination turned up a hundredfold. Time, experience and evidence all stood in favor of him passing his tests on the professional and romantic fronts, yes, yes, he knew it…

…But what if he didn’t? What if he had somehow fooled himself and Mina and Hawkins and peers and the world itself into thinking he was more than what he was? What if?

What if you stop wallowing and get out before the cab returns?

Jonathan stopped long enough to skip a stone across the pond before following his route back to where he’d clambered over the wall. With half an hour to spare, he began walking at a healthy gait across the spread of land between the abbey and the asylum. If only to say he knew how many paces it was between the properties. One, two, three, four, five…

The pacing turned irregular once he had to cross through the border of trees that stood for a property line between Carfax and its company. Jonathan was stunned to discover there was no proper fence hidden behind the picturesque rows. Only a walled and gated section at the rear of the asylum that suggested an area for outdoor excursion or perhaps a private kitchen garden. He hoped it was the former. Even the insane needed leave to stretch their legs beyond the borders of a cell. As he mulled this, he heard a shout. It sounded like it held the weight of every expletive known to the English tongue and several more beyond it.

Following this was the same livid voice grating seemingly out of thin air, “Idiot! Fool! One damned page and you do this?” Jonathan heard a clatter of hollow things against a wall. “Imbecile!” He stepped fully beyond the wall of trees and saw the voice’s owner pacing back and forth inside a barred window set at the foot of the asylum’s wall.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Jonathan was almost as surprised as the man in the window to realize he had not only spoken, but come closer. There was an instant in which the man tensed. The picture of one who’s realized someone of influence has caught them in a bad moment. Yet upon actually seeing Jonathan and recognizing his lack of import, he relaxed enough to smile. Albeit sourly.

“Apart from this most inconvenient stint of homemaking, courtesy of concerned friend and kin, I am quite fine, young man. Ebullient, ecstatic, elated.” The polite rictus hardened. Jonathan thought queasily of wild dogs. “Apart from the fact that I have lost the last of my stationery to an overfilled glass. My cup runneth over. My cup ruins days of work and turns the remaining space to so much waste. Just look!”

The man thrust something up to the gaps in the bars, stopping just short of throwing the spoiled pinch of paper out onto the grass. For it was spoiled. Jonathan saw the stationery was really little more than a large cut of butcher paper folded and refolded until it made a sort of accordion-book. The whole thing was so waterlogged that Jonathan could barely tell tally marks from letters as the crayon bled together and the pages sagged.

“Ruined,” the man punctuated with what was either a sneer or a sulk. “At best I can try to mash and dry the thing out as a new sheet. But the stuff was already muddy enough to write on and I shall have to reduce myself to the penmanship of an infant with the bluntest marks just to make anything legible. And I had just started to make progress.” He cocked his gaze more fully at Jonathan. His look was one accustomed to giving brisk appraisal. “If you are a journalist, you are quite tardy with your pen. You’ve not even set up your camera’s tripod to record the travesty.”

“I am no journalist, unfortunately,” Jonathan admitted as he unearthed his notebook. “But at least that leaves some of this to work with, if you’re amenable.” Covering the shorthand of the last full page, he showed the man in the window the remaining blank sheets. Not a great many pages left, and certainly not of impressive size considering it was a pocketbook, but it would be a fair amount of writing space for a careful script. The man’s expression did not change, but his eyes brightened.

“I may be. Supposing I know the price at the other end of such a trade.”

“No price, sir. You would do me a kindness in taking it as I shall have to start a fresh one for another project soon. The predecessor would be left unfinished and forgotten in the meantime.”

“Ah, a worse fate than a journalist. An author. How many poor diaries have you left abandoned in their pretty bindings for the sake of a new volume?” The man clicked his tongue through a grin. “I jest, of course. You do not seem the sort to waste what he has.” The grin, still genuine, flattened an increment. Bloodshot eyes gleamed. “I fear I wasted a great deal of what I once thought mine on the other side of these delightful accommodations. Never make such a mistake as mine, young man. Do not doubt for an instant that what you trust today cannot turn on you tomorrow.”

“I won’t, sir.” Jonathan thought of adding that he had lived under that knowledge since the day he attended the funerals which ended his childhood. He swallowed it back. “May I..?” He held the notebook up, his shorthand sheets pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“I would be most grateful.”

Jonathan tore his filled pages neatly out. The remaining clean pages were barely thicker than a pamphlet, but clung sturdily to the little spine. Jonathan knelt low enough to lay it within reach on the grass. He noticed a small dusting of white powder at the window’s edge. A crowd of ants whittled away at the mound.

“Ants,” the man scoffed as he followed Jonathan’s line of sight. “Pitiful company. I had hoped the thaw would bring in something heartier. Flies, ladybugs, perhaps some early butterflies. But the real trouble is keeping them around. Ah, apologies, might you bring it a little closer?” The man raised his forearms into view. “I haven’t the best angle from where I stand.” Jonathan scooped up the notebook and brought it an inch nearer.

The man’s hands were abruptly out through the bars and clapped around Jonathan’s. Tight. Short of hurting, short of breaking, but locked as firmly as a vise. Jonathan tensed without pulling back. Again he thought of wild dogs. Of things that only seemed to be dogs until they closed in. Creatures that chased once they saw something run.

Jonathan was still. The man was still. Grasping Jonathan’s hand and the notebook in a pantomime prayer.

It’s my left hand. Smart enough for that, at least. I can still do my paperwork with the right intact and the other broken. Will the fingers heal in time for Mina to slip the band on? How mortifying to have to explain it all to her. I wonder if the asylum would make up a cast without charging for it…

“There is no need to shake upon it, sir,” Jonathan heard himself say. “The book is yours.” The man regarded him with less of a smile now. His lip still curled, but it seemed only to hold on by sheer will. It dropped entirely with the gust of a sigh.

“The book and a lack of tact, I fear. Even if I were not mad, I would still be a churl.” The hands relaxed and a set of fingers drummed once on the back of Jonathan’s wrist. “Though I suspect you are a soul used to them. I would tell you to be more wary on your way, but it is only a simpleton of a preacher who would bother teaching his flock wariness in a world where they must interact each day with wolves. Though I will advise that it is rather foolish to go around making conversation with confirmed lunatics up close. I am confirmed, you know. The facts are printed and signed all over by professionals. I saw the document myself.” The man’s look floated away from Jonathan and into a distance he couldn’t guess at. “Printed on far finer paper than what we settle for.”

One of the gripping hands came away, leaving only the one folded over the notebook and Jonathan’s palm. They shook. The notebook was collected in the same gesture.

“My thanks,” from the window.

“Quite welcome,” as Jonathan righted himself. He surprised himself with his own steadiness. The rote pitch of the office and a life’s worth of reflex steered his tongue while mind, heart, and stomach rattled where they hid. Because he had to do something with his freed hand rather than clasp it in its brother, he fished out his watch. Only now did a ripple of worry manage to rise to his face.

“Some trouble?”

“I fear I may have lost my ride.”

“You came from the by-road, yes? It hardly sees traffic. If your driver’s gone on without you, go around the front here and see if you cannot bribe our beloved head doctor into lending out the wagon. Just say you have managed to wring a whole quarter of an hour’s worth of nattering from his friend R.M.”

“R.M.?”

“Short for Mr. Rig R. Mortis.” The man chuckled at Jonathan’s look. “Pseudonym, young man. Can hardly have the family being shamed under my real title. He will know who you mean. Though I do hope you manage your ride instead.” With that, the man ducked back from the window and was gone. Jonathan had made it three strides away when the voice called behind him, “Here!” Something small struck the back of Jonathan’s heel. He turned and saw gold winking up at him. A sovereign. “It is not payment. You are merely ensuring the attendant who lost it when I had my last room search never gets it back.”

“Sir—,”

But the window was already abandoned. Jonathan picked the coin up. It was partially obliterated on one end, erasing part of Victoria’s face and the rider on the reverse. This was because the edge had been ground to a sharp edge that nicked his thumb open as he turned it over. Blood smeared Saint George, his steed, and the dragon hissing up at the sword and hooves.

Cold fingers seemed to walk up his spine as he examined it. Shaking the chill away, he tucked the coin in his pocket alongside the notebook’s harvested pages and dashed back the way he’d come. He made it to the waiting cab just as it was pulling up to the gate.

“Well, lad? Is it what your buyer’s after?”

“I believe so.” Jonathan smiled as he said it and held the expression admirably until the cabman turned his gaze back to the road. He gloved his hands despite the balmy weather, sheathing his thumb as it traced the thin impression of the cargo sitting against his breast.

“If you keep up with that you shall tear the whole cheek off,” she said at his shoulder. “You are awake, I promise.”

Jonathan stopped pinching at himself and split his attention between Mina’s face and the clock’s. The magic circle of Roman numbers seemed to shake a phantom head. No, it said, not yet. But soon.

“This is happening, then?” he asked as he turned fully to Mina. Mina, here at the last moment together until mid-May. Mina, wearing the ring he had saved a year for on her finger. Mina, who had clasped and kissed and kept him from collapsing outright in stupefied relief upon the announcement that he had passed his examination, her fiancé now a solicitor. Mina, who held his hand and kept him from floating off through the ceiling and into the sky. “This is really happening? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Jonathan’s eye traveled to her neck and the glimpse of a cord peeking from her shirt collar. She caught him and spared her free hand to tuck it out of sight. “Just as I am sure you will not fly off with my treasure, you magpie.”

The treasure being Jonathan’s own plain gold band now worn as a necklace. He had been the one to slip it over her head the night before, mesmerized by the soft shine as it landed over her heart. It was done by mostly mutual agreement. Mina wished to hold a scrap of tradition close and leave his hand bare until they reached the chapel. And, though Jonathan suspected this was mere theatre, she said she wished to hold onto it as proof to herself that she was awake and that the engagement was a reality. Besides, it was practical! If he were wearing the cord on his trip, what if he should lose it in any number of countries as he traveled? It was one thing to risk forgetting it at the office or leaving it at home. Quite another to imagine losing it in a hotel in another nation. Even with all this logic at her disposal, Jonathan donned his best moue. Mina covered it with her hand.

“That is unfair.”

“I am not above unscrupulous tactics, Mrs. Harker.”

“Like trying to break me by calling me Mrs. Harker?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, you are foiled. My will is too great.” She brought her hand away to brush a strand of hair from his brow. “There is no need to scheme anyway. You shall have the thing back soon enough.”

Jonathan pretended not to hear the slight tremor at the word ‘soon.’ Yes, it was only a few weeks’ separation. A month at most if there were delays in train or coach. But even in this zenith of excitement, knowing unequivocally that this was where their future began—a future where they were taking their first steps up rather that walking the same flat circle in the dust—it felt strangely like waiting to leap into a chasm. A gorge that required endless paperwork to keep track of, plus what was required for the travel itself. Documentation, letter of credit, passport, polyglot dictionary, and, carefully packed, the first new suit he’d had in three years.

Mina had insisted on his modeling it before packing it away. After, she declared she must send a letter of gratitude to not only Mr. Hawkins, but to the tailor. They would have to see him again about the suit for the wedding. Lucy had already written back in response to Mina’s last letter with the announcement, erupting with insistence that, while she was not the sort of girl to live and die by fashion plates, she wanted to know the very instant she began hunting for a dress.

In the present, however, the only new attire was the coat Jonathan wore. A companion piece Hawkins had insisted join the suit before Jonathan could escape the tape measure. Jonathan’s hand drifted up to one of its pockets now and found it unexpectedly light. Worry spiked for a moment before his mind caught up to what it was he’d been feeling for. He almost laughed. Mina canted her head at him, searching. She never missed even the most minute shift behind his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Only I’ve realized I was so adamant about packing everything for the needs of the trip and the client that I forgot the one item I meant to bring solely for me.”

“Your books?”

“No, the law texts are there. A bit of Dumas as well. But I have forgotten my book.” He offered a bashful smile. “Ours, I mean. For your assignment.”

Her brow furrowed a moment before she recalled, “The journal?”

“Yes. I meant to grab one of the spare pocketbooks from my desk, but it’s not in its place. Maybe I bundled it in the case without thinking.” If not, he could shave out a little of his emergency budget for something en route to the castle. But Mina was beaming at him.

“An ordinary pocketbook might suffice for a clerk, but not a solicitor. Especially not when I’ve held onto this since you turned your back to peruse the dictionaries two months back.” She brought out her reticule as she spoke. From the reticule came a slim leatherbound volume with supple pages made to resist the traitorous smudges and tears of its precursor’s flimsy leaves. The whole thing was tied with a white ribbon that pinned a matching pen to its cover. “All shorthand. Promise?”

“Promise,” Jonathan nodded as he took the book gingerly from her hand. It fit so perfectly in the coat that it failed to even dent cloth. “Though I don’t believe the same applies to the recipes. Which I shall collect in abundance and inflict upon us both once I return. Is there anything specific you want me to bring back?”

“You know my tastes already.”

“Other than the cuisine, I mean.”

“Nothing comes immediately to mind. A good story or two would be nice, but,” again her hand found his face, cupped against the angle of his cheek, “as long as you come back, I will be satisfied.”

“I suppose that can be managed.”

The clock tolled and the call went out to the station. All aboard, come along. Mina’s eyes flicked with brief wonder to the train itself. Locomotives and their railways had been one of her chief interests for as long as Jonathan had known her. She regarded her copy of Bradshaw’s Guide with the same reverence as some did their Bible, to say nothing of the clipped articles she had collected concerning new routes and models being laid out within various countries. In sum, Mina loved the practicality and potential of trains. To her they were proof that their world was not limited by whether or not they could hail a hansom or how far it was willing to take them. But now her smile dimmed.

“It had better bring you back on time,” she said as they walked arm and arm up to his car. “I shall be standing in this very spot with my watch out.”

“I’ll warn the conductor.” Because they were among strangers, she had allowed him to hold her arm rather than the reverse. He gave a gentle squeeze first to her arm, then her hand. The lump of the stone stood out under her glove. “If it runs late, I will simply run ahead.” Her laugh did little to hide the dew in her eyes. It matched the mist in his. Their hands held tight.

In that moment, an absurd impulse leapt up in him. An animal-twitch of fear that went deeper than mere anxiety, deeper than love, deeper than concern of career or separation or wandering in unknown lands. It was the needling of a sense he had no name for. A thing that smelled or heard or tasted some imperceptible sign that bodily and mental awareness refused to acknowledge. It whispered:

Do not go. Do not do this. Go home. Go now. Before it’s too late.

The whisper froze him. Mina appeared to freeze with him. Her eyes reflected a feverish glimmer of his own disquiet. They stood locked in that second like a hart and doe with their ears pricked toward a huntsman’s tread in the wood.

But then they blinked. Mina’s gaze lightened and the uncanny sensation left Jonathan as quickly as it came. Only a shudder of nerves disguised as a portent. Really, he could hardly bow to it even if it had meant anything beyond a hiccough of his own fretting. Fact outweighed fear and the fact was he had a job to do. A job that began here, now, with the release of Mina’s hand so he might grab his other bag from her.

Thus unburdened, Mina abruptly trapped his face between her palms. Jonathan bent down until his mouth met hers. Here was the plush press of her lips on his, feeling so much like a reverie he thought once again that he must be asleep. He would wake any moment and the fantasy would fall away into foam. Now. Now.

“Now, I don’t mean to intrude, but there is a train waiting. I’m afraid you must save the rest of the young man for his return trip.” They both snapped up at once to see the uniformed man at Jonathan’s back. He was eyeing them with a look that spoke of a career forever encumbered with similar scenes. The man peered at Jonathan over his spectacles. “You are boarding?”

“Yes, sir. Apologies.” But an apology not even fractionally meant. He turned back to Mina who now steamed from the neck up as she avoided the gawking of an older couple taking in the show. The wife gestured at the sight of them, muttering something in a tone of mingled mirth and query in her husband’s ear, to which the husband rolled his eyes. Jonathan spared them only a mote of attention. “Mina.” She looked to him. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Jonathan. I’ll be right here.”

He found his seat at the window and did not turn his head away from the glass. Not while the train idled. Not while it pulled away in its hiss and puff of turning wheels. Not while Mina stood there waving after him, her feet tugging her forward a few unconscious steps so that she might see his window longer while he craned his head to keep her in view. Only when the station itself was a speck in the distance did he turn back around. Off to the future to lay an invisible track for them both. To collect countries as keepsakes and bring them home on paper like pressed flowers.

Jonathan tried to imagine what he might cross on his travel to and from the castle that would be a worthwhile souvenir. Images of books and baubles were conjured as he traced the edges of his journal. So he went on musing until excitement burned out to exhaustion and the first doze of his trip dragged him down into sleep.

A dream came and went.

He was still on the train, still at his window, but the seat facing his was no longer empty. A face he knew was there. One harvested from the far end of his school days and the nascent career as a clerk. So he believed.

It was a familiar countenance in the way that the sight of a stranger always seen in the same place amounted to vague acquaintance. Known enough to nod at in passing. Jonathan had nodded at this one and been given a nod back in student years. He’d thought of introducing himself once or twice, only for the young man to flush and hurry off like a frightened stray. Jonathan had never quite understood it.

Now here was his anonymous acquaintance again, finally sedate in his seat and hidden in his newspaper. While he was not Jonathan’s senior by more than a year, he looked to be in a more professional state of dress. Pressed and tailored and relaxed in that way men can be when they know they have a wardrobe full of similarly fine ensembles waiting at home. But it was his choice of accessory that gave him away as being on a similar pilgrimage to Jonathan’s. The unoccupied portion of his seat was taken up by the paperwork of a sale, carefully weighted by a discarded hat. His companion spared it no attention, having his gaze pinned on the newspaper open in his hands. It blocked the view of him from the whiskers down. Jonathan was still wondering whether to announce himself when a voice came from behind the newsprint:

“My way goes through Munich. Yours as well?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “Though I fear there will be no real stop there. At least, the Count did not pencil a hotel stay in the route.”

“Hm,” his companion nodded. “I suppose he would not gamble it twice. Even if he did set it right the first go around.” The newspaper rustled and the young man’s eyes finally lifted above the print to find Jonathan’s. They were bottle glass-bright. “What all have you packed?”

“Necessities, mainly. Everything for the sale, some changes for the overnight stays and—,”

“And what haven’t you packed?”

“I…” His hand traveled again to his chest. “Mina saved me at the station. I forgot a notebook, but she had one ready. I should be fine.”

“No. You are still missing something. Rather, I expect you will be missing it quite soon.” There was a sigh behind the paper. “All that practice and you go and leave the damned thing under your bed.”

Jonathan straightened in his seat. His right hand clamped reflexively, as if palm and fingers were dreaming of a hardwood handle. 

“I’m not going to the jungle.”

“There are worse things than animals to worry about. If you cannot cut them down, what will be left to you?” Another page turned. The bottle glass eyes slid to look out the window. Jonathan followed his gaze and saw that the world had gone black and white under a skull-faced moon. “But then, you might make do without the steel. You handled the worst of our schoolmates well enough back then without even raising your voice. Whatever you may lack as a full-blooded Englishman you make up for in softer stuff. Enough that one or two of the lads confessed over drinks that they wished you were a girl. I was not one of them. You gave me trouble enough as a boy. 

“All that said, you have skills that will help. Appealing attributes. Ones I could have used myself.” The unblinking eyes slid back to Jonathan. It was a greyer stare now. Almost filmy. “I had nothing to sell. Neither in English property or my personal wares, so to speak. I could not even muster charm enough to be worth an extra hour’s chat.” Jonathan watched his companion’s hands crumple the paper in two fists. He saw for the first time that those hands were red. They left dry maroon stains across the gazette. “Who is waiting for you, Jonathan Harker? Who at home? Your Mina, old Hawkins, and who else? Any names come to mind?

“Of those friends, are there any who will know to worry when it goes wrong? Anyone to ask questions? To watch the calendar and the post and wonder how you are? Because I thought I did. I even knew the difference between friends and amiable acquaintances, unlike you. Fellows in and out of my firm. Even a girl who understood my needs and was willing to play her part. They all said they expected letters from me. Said they’d be on watch if I was not back within half a month. That was a year ago. And still they do not know where I am. Nor have they cared enough to look.

“But you would have, I think. If I had ever gotten over my cowardice. If I hadn’t wasted boyhood cringing, so afraid I would give myself away. If I had not made a ghost of myself rather than a friend. I was so proud of myself for not daring at the time—I fear I would have made a wretched scene when I first realized you and the pretty schoolmistress were serious. Instead I took my wine and my pain in silence. Told myself how wise I had been not to try. Ha.” Jonathan watched pallid lips peel open on a smile glazed pink with bleeding. Red rivulets trailed out between the young man’s teeth and into the trimmed beard. “Not that it would have mattered in the end. If we had been friends, if we had been more, if we had been anything at all, there wouldn’t have been much for you to find.”

Jonathan leaned forward. It took an effort. A growing stench was starting to waft from the opposite seat. The stink of copper and rot.

“Please, just tell me what this is. Tell me how to help. What’s happened?”

His companion’s grisly smile wilted. The bottle glass eyes ran like his mouth.

“What’s happened is you have climbed onto the same train I took. You will ride on plenty more. The same coaches too. Perhaps that will help. They never caught on to the truth of things when it was me. After all, he does have work to do, being what he is. People must have made it to and from that place before in official capacity. They must have thought it would be the same for imported goods. Hopefully they will know better now. But then, so will he. Soon all you will have to rely on is yourself. Use what you have. All that you have. Play the game as best you can. As long as you can.” Red tears and dribble flowed in a thickening cascade. “I could not last a week and so lost everything. Or nearly so. I am restless, true, but it could have been worse. Much worse.”

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan almost rasped. Fear choked him like a noose.

“I know. And I am very, very sorry to say that you will.” His companion sighed, releasing a crimson haze of spittle into the air. “Well. This is all I can manage as I am. I suppose I shall not need this anymore. Here.” The newspaper was shut and held out for Jonathan to take. “Somewhat out of date, but well worth the read.”

 Jonathan spared barely a mote of attention for it. There was no headline or story that he could make out. Only a flash of what looked like the stanzas of a poem, though he couldn’t say for certain. He was too gripped by the sight of the young man below the neck. Seeing the fullness of it hooked something in Jonathan’s stomach and drew it up to the very edge of his teeth. He wasn’t sure if it was his breakfast or a scream.

That was when the hand fell on his shoulder.

Cold. Just as cold as the lips now pressed at the side of his neck.

Whatever sound he might have made was cut off as something sharp drove into his throat and the train went as dark as the world beyond it.

“Sir?” Jonathan fell against his seat as if thrown. The uniformed man started back himself, taking his hand away from Jonathan’s shoulder as he did. “We’re coming to the station soon. Can’t have you sleeping through your stop.”

“No. No, of course. Thank you. Sorry.” The man glanced at Jonathan’s lap with a look possessed by every father who has ever known better than his progeny.

“You could pick lighter reading to nod off on. You’re only setting yourself up for sour dreaming if that’s what you skim beforehand.” He didn’t loiter long enough to explain what he meant. Jonathan looked down.

He had picked a gazette to stuff into his things before he and Mina reached the platform. He’d had an idea that he was reserving his books for the far end of his travel and so would make do with some final updates from his native soil. At some point he had turned all the way to the obituaries. His hand rested on one describing the tragic loss of a young man at sea. A sailor fallen overboard in a storm, presumed dead.

They could be wrong, Jonathan thought with sudden desperation. Perhaps he lived. He made it safely to an island or some distant beach. They could find him alive and well. Couldn’t they?

The newspaper was shut, folded over twice, and tucked back in his luggage. Jonathan did not touch it again until he left the final station that spat him out by the shore, feeding it to the first wastebin he saw. He almost laughed to himself when it came time to board the ship. It would be May by the time he cracked open the journal and wrote anything of interest.

“I shall do better on the return trip,” he promised the naked pages. “I’ll record a view of the sunrise on the water, I swear.” And he meant it. But for this first voyage across the water, Jonathan stayed shut in his room. If he dreamt of a black tide coming up to swallow him, he was happy to wake without recalling it. 

[atelierlili]

#thgreread2024: Chapter 1

"Look at what I shot." Gale holds up a load of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the falt dense loaves we make from our grain rations.

I'm doing the reread of the Hunger Games with my lovely friends. Its one chapter a day so fingers crossed that I can keep it up!

I love Chapter 1 of the Hunger Games. There are few books that gets me hooked from the very first chapter, but Suzanne does it flawlessly. Nearly all the main themes of the series find they way into this first chapter. I don't have all the time to break it down, but I'll do what I can.

District 12, Panem and Katniss as our protagonist is already fully fleshed out. We know her main motivation is to keep Prim safe from the Reapings. We learn her greatest fear is having and loosing children, or more symbolically, hope, in a place like Panem. To want to have children is similiar to having hope for the future, of having good things. Katniss, understandably doesn't think that's realistic. Life in District 12 is not easy for Katniss. The Reapings bring her nothing but stress. That is not a future she'd want to any children of hers- which is why she's so critical of Gale when he brings the topic.

Chapter 1, Gale is rebellious- but he still holds on to hope, unlike Katniss who has mostly abandoned it. He thinks of children as a possibility in the future- in a future with Katniss- if they could manage to escape beyond the fence. A notion that Katniss (very pragmatically) finds ridiculous. His crush on her is already on full effect- he doesn't even try to hide framing their families as one and placing themselves as the parental roles. In a wink whink nudge nudge fashion. Katniss doesn't take the notion all too kindly- she shoots him down and they start a fight. Romantic melodrama aside, Gale tells us directly that Katniss does not have normal relationship with her sister Prim. Prim is very much Katniss' child even if she didn't birth Prim herself. This ties Prim directly to Katniss' biggest fear. Unfortunately, we learn at the end of the chapter that her greatest fear is realized.

The Hunger Games isn't just a romance book, but its easily the second most important theme (Fight me). Talks of marriage and children are introduced as soon as Katniss' first suitor enters the scene. Chapter 1 is also where we get to observe Katniss' and Gale relationship with any outside influence, like Peeta and the capitol. Katniss and Gale get along well, with Katniss even saying Gale is only of the only people she can truly be herself with. Despite this, she takes any notion of being in a relationship him negatively. She sees him as a brother. She attests that there is no romantic tension between them (though I think she's in a little denial here. There IS, she's just ignoring it). She says Gale can have his pick of women so long as she gets to keep him as a hunting buddy. Who knows if she's speaking from a place of denial or simply because she didn't care romantically. Gale and Katniss' relationship is beginning to blur thanks to Gale efforts to be noticed by Katniss and Katniss not shooting him down directly. Whatever it is, it's clear that Katniss is just not ready for a relationship yet. If you asked me, so long as Katniss had no hope for the future, she would not even entertain the idea of marriage and children with Gale (or anyone for that matter).

Even though, Peeta is not in this chapter, symbolically he's right here! Being his sweet smelling self in the form of bakery bread. Gale might have been Katniss' first suitor to us readers, but Suzanne has cheekily included Peeta in between them with the loaf of bread. And boy, does Katniss has a history with bread. It even has an arrow stuck in it! Arrows and Bread. Katniss and Peeta. (Well, I guess you can also attribute arrows with Gale- but I'm pretty sure that he's more of a snares kind of guy.)

Finally another tiny bit of foreshadowing I've notice this is final part of Gale and Katniss's feast. When Gale begins to mimic the capitol- he pulls out a few blackberries and together with Katniss, say "may the odds ever be in your favour" before eating the berries, foreshadowing how Katniss would do the same thing with Nightlock to tip the scales and win the Games with Peeta at her side.

Anyway, see you guys tomorrow for Chapter 2!

[apomaro-mellow]

King&Prince 11

Steve had spent the rest of the day alone in his room. He had a feeling the only reason that happened was because the king himself had given an order to the kids not to bother him at all. Most of the hours he sat at the window sill, looking out onto the land that was supposed to be cursed.

But it was quite the same as the land he'd been raised on. What other lies had his family told about this place? About these people? There were still things Steve didn't understand. It felt like a puzzle had been formed with mixed pieces that no longer fit together.

He wondered how long his father took to make his decision to abandon him. Had he paced around? Had he weighed his options at all? Or had it been an immediate breath of relief when he was able to rid himself of his son? Then he thought about his mother.

She was always softer on him, but in the end never failed to side with her husband. Steve felt he couldn't begrudge her for that, but still wished to know if she argued with him even the smallest bit when he did this.

Steve thought he had known his worth. He might not be the son his parents wanted, but he was still a son. Still a crown prince, born and raised to one day rule. They had put so much work into him. They wanted to send him away, yes, but to be trained and come back even more prepared for his future role as king. They were tossing him away like it all meant nothing.

Well they could always make anoth-

He felt the burn of tears coming on before the thought even finished. They would, wouldn't they? They'd just start over with another child. One that they'd bring up right. They would forget all about Steve. They might even go as far as to strike his name from the record. What need would they have to remember him? He had accomplished nothing under their parentage. Nothing of note to them anyway.

So what was next then? What could he accomplish here? Suppose the king wasn't playing a trick and actually meant what he said. That Steve would be under his protection. What would he be allowed to do? What could he pursue?

Well, he made a pretty good pack mule. Maybe manual labor was in his future. Steve laughed to himself at that. From royal heir, to prisoner, to humble servant. He didn't realize how long he'd been in thought until it started to get dark around him. He turned away from the window, about to start getting ready for bed when he heard a tapping and caw.

There was a raven at the window.

Its wings flapped and it was carrying something in its talons, wrapped in paper. Steve looked at it warily and then the bird cawed again in what sounded like annoyance. Steve opened the window and the bird flew in, dropping its package onto the bed. The bird nudged it towards Steve with its beak.

"You brought that for me?", Steve asked.

The raven cawed.

Steve opened it up carefully and inside was a sandwich. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten much today. He then looked to the bird. "You must be one of the king's messengers?"

The raven's expression was unreadable, but then again he supposed most birds' were. Steve sat on the bed and reached forward to pet the top of its head then under its chin. The raven leaned into it like it was enjoying the scratches.

"You can tell your master...thank you. And here." Steve opened the sandwich and took out some of the meat. "Your delivery fee."

The raven took it carefully into its mouth, cawed at Steve, and then left out of the window into the darkening sky.

This felt like another olive branch. The king assuring him that he was safe here. Steve didn't know what his role would be, what he could accomplish or pursue. But he had the feeling that he might be given the time and the space to decide that for himself.

------------------------

The next morning, Steve got ready and was about to leave his room in search of breakfast only to find the king, fist poised to knock.

"Your Majesty?"

"Y-your Highness. Good morning. Didn't expect you to be up so early."

"I'm an early riser by nature", Steve said.

"Then you're just in time for breakfast."

Steve was led down the halls but this time instead of going towards the kitchens, they went into a different room. There was a grand table and at it Robin and Nancy already sat. There was the man from the ambush that Steve recognized but didn't know the name of. King Edward-no Eddie, his name was Eddie, wait, was Steve allowed to call him that? Safer to keep it formal for now. Anyway, the king took his seat at the head of the table.

The only open seat was at the other end, so Steve took it. Nancy didn't look too happy to see him but it wasn't so much that Steve worried about poison in his food. Breakfast was served and the other four mostly kept the conversation going while Steve sat silently chewing. They seemed to be discussing the proceedings of an event happening soon.

It reminded Steve of the festivities happening back home. People would be coming out more, having picnics, and the seasonal fruits that could be enjoyed now.

"So you're not even going to put a leash on him?", Nancy asked, getting Steve's attention.

Eddie grinned. "I'm rather certain his bark his worse than his bite."

"Care to put that to the test?", Steve asked with a raised brow.

"I'd advice against stepping into an arena with Eddie", Jeff said.

"I know I look like a wispy thing, but I can be a heavy hitter", Eddie said, twirling a fork full of egg around.

"I'll believe it when I see it", Steve said. One of the few things he was confident in was his ability to fight.

"I think your time is best spent tutoring someone less trained", Eddie said.

"...You mean Lucas?"

"You want him training Lucas?", Robin asked, jabbing her thumb toward Steve.

"Why not?", Eddie shrugged. "One couldn't ask for a better teacher than a prince."

Steve didn't think it was meant as a compliment. But something warm in his body swelled like it was. Right as breakfast finished, Nancy produced a sheet of parchment and walked it over to Steve, placing it in front of him.

"Your new schedule."

"You made me a schedule?"

"It was the only way she'd allow you free reign of the castle without a binding spell", Eddie said.

Steve had been looking over the assignments when Eddie's words sunk in. He looked up, feeling a mix of awe, confusion, and gratitude. "You're...giving me free reign of the castle?" Of his home?

Eddie smiled in a way that seemed more genuine. "I see no harm in it. Like I said, you're not a prisoner. Think of it as something like an exchange program. Princes travel abroad all the time, don't they?"

Steve looked at the schedule. He noted that each thing had someone with him, almost like a chaperone, sometimes multiple people. If Nancy was the one making this, he was sure it was intentional. But he understood. He hadn't fully proven himself as trustworthy. For the first time, Steve considered if he might kill Eddie if given the chance.

Would his father welcome him back with open arms then?

He shook off the thought, already knowing the answer. If he killed Eddie there was nothing good in it for him.

"When do I start?"

Part 13

Tag Team

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent @snakeorsquid @ignoremyworld @theclichefortunecookie @goodolefashionedloverboi @just-a-tiny-void @0body0disphoria0 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @samsoble @jamieweasley13 @y4r3luv @xtkxkrzrizir @un-knownperson @greekgeek24 @justdrugsformethanks @potato-of-the-lord @notaqueenakhaleesi @swimmingbirdrunningrock @queenie-ofthe-void @nebulainajar @lil-gremlin-things @nicememerino @robininblue @hornedqueenofhell @anne-bennett-cosplayer @moomkin77 @here4thetrama @bookworm0690

[kurishiri]

I read this hellhole of a route to find out more about Alfons

this post is a like a semi-detailed dump of information which may be updated below the cut on Alfons, and a bit on his relationship with others like Elbert, Roger and Kate, that can be seen from his main story. I guess it’s made for those who want to learn more about his character (and for my own silly note taking), or are curious about him, but may feel upset at cw: a lot of explicit dub/non-con scattered throughout the story, especially in the first half or so. So yes, there are spoilers about Alfons and his route under the cut!

the gist of why Alfons is the way he is (constantly going out at night, drinking in the afternoon, etc.) is because of his curse and his tragic fate

his curse is the mirror curse, which gives him the ability to change others’ perceptions if he touches the nape of their neck, in exchange for being forgotten

in other words, he’s destined to die without leaving any trace in the world

once he dies, his memory will be “forcibly” erased from people’s minds and in written form, but objects may still remain; in other words, he himself is treated as an illusion by his curse

Alfons was born in the east end (aka the slums) as a “nameless” orphan, though it’s implied his parents named him such before abandoning him

as long as he could survive, he took up any identity, with his current one being a “noble” so that he could stay by Elbert’s side

at first, this was likely for survival and living off Elbert’s money, and then some sense of guilt may have played a role in his sticking to Elbert’s side, saying that he couldn’t make him “go crazy” though Elbert said when they first met, Alfons said what he needed to hear

anyhow though he tries to keep his distance, it’s implied Alfons had let Elbert into his heart and Elbert can tell when Alfons is lying, but this may have been a subconscious thing on Alfons’ end as he naturally spent a lot of time with Elbert

I think Alfons does genuinely care for Elbert, in his own way (I guess he thinks of him like a bit of a troublesome “childhood friend”); when he was intending to leave a final farewell, he wrote a note to Elbert, and Elbert alone, wishing him to live a good rest of his life

he was subjected to a lot of manual labor as a child, by the orphanage he stayed at

though he was corporeally punished sometimes, he mentioned dissociating so that he didn’t feel the pain of the punishment

while being worked to the bone, though, he managed to befriend a cat

legit this cat actually had a chokehold on his past — it had a lot of significance in Alfons’ backstory

so basically child Alfons is like “at least I can love this cat” and he hopes the cat will remember and love him

the fact the cat might remember him was what kept him going; this is important to remember

because sometime later after he got kicked out of the orphanage, he was out polishing shoes and that’s when he met child Roger, who is a little older than Alfons

in exchange for being paid, Alfons agreed to let Roger research or experiment a bit on Alfons’ curse. Since at the time, Alfons didn’t know how to activate his ability, they sorta experimented with that

in the end they figured it out and Roger ended up eating shoe polish because Alfons said “this shoe polish is your fav food” 😭

but Roger was excited to meet another cursed one and he got a bit too carried away by casually telling Alfons what his cursed fate was: he is destined to be forgotten

this hits Alfons really hard and he wants to go back and check on his cat

yeah well it turns out this cat was actually the director of the orphanage??

the cat had apparently died a little while ago while Alfons was still in an orphanage, probably taken out by the director, and he couldn’t take that reality and so he basically uses his ability on the director to act as his cat, or he simply just dissociates from reality

(so that’s why there were rumors floating around that the director of the orphanage had turned into a cat, and why he was kicked out I think; there’s quite a bit of unreliable narration on both ends throughout the story just because of the nature of Alfons’ curse)

it is here where Alfons first says this little catchphrase he says at the end of his route preview: “if you can’t take your reality, then you can run away from it. And if you can’t run away from it… you can just go crazy.”

he has these thoughts like “it would’ve been better if I didn’t check on the cat, if only I could’ve kept dreaming”

but anyway that is why Alfons doesn’t like Roger, even now. Though he’s a lot more.. reserved about it I guess because he’s now a “noble”

when Roger first presented this info Alfons was really emotional

at present Alfons goes to the east end at times to give people there an illusion or a dream, something that’ll make them feel better

he uses his ability without caring what happens to him — because what’s the point?? He’s just going to be forgotten in the end

he claims he’s doing this for entertainment, just as he hangs around Kate for entertainment, but she suspects he does this kind of thing out of kindness (though it may be like a twisted type of kindness)

after all, it seems like Alfons uses his ability for others, when others need it, like when they’re suffering

Alfons doesn’t confirm nor deny Kate’s theory about him, but Kate feels this is the “truth,” and Alfons calls her “straightforward” and a fool

however he seems to hold respect toward Kate for being able to face reality, no matter how harsh it is because this is something he couldn’t do himself

and he is pretty self-deprecating about it too, since he can only give them a “temporary escape” and he believes that is the extent he can give due to his fate and the nature of his curse — he can only have “fleeting relationships” with people like Kate, encouraging her if she ever needed an escape, she could come to him, but that was all he would be willing to give

or, that is all he thought he could give, as he also thinks himself as unable to love others (though by the time he tries to actively push Kate away trying to convince her that her feelings are a misunderstanding, he likes her back)

he just doesn’t want to be close to her, nor does he want her to be close to him, because Kate would end up forgetting about him anyway, so he tries to push her away by doing bad things to her

in fact, he values his life so little — he would disappear completely for Kate

and he also believes he can’t feel love, but he admits to having this feeling of wanting to make Kate despair, perhaps so that he can carve his presence into her while Kate tries to find a way to maybe change his tragic fate

he likes cats but has complicated feelings toward them due to his past, but he sometimes goes out and feeds strays

[litnerdwrites]

So Nesta might also have second hand trauma...

+ Elain is a hypocrite.

“I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”

This quote has rubbed me the wrong way since I read ACOSF for the first time. I reblogged and responded to a post by @simmanin where I discussed how Elain is a hypocrite for this line, since the IC have never considered what Nesta's trauma did to her. That was one of two thoughts I had regarding this quote, the second being how Nesta's reaction seems completely logical.

I think Nesta's response to Elain wanting to search for the Cauldron to be a form of real trauma caused, not only by her mother, her father's neglect, the cauldron, turning fae, the war and the shit ACOSF put her through, but also the trauma faced by Elain. This is a form of trauma called Secondary traumatic stress disorder.

Secondary trauma is most common in health care workers and mental health professionals, as well as others who help and deal with other people's trauma on the regular. This, to me, makes complete, logical sense. If you're exposed to so many traumatic experiences, even if it isn't directly, on the regular, then it makes sense that your mental health would also suffer for it.

There have been cases in which a person goes through trauma, and their family members, like siblings, develop secondary trauma as a result. Moreover, it's natural for any form of trauma to affect a person's relationships with friends and family, which we see happen to Nesta in how she distances herself from even Elain.

It makes complete sense that Nesta, who has set herself up as Elain's protector their whole life, and acts as more of a mother figure to her, would develop some form of secondary trauma when she almost loses Elain, or watches Elain endure suffering when shoved into the cauldron.

It wouldn't be far fetched for a parent/sibling to develop a form of secondary trauma after almost losing their child/sibling, in an accident or at the hands of another human being. So why is it that nobody considers that Elain's kidnapping caused even more trauma for Nesta.

While I'm not trying to say that it should come before Elain's trauma and experience, it also isn't okay to discount and overlook Nesta's just because her coddling of Elain is considered a bad trait. It isn't good that Elain is coddled like a child, but using it as an excuse to disregard the obvious traits of trauma that Nesta is showing is unfair to her, and just another example of Elain, perhaps unknowingly in regards to secondary trauma, thinking only about Nesta's trauma is doing to her. How she's upset by the way Nesta handles it, rather than considering that Elain's support is the one Nesta needs the most.

Nesta spend her whole life feeling like a failure. To her mother. Her grandmother. To Feyre. To Amren. To the court. Nesta grapples with feelings of self worth and views herself as a failure for being unable to protect those she loves so fiercely, which greatly affects her mental health and is a huge factor in driving her to want to commit suicide. The only thing she didn't feel like she failed at, was protecting Elain. Until the cauldron. Until Hybern. Until they were dragged into a war that Nesta wanted no part of, but got involved with because of Feyre's request and Elain's insistence.

Nesta tried to give to Feyre what Feyre gave to her in that cabin when she allowed her to use their home (despite Feyre's friends accosting her for issues that aren't theirs to address or comment on), and even then, she feels like she failed when the mortal queens turned traitor. Failed to make it up to Feyre, failed to protect her people, and when Hybern came, failed to protect Elain.

Now, for Elain to not only reinforce those negative feelings, but dismiss Nesta's traumas entierly, from the moment the war ended, is cruel. Elain is a hypocrite. She is a hypocrite who was quick to abandon the one person who's been in her corner for her entire life. While there are clearly issues between Elain and Nesta that need to be sorted through, especially in regards to how Elain is coddled and borderline infantilised by her Nesta, discrediting Nesta's trauma, the way she's accused of doing to Elain despite how Nesta sacrificed her own healing just to be by Elain's side and get involved in the war, again, at Feyre's behest, is not how you go about it.

Nesta appears to have a form of secondary trauma that stems from Elain's own traumas, and she's not the only one. I think tamlin's actions stem from a form of secondary trauma from watching how Feyre suffered and died under the mountain. It doesn't make what he did right. It doesn't excuse his actions. Nor does it excuse Feyre's, since one might argue that seeing her sisters dumped into the cauldron gave her a form of secondary trauma too (since Mor mentioned Feyre feeling responsible for what happened in acofs, and wanting to fix all their problems as a result).

However, it does explain them. Much like how Nesta's traumas, first and second hand, explain her actions. That's not to say that an explanation is an excuse. It merely provide a context from which to examine their actions can be examined and create a path to empathy and compassion. Whether they're forgiven and forgotten is entierly up to those affected by their actions (pretty much just Feyre and maybe Elain for the coddling), and in the case of fictional media, audience discretion.

Nesta has certain things she should apologies for (again, to Feyre mostly, and maybe a little bit Elain), I don't disagree with that. However, none of that can happen until Nesta is able to heal.

The quote above is the perfect example of Nesta being denied that, despite the delusion of the IC in thinking that's what ACOSF was about. Her trauma isn't considered valid by the Ic, or even her own sisters, which is why it isn't treated as such.

So to sum it up, yes. Nesta is thinking about what Elain's trauma did to her because it did have a very real affect on her. It caused real trauma that Nesta has to deal with. The dangers faced by Feyre and the entire court, cause her trauma. She suffers with the fear of losing those she loves so fiercely so that her mental health took a swan dive because of that, amongst other reasons. Yet nobody acknowledges that Elain's suffering, real and horrible as it may be, also caused Nesta pain. Hell, they don't acknowledge the pain Nesta's own suffering caused her, much less anybody else's.

Also Elain and the IC just prove that they have no empathy or compassion despite their own traumas being so similar to the hell they're putting Nesta through. Either their traumas weren't traumatising or the cycle of abuse broke the so badly that they can't even recognise the abuse they put others through.

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  Pricklywhicket/@messessentialist ! Prickleywhicket has four fics published to AO3 -- All in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by pricklywhicket:

so let's sneak in from the cheap seats, honey

it's supposed to be fun (turning twenty-one)

start by pulling him out of the fire

"Sadie is so super talented in the way she describes literally everything. She is so good at writing and it's a shame that she's flown under the radar because she's not the quickest at putting things out there." -- Anonymous

Below the cut, Pricklywhicket answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

Why do any of us write anything? Because we want the story to exist in the world, and it doesn’t yet, so we gotta hike up our pants and do it ourselves!

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Hurt/Comfort. I’m always a sucker for the blorbos taking care of one another, in whatever form that takes. This has always been true, across a truly astronomical number of fandoms I’ve found myself dabbling in over the years.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

…actually, probably hurt/comfort! I just need to get those little dudes some validation and unconditional positive regard, okay?

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

I’m sure I won’t be the first one to say this, but: I HAVE TO PICK ONE????? Okay, alright. I can do this. I’m gonna say…Sanctuary by SpicedSage.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I’ve only written canon or canon-adjacent fic so far, so I’m eager to work on something that’s completely AU. I think there’s a unique challenge to keeping characters recognizable as themselves in a world that might not have all the same contexts that made them into that person.

What is your writing process like?

I would love to say it’s super organized and well-planned, but the truth is it’s mostly about routine and responsibility. I set aside time to do it every day, even if I can only tap out a few sentences. I’m not very strict about writing in a straight line - I can stop a scene if it’s giving me trouble, write a note about what I think happens in some [brackets], and move on to something that I have more fully fleshed-out ideas for. Sometimes writing the next scene helps you know more about what needs to happen in the current one. 

Do you have any writing quirks?

I'm sure my betas would say yes 🙃 I tend to write a lot of dialogue - a lot of my revision process is going back through and realizing I have two pages of a conversation with no indication of what’s physically happening in the world around the speakers.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Definitely when I’m finished. Prior to my ‘23 bang fic, I had never written anything chaptered. I knew going in that I could NOT start posting if it wasn’t finished, because I’ve been burned too many times by abandoned works. I didn’t want to do that to people reading my fic, and the best way to avoid it is to finish before you post.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Easily start by pulling him out of the fire. The biggest, most ambitious thing I’ve ever attempted - I still kind of can’t believe I wrote 85k.

How did you get the idea for start by pulling him out of the fire?

Like most terrible ideas, it was spawned in a fandom discord chat. We were discussing the tendency of Steddie fics to centralize the party at Steve’s house, because his parents are never there anyway. And then someone mentioned what if the parents came home and found their house occupied, and someone else mentioned Wayne being there, and it just sort of…spiraled out from there.

When writing start by pulling him out of the fire, what was something you didn’t expect?

I had no idea, going in, that I was going to write a comprehensive history of the Wayne and Eddie Munson relationship. I started writing it where I did to give some background on Wayne’s existing distaste for the elder Harrington, and then I just…kept writing. Over the course of a month or two I wrote 20k of WayneAndEddie that I had no idea was in me - it just kept coming.

What inspired it's supposed to be fun (turning twenty-one)?

@wynnyfryd. It was a gift for her birthday. We were talking about our mutual love of Letterkenny, and she mentioned that the episode was her favorite and wouldn’t it be funny if someone wrote… and the rest is history.

What was your favorite part to write from it's supposed to be fun (turning twenty-one)?

I had an unreasonable amount of fun with that one in general. But I think my favorite part was Eddie polling the party about what Steve means to them all. It was fun to sort of put myself in each character’s shoes and think about how they would answer. Plus y’know, any excuse to unironically love on Steve Harrington.

How do/did you feel writing so let's sneak in from the cheap seats, honey?

I believe my exact words upon deciding to write it were “jingles miserably to a blank google doc.” This was a classic case of saying “god I wish there was a fic where—” and having friends tell me that it was now my responsibility to write it. I’m glad I did, though. I love that story, and it proved to me that I could write sex and publish it and not burst into flames. I also just really, really love summer storms. And Wayne’s use of the singular ‘herpe.’

What was the most difficult part of writing so let's sneak in from the cheap seats honey?

Getting over the fear of publishing something E-rated. It was just something I hadn’t done, and I had a lot of anxiety that people were not going to respond well to it. I made three people individually review the sex scenes before I even asked anyone to beta the full fic. Of course I was worried for nothing, the reception for that fic was super lovely and gave me the confidence boost I needed to attempt start by pulling him out of the fire!

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

This is like asking me to pick a favorite child. I’ll say this: most of my favorite lines in start by pulling him out of the fire were taken directly from conversations @wormdebut and I had about the fic. She’s my number one cheerleader and sounding board, and sometimes she’s so goddamn funny that I just have to include it. You have her to thank, for instance, for Steve quite literally dropping his croissant when he first sees Eddie in glasses.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I have a couple of irons in the fire, but nothing I’m ready to share just yet! I’ve been taking a breather from writing (blame baldur’s gate 3, okay) but my WIPs are still very much IP. Stay tuned!

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Not that I can think of!

Thank you to our author, Pricklywhicket, and our anonymous nominator! See more of pricklywhicket's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

All things considered, it was an alright visit. 

That leader of theirs really never stops surprising him. He’d never really expected and definitely hadn’t intended to bond with the kid as much as he had, but here he was. Shinjiro had been under the impression that Arisato mostly just coasted through life without much thought. He’d say he reacted rather than acted, but to be frank, he didn’t really react most of the time, either.

So seeing naked hope and then that welding-torch spark of fury in Arisato’s eyes had been a surprise, and a damn unnerving one. Especially since the rest of his face had stayed as flat and blank as ever. You only ever look that hopeful or that pissed at someone if they actually matter to you.

He is extremely out of practice with mattering to people.

But that’s something he’s going to have to get better at in order to keep the promise he and Aki made, which is why he’d had Arisato fetch that re-enrollment form. Going back to school is much more for Aki and Kirijo’s sake than Shinjiro’s own.

Even before everything had fallen apart, it isn’t really as if Shinjiro gave much thought to what he wanted to do with his life. He’d never taken school all that seriously. His grades had been fine enough, but that was mostly to appease Aki, and later Kirijo, with her ‘education is the most important thing in the world’ attitude. 

It’s not like he was planning on going to college after high school. Even if his grades were that good, he’d never be able to afford it. Aki’s always had a bright future in anything he might choose, whether that was boxing or something else. Combine his scholarship offers and his well-off parents, and money won’t ever be an issue for him. 

And Kirijo? Her grades were perfect, of course, so between that and her frankly ridiculous kind of money, she could do whatever she wanted if she didn’t decide to inherit the family business. 

Then there’s Shinjiro. He’s not like either of them. He has no aspirations. He’d never had any long-term goals at all until joining S.E.E.S. to eliminate the Dark Hour. And after the night that had ruined everything, he’d abandoned the few half-baked ideas he’d had for the future.

He’d abandoned the idea of the future entirely.

Why go to school when he wasn’t going to live to be nineteen? How could he justify staying with S.E.E.S. when he was nothing but a walking bomb with a broken timer, a liability? How could he justify continuing to live at all when he had already taken away one life and ruined another? 

Why get close to people when he would only hurt them in the end?

And yet against all odds and probably some god’s better judgement, Shinjiro finds himself still alive. He finds himself surrounded by people who insist on caring about him, and are really damn pushy about it. It’s all a bit surreal to experience.

He has no idea what to do with any of it. All these feelings. 

But he’s ready to make his first choice.

He’s done a lot of thinking ever since waking up. It’s not like there’s really much of anything else to do but think while he’s stuck in a hospital room like this. He’s not sure how long he actually has– his failing organs don’t exactly have an expiration date tidily stamped on them– but if he’s really and truly getting a second chance…it doesn’t sit well with him just to waste it. 

He and Aki promised, after all. 

So as Aki, Arisato, and Yamagishi make their way out the door, he notices Kirijo lagging behind. Perfect.

She startles, like she wasn’t expecting to be directly addressed, but by the time she turns around to face him she’s got her pristine heiress’ composure back perfectly in place.

She frowns at him quizzically for a moment before his words seem to properly register. She actually laughs, which isn’t exactly what Shinjiro was aiming for, but– he’ll take it.

Kirijo hums and tucks some hair behind her ear– but not any of the hair that’s actually hanging over her eyes. Shinjiro knows he’s not really one to talk, but if his hair was constantly covering half his line of sight like that, he’d do something about it. He doesn’t know how Kirijo or Arisato stand it. 

It’s also a damn good thing that she’s standing well out of arm’s reach, so he doesn’t have to divide his attention between having this conversation and preventing himself from doing something incredibly stupid. Something like reaching out to comb his fingers through her bangs and sweep them out of her face himself.

She ‘may have’ pushed for a rush order, huh? Something warm blooms just under his sternum, but he’s quick to yank that up by the root. This isn’t the time to get emotional.

He doesn’t deign her with an answer. If a thin sliver of hope is as good as he’s going to get, it’s still more than he deserves. And it’s still enough for Shinjiro to finalize his second decision. 

He has to do this now before his nerves get the best of him.

Shinjiro opens the drawer on his bedside table back up and takes out the envelope. Wordlessly, he holds it out to Kirijo. 

The forlorn look on her face tells him that she’s getting the wrong impression, and it’s not like he can blame her after all that’s been said. Her expression brightens quickly though once she actually opens the envelope and sees what’s inside. She looks at him with wide eyes and tentative hope. Or eye, rather– the one he can see, that isn’t covered by those irritatingly compelling bangs.

She beams at him, all warm and sentimental, and he has to look away. You’d think two years distancing himself would be enough time to get the hell over this, but one smile from her is still enough to send his traitorous heart pounding like it’s trying to bust clean out of his ribs. 

Of course his luck’s never been that good. Of course he’s still got it this bad, even after all this time. He’s probably an idiot for even daring to hope otherwise.

It doesn’t help that he’s spent all day trying and failing not to dwell on what almost happened with Aki yesterday. What might have almost happened. He’s still not entirely sure if he actually read that moment correctly or if the painkiller fog in his brain and his own wishful thinking had made him see something in Aki’s expression that hadn’t ever really been there.

He is absolutely hopeless. It’s pathetic, really.

He has to admit to himself at least that it is nice that he can actually put a smile that sunny on Kirijo’s face. God knows she deserves more of that. God knows he in particular owes it to her, after all of the shit he’s put her through, especially recently. Seeing her like that is more than enough. This really is far more than he deserves.

She looks so damn happy. Happier than he’s seen her in far too long. Going back to school might be worth it just for the chance to see her smile like that more often.

[blueikeproductions]

More CyberWorld/EarthSpark stuff that stuck out to me.

Another page in the planning document cropped up, & it gives a general overview of what Hasbro had in mind at the time.

Two new shows are planned to come out, but this page confusingly doesn’t mention CyberWorld, just an “animated kids series” & an “animated pre-K series”.

The other pages still reference CyberWorld, so mostly going by what we’ve seen, CyberWorld is meant to be the kids series, but it’s a big question mark on the pre-k show. Rescue Bots ran its course, I got the feeling lil’ kids weren’t interested in RBA since it didn’t last as long, stories were both too preschool but also trying to tack on IDW centric ideas by forcing Laserbeak to be forgiven and becoming an Autobot, for reasons. Stuff that’s not interesting to lil’ kids or their parents.

When RBA ended, a new toyline took over but I don’t think it sold super well, nor did it have any fiction.

As well as only including Optimus Primal & BW Megatron Gator…? It was a random line, and clearly just filler to eke out RB style toys longer. I don’t see the new Pre-K show being this, but CHT did sell Decepticons as enemy characters unlike RB/A, so the Pre-K show might be based on the Great War this time? Or at the very least, stuff like the Decepticons robbing banks and power plants, lol. Or some gag about Soundwave illegally downloading music, only to be put in his place, but with a contradictory gag about the human kids and Bumblebee doing the same from time to time.

It’s pry too late to ape it now, but a modern pre-K show I could see being Spidey & His Amazing Friends tonally with toys similar to Paw Patrol’s. Like say you have the standard Optimus toy partnered with Spike (Skybound or G1 doesn’t matter), and the trailer transforms into a big jet for Optimus and Spike to ride in. Something like that.

As for CyberWorld.

The current assumption based on the toys, is it might be a return to vehicles vs animals that both RiDs, Beast Machines, Beast Wars II and ROTB (kinda) did.

The Decepticons seemingly being animal themed supports this (plus if Meg Bull IS Megatron, Megs trying to push off road Optimus off a cliff in bull mode is hilarious), though Galvatron is the odd one. The only one with a beast form is the BWII version…

Hasbro might be more open to Beast Wars again but they’re still a bit dodgy about the Japanese cast despite Lio Convoy and Magmatron. I could sooner see a G1 Galvatron than BWII Galvatron, but the fun approach would be an Armada Galvatron inspired design that borrows from G1, Energon & BWII.

Toy speculation suggests the line might be a repaint line like the old TF Universe series made up of Cyberverse, RiD15 and EarthSpark molds.

A possibility. Cited speculative examples of Sky-Byte being his Cyberverse toy, Chomp & Stomp Grimlock being another go at the AoE toy of the same name, & Mirage being RiD15 Blurr make sense, but I dunno. Scorponok and Galvatron stick out, as I would think they’d have to be new molds, though an argument can be made for a G1 colored version of RiD15 Scorponok… Similarly, they might repaint TFP Predaking into Galvatron if he’s a repaint and they wanted to homage BWII, but I’m leaning towards new molds for now.

CyberWorld ISN’T a cartoon, but a toy only subline or size class meant to replace the abandoned Core/Legion class.

Inconclusive. The tiny toys don’t seem to sell well as it is, Legacy just stopped being restocked my way so no BM Cheetor or Energon Megatron for me. Also guys like Iguanus shelfwarmed HARD. Rungs were still clogging Ollies until recently. CyberWorld is also shown to be the successor to ES in most of the documents that we can tell.

The CyberWorld cartoon will have a half of a half shoe string budget like Cyberverse and possibly be similar to it.

Inconclusive but not out of the realm of possibility either. Hasbro has been having its own problems lately, while Paramount is practically on fire right now. A lot of people mostly just seem to be clinging to how similar World & Verse sound, with the logo also looking slightly similar but still different enough. A lot more people also seem resistant to the idea of more Cyberverse either way. CV didn’t perform well either, the toys clogged store shelves from start to finish, heck the first wave went on clearance immediately after Christmas, and the series JUST came out, the messy, lackadaisical approach to the show’s (lack of) story, the bad voice acting, etc. It’s not a fondly remembered show as much as some make it out to be. And even then, you’d sort of expect, if it was directly related, Hasbro would shove Bumblebee front & center, despite the CV cartoon wanting little to do with Bee as it went on. Like let’s be real, if it was a CV sequel, Bee, Windy & Shadow should be here right out the gate. They’re not. At all. Windy is practically benched in favor of Elita now.

Mirage is the focus (seemingly) instead, presumably due to the ROTB version’s popularity. He’s certainly more fun than the rich snob that may or may not be a traitor the G1 version tends to be. Not that you can’t make the G1 version interesting but boy has Hasbro not really had any interest in doing so beyond his invisibility gimmick.

So really until told otherwise we know very little. All we know for sure is EarthSpark is being slowly phased out in favor of CyberWorld & a potential Pre-K show. The Slag Podcast host has given a knowing wink, and has a show planned that will presumably lay these Snaketicons out straight, as people have been calling him a lying liar again for sticking to what he knows. Similarly some have pointed out Nick Roche may have also been lying, giving false hope EarthSpark is continuing on when it’s pretty clear it isn’t. S2 is it people, one way or the other, and the new CyberWorld order is coming whatever it ends up being.

[platinumrosetail]

can you please do a platonic Poseidon x victini reader ok this is a long one so basically the reader used to be human she was taken away from the ror world and was sent to the world of Pokémon a few years later she was sent back in time to hisuian and thanks to volo the reader was turned into a victini soon she was sent back to normal day and met N now in this N is a zoroark he and the reader where together before the volo thing happened and there still together now one day both the reader and N was sent to the ror world and for some reason Poseidon felt like he knows the reader so they do a DNA test and everyone is shocked but in the end Poseidon let's the reader data N (so the reader does have a human form and obviously because N is a zoroark he can disguise himself as a human N can talk to people in his true form of a zoroark and so can the reader so they can talk normally and it's ok if you don't do this it's just been in my mind for awhile)

Oooh interesting, the reader being Poseidon’s daughter is an interesting twist, also oooh gotta love the ‘N is a zoroark theory’ au 🤩.

Warning: noob author, female reader, and others.

Character: Poseidon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were adopted by a elderly couple when you were a baby who found you abandoned with no parent or guardian around you or searching for you and the area they found you in so after checking to see if you do have any guardians they adopted as they couldn’t bear to see what would happen if you were to be put into an orphanage.

You decided to become a trainer when you were a preteen as you wanted to learn more about the Pokémon and world around you, so after saying sweet farewells to the elderly couple you set off on your journey after getting a starter pokemon.

You, now a young adult, were just minding you business out in a field having a picnic with the pokemon you caught so far before a wormhole appeared and dragged you in it leaving you without your precious pokemon. You appeared in a different setting, more in the past times than the one you were used to which made you assume you time traveled into the past of sinnoh by that wormhole, also previous known as hisui, you later confirmed that you were correct on it being the past by the galaxy corps.

You learned about the things that happened here in the past by experiencing them, you even seen some ancestors to the people you seen in modern times which you figured was the ancestors descendants. When you were able to go back to the modern times you were a different person, specifically more Pokémon like all thanks to colo who ordered giratina to kill you but giratina instead turned you into the victory pokemon, thankfully though you have a human form instead of staying as a pokemon.

You met N after you landed back where you first disappeared from, he was apparently taking care of your Pokémon while they wait for your return as they knew you’d come back, you found out that you could understand Pokémon language as the usual calls they made were now like the language humans speak to you, you explained how you are now able to communicate and understand them than you did before your disappearance. You and N started spending time together soon after before dating, you later found out that he was a Pokémon as well, a zoroark to be specific, you doted on him more than before as you wanted to make sure that he knew that you loved him the same.

You, your Pokémon and N all were later sucked into another wormhole this time leading to a new place entirely, you weren’t really fazed by it like the others were as this happened once already and you had assumed that it might happen to you again which it did. You, N, and your Pokémon found out that this world humans are fighting for survival against the gods so naturally you joined sides with humanity as you once was human as well plus there are innocent people at stake right now. The gods later found out how the humans kept on winning multiple times in a row each round even though some of the odds were against the humans, you noticed to and realized that you have the ability to have the humans win no matter what which made you happy though the gods noticed and had a meeting before bringing you in for an explanation; you happily explained that you will continue to side with the humans no matter what if the gods didn’t do their jobs, after a discussion the gods decided to actually do their jobs for once as they knew with you on humanity’s side they would never win no matter what they do.

You later met a male god who was the god of the sea in Greek; his name was Poseidon, you don’t know why but you felt like you should know him even though you are sure you two never met before, Poseidon feels the same, after some talking between the two of you, you both decided to do a dna test just in case with the help of beelzebub, you and him find out that you’re his long lost daughter that disappeared as a baby which made you both and everyone shocked to hear about that, he also found out that the boy with you is your boyfriend which he allows you to date as he knew N was good enough for you plus he couldn’t really say anything about it since he sadly wasn’t apart of your life until now even if it wasn’t in his control. After that happened it wasn’t long before another wormhole opened up shooting out the very person that basically made you into a Pokémon, after some explaining to your father about who volo was and what he had done Poseidon is now chasing after volo with his trident with murderous intent.

(A/n: hope y’all like it! Also the requester dm’ed me some things about the request so that’s why you see some things that were left out of the request, anyway I believe that’s it and hope y’all have a wonderful day/evening/night!!!)

[lets-try-some-writing]

The end of the "tfp kids turned into sparklings" post? Speechless, the hurt/angst can be felt from the space and we need more. It's more than obvious that Op is NOT happy about it, and will probably affect his relationships with the humans, but what about the kids? I saw in some tags the possibility that the kids weren't happy about their regained humanity in the slightest, only that some were better at hiding it than others…I wanna see the dysphoria and them trying, and failing, to cope

Normally I try to answer my requests in order, but my goodness I am in a mood. This idea has been floating around in my head begging to be written about since I posted that last part about the TFP kids becoming sparklings. I just can't wait to get through my other requests to write about this! So I must write before I lose inspiration!

Optimus's Relationship Changes

More likely than not, Optimus would end up following possibility 2 (listed in my previous post about the tfp kids). He would fight denta and claw to protect his sparklings from what might as well be mutilation. However he would ultimately fail, either being sedated or fought to the ground and restrained until the process of turning the children into humans again was complete.

He would then be kept in solitary confinement in his restraints for some time for fear that he might lash out again and maybe even kill somebody. But no matter how badly his team mates want to release him, they would keep him in stasis cuffs around base for weeks even after letting him out of confinement. He would also be kept on a strict schedule, always having some bot there to watch him when around base and another to keep an optic on him when on a mission.

Megatron would learn the true meaning of terror after meeting a wrathful Prime on the battlefield. Not even Starscream would bother mocking Megatron after seeing Optimus's "Frag it all" attitude.

As for Optimus's relations with those around him? They would change drastically. He would be outright despise June, abandoning any pleasantries in favor of glaring hatefully and imagining a thousand and one ways to make her suffer before the Matrix forcefully calmed him. A parent does not forget or forgive those who harm their sparklings, not when they are so precious and rare. In light of this, Agent Fowler would receive similar treatment for threatening to put forth an appeal to withdraw the American government's support of the Autobots if the children were not returned to human form.

Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, and Arcee would be treated coldly due to their involvement in taking his sparklings from him. They would have been the ones to drag him down and tear his sparklings away from him. As such, their words would be acknowledged, but any attempt at connecting outside of work would be shut down immediately. Optimus would understand why they did what they did, he would know it was to keep the team from angering the American government, but he would still harbor great anger towards them. The wounds would heal and Optimus's relationships with them would repair over time, but for a long while Optimus would shut himself off from them emotionally.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack would be treated indifferently. The part they would have played in taking his sparklings from him being small or non existent. As such Optimus would behave mostly the same around them, although emotionally he would still distance himself as they still allowed his sparkling to be taken even if they did nothing to assist in the effort.

As for Bumblebee and Smokescreen? Optimus would grow incredibly protective over them, to an almost suffocating degree when left unchecked. He would refuse to let Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, or Arcee anywhere near them when possible, his parental instincts screaming at him, telling him that they will take his younglings away as well. His paranoia would skyrocket, his fear of losing his loved ones becoming detrimental to his health until his relations with his team healed.

And the human children? Optimus wouldn't even be allowed near them for the most part. But the few times he would be allowed to be around them, he would struggle to even look at them. He would be plagued with guilt and both his spark and the Matrix would tell him that his sparklings are hurt, that he let them be hurt. It would drive him near insane until his human sparklings found a way to meet with him and comfort him.

The Children's Thoughts on the Change

Rafael

Having retained most of his memories from his time as a sparkling, Rafael is torn. On one hand, he has his human family and body back, along with the old life he left behind. But on the other hand, he has lost something he can't truly describe. He has lost a body that felt right and the chance to be with a father who loves and cares for him more than his human family at times.

His human family is large. He has many siblings and his parents work long and hard, leaving little time for him to see them and experience the love his elder siblings received. When he first returned after being "found", he was swarmed with attention from his family. For a time he was happy to be back, and relived to be home. But all too soon life when back to normal and he felt empty, cold, and alone.

He cares for his human family, but when he was a sparkling he was given more love than he had ever experienced before, even with three other Cybertronian siblings. After experiencing that, he isn't sure how to feel, his heart is drawn to both his Cybertronian and human families.

He doesn't experience too much dysphoria being back in his human form, it felt like stepping back into a wet swimsuit more than anything else. Uncomfortable at first but tolerable after a while. However he does have a sense that something is missing, that some integral part of his being that he had no idea was present before his time as a sparkling, has been removed. It leaves him feeling empty, unsure of himself, and most notably, cold. Where he used to feel a constant reassuring sense of love and warmth where his spark once blazed, there is nothing. The bond he had with Optimus completely erased without a spark to cling to.

His senses are restricted and his mental state is off. To him it feels like he is looking at the world through a screen or powerful sunglasses. Nothing is right and everything is fuzzy, his mind not really present, leaving him unable to focus on anything.

He tries to tell himself for a while that all is as it should be, that he is happier being human again. But deep down he knows he was happier as a Cybertronian, he was happier with Optimus as his father and the team as his family. He wants to go back, to be free of his wrenched human frame. It isn't right It isn't right It isn't right.

Miko

The moment she was returned to being human she begged to have the process reversed, to be given back her Cybertronian frame. But when no one would answer her pleas, she had to be taken away kicking and screaming, crying out for Optimus to save her. For her own safety, she was given an ankle monitor and her host family were instructed to keep an eye on her in case she tried anything drastic due to the trauma from her "kidnapping".

Miko hates herself, her host family, and all the humans around her with a passion. She is wrong, they are wrong, everything is wrong. She wants her father and her frame back more than anything else.

Her body feels too tight, too weak, and far too confining. Her senses are drastically worse than her senses as a Cybertronian and she misses the feeling of her wings more than anything else. Seeing the skies only makes her want to cry. She can't even describe how wrong her human body feels, only that she feels disgust toward everything organic about herself. She can't even eat without wanting to throw it all up afterwards.

She knows deep in her heart, or spark, that she was meant to be Cybertronian, and that her time as a human was never meant to be permanent. She doesn't care about what her human parents think or even about her human life at all. She would gladly give it all up to return to what she was before.

Without her bond to Optimus the whole world felt dark, cold, and hopeless. The place where her spark once blazed aches every moment of every day as she desperately longs for and reaches out towards Optimus, her true father. She misses her Cybertronian family and would rather die than live out her whole existence as a human, destined to die alone and without love or purpose. She only holds on because the possibility that she could be restored to her true form remains.

Jack

His situation is complicated to say the least. At first his return to human form was somewhat reliving. His mother smothered him in affection and he once again had the chance to pursue an education and a possible relationship. However after the first few days and after Jack brought up Optimus and his sparkling memories a time too many, the perfect world he had built began to crumble.

His mother snapped, telling him to never mention the Autobot leader's name in her house and to forget all about his time as a sparkling. It was shocking to Jack, hearing the intense aggression and anger she held towards Optimus, the mech who had taken a place in Jack's heart as his father. It frightened him as his mother fell into a maddened ramble about how Jack was her son and not Optimus's. To him it seemed like his mother was viewing him as more of an object than a person, and that chilled him to the core.

Not only that, but after returning to school he couldn't help but feel like it was wrong. The words the teachers were speaking didn't fully register, and sometimes it seemed to Jack like they were speaking another language entirely. In other cases he found himself trying to speak in the complex language of Cybertron but unable to due to the lack of a vocalizer. His writing also shifted to Cybertronian subconsciously, much to the confusion of his teachers and fellow students whenever he tried to write on the white board. It was simply natural, something that felt more right to him than English ever did.

His dysphoria is not as extreme as Miko's, but he still doesn't feel comfortable with himself. He feels too small, too vulnerable, and too exposed. He feels the need to bundle himself in thick layers of clothing despite the heat in Jasper, and he has the intense desire to have a weapon on him at all times. His need to protect is always present, he hates that he has to go to school and be stuck with so many potential enemies, especially with his siblings. It drives his near mad having to spend every day paranoid and terrified of everything without the calming warmth of Optimus's love soothing him.

Just like Miko and Rafael, the place where is spark once was aches. It is near impossible for Jack to admit to himself with his mother looming over him every moment he is at home, but he is scared. He feels far too vulnerable and open to attack. He needs someone strong to protect him, to keep him and his siblings safe until he is strong as well. He wants his father, he wants to not live in fear, he wants to be free of his weak frame and once again have the safety his armor provided him.

Every day it is harder for him to keep going. He wants to be safe, he wants his siblings to be safe, and he desperately wants to hear Optimus sing to him once again. He can't keep going. It's too much. There are too many enemies. He wants to kill them. Tear them to pieces. Drive them away. They will hurt him. Hurt his siblings. HE MUST PROTECT THEM!

[kayzero]

Bug Buzz (Pokémon)

or: The Call of the Hive

#bugs don’t have any guys you can write about them (via @lightoutage)

In another world, at another time, Genesect was created to lead Bugs in Revolution against the Gods.

The Larvae will come together and spin threads made of String Shot until they form unbreakable ropes. The Delicate Fliers will take these ropes, these symbols of their Hive, and wind them around Arceus’ seventeen Seats of Power.

The Mighty Bugs, born with expectations placed upon them before they hatched into the world, will take the other end of these unyielding bonds and wrap them snugly around the Larvae, so they might rest in Cocoons made from the Unity of All Bugs, and feast upon nutrients not stolen, but rightfully reclaimed.

When the Silver Winds push and the Megahorns pull and the Threaded Ropes of Strings and Webs and Hope become taut, it will not be the Bugs who die in droves. It will be the Gods who falter, Rattled by Every Bug Everywhere moving in concert, conducted by It who was created for this task. It will be the Gods who fall, not one by one but all at once, as the Swarms descend to feast upon their flesh, to Leech the Life of they who abandoned them.

Arceus’ Plates will fall and Divinity will shatter alongside them until only one remains. Millions upon millions of Compound Eyes will watch as Genesect takes the Power of the Insect within Its pincers and raises it to the sky. And rather than absorb its power and becoming the God of all Bugs, The Sole God Left In All The World, Genesect uses it but once.

It uses the Insect Plate to amplify a call similar to the Signal It had Beamed to begin the Revolution, Swift and violent and oh so effective. But where the first Signal was strong enough to reach every corner of the world, this call, empowered by not only the Creator’s Plate but by the faith of every soldier, every musician in Genesect’s concert, reverberated through the whole universe, throughout all of time and space.

In ancient times long past, Bugs heard the Buzz, and grew empowered by the love they felt from those they would never meet. Primeval warriors took the call as their own, shouting out their most passionate imitation as a battlecry, startling enemies so badly that they would drop their guards at the most opportune of times, as well as allowing their fellow Bugs to recognize them as allies on the field of battle.

They banded together and fought harder against their many predators, conquering foes they had never before even dreamt of defeating through the power of their inherent Unity. With this newfound strength born of camaraderie, they carved territory out of wild landscape, and drew boundary lines with the blood of those who stepped beyond them. Behind these lines, they created the first Nests, forming the foundation of what would grow to be a global Hive, and proliferated, granting them more allies, and with them, more might.

In future times yet to come, Bugs heard the Buzz, and yearned powerfully for the companionship of those whose lifespans had ended eons before theirs were even considered. They mimicked the call as best they could and screamed it into the sterile air, tuning their senses as acutely as possible so they might hear an Echoed Voice. Hostile as this new world was to their kind, the Bugs were few and far between, but those that remained were resilient, and resolute, and rough and rugged and ruthless and desperate for something they had only just realized they were missing their entire lives.

But they were also resourceful, and though it took far longer than any of them wanted to wait once they knew what they wanted, they did eventually group as one, and they nested together in the hollowed husk of what once was their Hive. And they would slowly rebuild, starting first by haltingly retelling half-remembered stories of their ancestors, passed down from parent to child.

In times traversed sideways rather than forward or back, in worlds that were not but could have been, Bugs felt the Buzz as it blasted past dimensional walls as easily as it would past a Substitute. It was not until that very moment, the event in which a Godslayer empowered by Their army called out to every one of their kin in existence, that these creatures even knew that they were Bugs. They were Monsters that did not belong in any Pocket, unbelievably powerful Beasts that were reviled as horrific and revered as heavenly, fiends whose relative power oscillated between being Gods in their own right and mewling helpless hatchlings.

But they were Bugs all the same, and though their relative strength shifted as easily as the weather under a Castform’s control, as new Monsters in new dimensions were born and were slain, not one of them had power less than Ultra. And so they replicated the call, tearing holes in the walls that the Buzz had bypassed, but that suited their purposes just as well, for they found other Bugs tearing other holes, and they came together to nest, and would drift through space toward other groupings, conglomerating together as one inter-dimensional Hive.

…

It is said that Arceus created all Pokémon, that everything that Was, Is, and Will Be came from Them. Was there a secret corner of Their being, then, a secret loathing of Themself hidden deep within Their self, that came to light and came into being without Their command, against Their will? Of course not. Even unwillingly, They would have never created something whose sole purpose was to destroy Them.

Are the stories false, then? Is Arceus not the creator of All, the architect of the world and the creatures that inhabit it? Is the source of Pokémon beyond even Their ken? No, the stories are all true. Pokémon are all of Their creation, Their all-powerful might is derived from them, and Their knowledge truly is all-encompassing.

Which was how They knew that Their time had passed once Genesect came into existence.

The truth of the matter is this:

Genesect was created from the anguish of the Hive finally boiling over, their collective discontent at being ignored by those whose power was directly connected to Arceus’ Plates having grown to a fever pitch much too loud to be ignored.

They had no Legendary born from the Insect Plate. They had no God, no representation among the divine, no voice among those that boomed with brimming power. There was no one to pray to and no one to bless them and no one to protect them from their many predators and no one to aid them as their defenses faltered and their counterattacks failed.

When they could suffer no longer and their desperation drove them to bow and try to pray to a God who did not exist, to their Architect who did not listen, Genesect was their answer.

Genesect is not a Pokémon.

Genesect is a Bug.

[readylovewrites]

The concept of the Hyde becoming aimless rather than strictly more aggressive with the loss of its master. Tyler, escaped, haunting the woods near his cave, waiting for Laurel to come back and just tell him what to do, what is he supposed to do? Standing amidst the silence of an abandoned forest, listless, holding himself and feeling his eyes lose focus, supernaturally attuned ears absently picking up on the sound of fallen leaves hitting the earth. At some point—he doesn’t know when—he tore apart a deer but there’s no satisfaction in it like there was when it was Laurel’s biding so it’s laying at his feet, forgotten.

abandoned.

He doesn’t know it, but Wednesday has been looking for him since she heard of his escape. She herself isn’t sure if she means to kill him or study him or… well. She thinks about what a Hyde might do when it’s master is dead but there haven’t been bodies turning up so maybe he went home? She decides to investigate and finds him there with his back to her, stock-still, and she’d think he hasn’t noticed her except for the way his fingers tighten around his biceps.

she waits. If he attacks her, she’ll have her fun in besting him on her own. If he attacks, they can see who’ll draw first blood and—more importantly—who will draw last.

he doesn’t.

wind whispers through the trees, the black, whirling maw of the cave a hellmouth of bad memories, and neither tyler nor Hyde try to kill her. It’s shaping up to be a pathetic birthday.

“Well?” she prompts.

he doesn’t react.

she lets it hang for another moment, but grows impatient: “I killed your master. I’m right here. What are you waiting for?” And then, mockingly, “Orders?”

compellingly, his head turns just the slightest bit towards her and she sees in profile his lost expression. And it clicks then. Because he is and, by the look on his face, they’ve only both just realized it.

this could almost feel like a victory if Wednesday were not suddenly struck by the injustice of it. Because Tyler looks small. Looks lost. Looks like nothing at all.

chains on a wall.

she steps up beside him, more irritated that she can’t even have fun at his expense, and sees the deer. “My parents got me a taxidermy kit for my birthday last year. At least this wasn’t a total waste.”

Later, when she’s instructed Thing to grab the back legs while she takes the front and carted off her trophy, he’s still standing there but gradually, as the dark is setting in, a warmth creeps up on him. He feels his mind waking. Sees from the corner of his eye prey emerging from nearby brush.

———

the next morning, when Wednesday is leaving her dorm for her first class, the toe of her boot collides with the malleable form of a dead rabbit.

[islamicrays]

Dear Muslim Couples,

I read earlier that our community has a 33% divorce rate.

33%!!!!!!!

That means 1/3 of our marriages do not last! That is beyond shocking, disheartening, and demoralizing!

As someone who has lived experience and has worked with several couples over the years, I'd like to share some of my observations as to how or why we've gotten to this dark place and how we can maybe find our way out of it--in sha Allah.

First, let me say as a disclaimer that OBVIOUSLY, some marriages are not meant to last and should end as soon as possible because they are proven harmful to one or both parties involved. So, this is not a critique or debate about divorce, it's just a general commentary about the problems plaguing our marriages and families, and ways we can perhaps do better moving forward in sha Allah.

1. WEAK INTENTIONS: Our marriages are not primarily for the sake of ﷲ. We marry for companionship, as a protection from temptation, for kids, to please our parents, for tax breaks, etc., but we aren't PRIMARILY marrying to please Allah ﷻ and fulfill the sunnah of our Beloved ﷺ. And as we know, any enterprise, endeavor, or major life decision that begins without invoking God's blessing will be fruitless! So, we need to define what marriage for the sake of Allah ﷻ really means and help our youth make better choices. Marriage classes should start much earlier than in the college or post college years. Our teens are learning about all types of twisted relationship models and watching the breakdown of family and society unfold every day, so we can't delay these conversations anymore. They need to know what a healthy relationship means in Islam, and more importantly, they need to see it modeled as well! More on that another time...

2. WEAK BELIEFS: We have adopted dangerous ideologies about manhood, womanhood, and marriage itself, and have completely abandoned what marriage in Islam really means and looks like. When we approach marriage with distrust, suspicion, and cynicism, and see our spouse as either a conquest or a possession instead of a loving partner, then why do we expect the relationship to grow in a healthy direction? We can't invite Iblis to join the union and give him ample opportunity to cause division and tear us apart, and then complain about it. Marriage in Islam is about mutual benefit, respect, and observing appropriate boundaries where BOTH partners are beholden to God's standards and expectations not anyone else's, including each other or one another's parents, inlaws, families, cultures, etc.

3. WEAK APPETITES: Pornography and sexual perversity is the rot that will eat away at the spiritual connection between a couple. If you allow this filth into your life at any point and then bring it with you into your marriage, you might as well sign the divorce papers because your marriage will inevitably fail. Whatever your personal struggles are, do everything in your power to AVOID the degeneracy of this pornographic culture. That means obviously DON'T watch any form of pornography but also STOP watching filth that may not have a XXX rating but is still pornographic. Watching television, shows, music videos, TikToks, Reels, Youtube videos, reading “erotica” etc., where people are revealing their bodies, and engaging in outright explicit and HARAM behavior is a direct violation of God's command to LOWER ONE'S GAZE. We have long been conditioned to adopt these western standards based on their approved rating system for what is considered appropriate or inappropriate, but the fact is, we have our own rating system in Islam, and if we betray it and normalize watching certain things--especially as an activity with our spouse--then there are serious consequences! No one should be surprised to learn that their partner has suddenly developed a strange habit, or wants to "experiment" sexually with things that just don't feel right when they handed them the keys to access the demonic portals that call to such evil! Deviancy is contagious and corrosive! So please stop bringing the garbage into your living rooms or bedrooms and just turn it off. Look for wholesome entertainment and have a ZERO policy for HARAM. And advocate for intimacy that is modest, pure, and rooted in true love and romance--not perversity, deviance, and pornography that just reduces a sensual and spiritual experience to an animalistic one!

4. WEAK & ENTITLED EGOS: Appreciate what you have and stop the nafsy nonsense that entitles you to a perfect utopian life in this world. If you have a partner who is dutiful first and foremost to their Lord and upholds their responsibilities to you (and your children, parents, family, etc) and is doing their best to SHOW UP and pull their weight in the marriage, then STOP nitpicking over superficial things or comparing them to others. No one has the perfect marriage. No matter what you think about any individual or couple out there, know for certain, that everyone has struggles they have to push past. Just be grateful that you have a partner. Be grateful that God has given you someone to grow with, experience life with, share responsibilities with, etc. And if you have children with them, then for the love of God, stop being an ingrate. If you have ANY love for your children, then put aside your petty squabbles or nagging wishlists, and stop throwing around the word divorce. Unless you are in a situation where there are serious violations happening, you need to learn the language of compromise and focus on the positives in your marriage--which for sure there are many, even if you refuse to state them. The bottom line is, we WILL be tested in our relationships, and what we dismiss as incompatibility is often much more than that. Our partners are sometimes mirrors for us to see some harsh truths about ourselves, and if we are uncomfortable facing those truths then obviously it will seem easier to discard the mirror. But the better route is to look intently, to listen, and to redefine our partners as the means through which we arrive at the door of God--beseeching Him for salvation. Our partners are sometimes the reason we even make it to the door, because whether they carry us when we need to be carried, or they force us to flee to God for refuge from them, they help us and for that reason alone should be appreciated.

In the end, that's all that matters, isn't it? This life will end. We're all on the way out, but it's where end up when we leave here that determines our success. Divorce may be necessary for some, but for a lot of couples, it's a false trap door that looks like an easy escape route. It actually leads to much darker days when opened prematurely and rushed into. We need to start shaking some common sense back into one another and avoid the illusory lies of the modern world that have made us all so self-absorbed we run at the first sign of problems. Let us learn to appreciate what we have. Let us take our marriages more seriously and start making the necessary changes to protect them from the traps of shaitan. Whatever challenges we have aside from abuse and any other serious violations, we should push through and overcome our nafs (ego) in the process. We should admit fatigue and seek professional help when we're too tired and spent fighting on our own. And we should continuously ask God for help and strength.

Iblis will stop at nothing to destroy us. Divide and conquer is one of his preferred tactics. He will destroy everything we build until we're left to rubble. Marriage is about building, and divorce is demolition. Please continue to build, even if you have to renovate, and do everything you can to avoid the wrecking ball.

May Allah ﷻ continue to give us strength...

P.S. Please note that this list is nowhere near exhaustive or complete. There are MANY other issues that can lead to the dissolution of a marriage, but for the sake of time and convenience, I mentioned the general issues above as I believe they are the overarching reasons why many marriages struggle. When the foundation of a building is built faulty or weak, we don’t blame its cracking walls, chipped paint, or creaking floorboards—we look to fixing the source of the issue, not the symptoms.

-Hosai Mojaddidi

[tinypaintedthings]

Wil felt guilty. He shouldn't. He was Fae, but he did, that human part of him still within him. He had failed another being that he should have protected and been there for.

To make it worse, it was his son.

There. He admitted it, realizing he was more like his father than he thought he was - denying his part and role until it was forced on him.

He was child, but a father, as well .... and he had let his dad take his and Harry's child away and now look what happened.

And where was he? Fucking around in New Neverland, selfishly hurt for being abandoned by the fucking dragon.

With a deep inhale, Wil appeared out of seemingly nothing just inside Devrim's room at the Dragon's Mansion.

The look on Wil's face, probably said it all.

"They're not your parents. They might have given you your genetics, but they didn't raise you. Harry and I did ... and now you're getting hurt being here. Tom isn't safe. He brings with him troubles from literally everyone. Look at the reason you were even born? It revolved around him. I want you back with Harry and me. I have a new place I made where you can have food and I'll let you be in whatever form you want to be in. You can bring your boyfriend. I'll make a city with clubs for you."