#her own lore and story elements.....

[bisupergirl]

constantly thinking about where kara would be at today if she had been allowed to transition into new earth continuity along with everyone else after COIE (and if pre-crisis kara wasn't stripped for parts and tossed aside for the benefit of other characters)...

[crazy-grrrl-on-the-computer]

Last line tag game!

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like).

Tagged by @fortune-maiden

Thank you so much for giving me the kick my brain needed to finally choose a project to focus on! <3

And as for these documents, they’re going under the mattress and out of sight until I get back. See that, Captain? That’s called thinking ahead. You’re welcome.

Not exactly the last line, but it's the last section I wrote and decided I liked enough to share. Is it from any of the anticipated projects I've actually told people about? Nope, it's part of a self-indulgent OC-centric fic that was conceived in 2012 and never saw the light of day for good reason.

Tagging: @auniverseforgotten , @shadowmellow , @darth-salem-emperor-of-earth , @thatlittledandere , @koolkitty9 , @floweryuu , @lanliingwang , @otakushrew , @ryoseii , @mostlikelytofangirl

I am so very out of the loop about who in my small Tumblr circle is still active, writing, and interested in tag memes like this. So please know there's no pressure to share and if I missed someone who wants to be included feel free to consider yourself also tagged~ <3

[000marie198]

When you have a very strong one-sided grudge against a specific videogame franchise both your brothers are big fans of because it won't stop copying everything from different folklores and cultures and mythologies and history and stories of specific places

[lethesbeastie]

Finally got my visual refs for the Wanderer's Jaws drawn up! My beloved mimic ship and her insatiable appetite for flesh and blood <3

Extra lore and visuals beneath the cut!

Intro to the Wanderer's lore is here. <3

The Wanderer is rather strange for a mimic; beyond her colossal size, her physical adaptations for a fully marine existence show evidence of the possible divergence of mimic subspecies specializing in unusual environments. Her close bond with (and refusal to eat) the people she considers her crew makes her even more of a mystery, though the secrecy with which she is shrouded is well earned. Few encounter the Wanderer and live to tell the tale, and those who do may find it in their best interest to keep such stories and speculations to themselves.

It's well known among her crew that the relationship they have with the mimic is a strange sort of symbiosis; her great size would be unsustainable without their assistance. They protect her from sickness and starvation, and she, in return, guards them from the elements and injury. The ships she sinks at their behest supply the material with which she builds her protective disguise, and the crews of those ships provide her with the nourishment needed to grow and heal from injuries.

Even so, the relationship goes beyond simple convenience. There is a bond shared between them all, an understanding. The Wanderer makes herself vulnerable to her crew, keeps them close beneath the carapace of her wooden hull. Within the sanctuary of her own body she guards them from harm, and cares for them as her own. The loyalty of the crew to their beloved vessel surpass that of most seafaring folks, and for good cause.

Any sailor can learn to love a ship, but it is a rare ship that has learned to love its sailors.

[veneralice]

art credit: @sesamefruit on x / twitter! all credits to the artist!

divider credits: @cafekitsune ! all credits to the original creator of the divider!

seaborn soulmates / rafayel (m.)

in a cruel twist of fate, it is the god himself who becomes the most fervent worshipper. after lifetimes of looking for you, rafayel has finally found his beloved bride once more - but this time, it is him sinking to his knees to chant your praises, not the reverse. (20.4k words)

content warnings: maybe ooc-rafayel idk i’m still an inexperienced writer, me making up lemuria lore as i go because my ass wasn’t playing the game when god of tides came out (also i’m clueless about lads lore), mc as an independent character called michaela (pushing my wlw agenda with her and simone fr), kind of dubious consent???? (past!reader worships rafayel and acts very self-sacrificing so uh? idk? i’ll note it just to make sure) (also drunk rafayel initiates some skinship but reader shuts it down because you cant give consent while youre drunk yall), they fucking, p in v, switch!rafayel (bc we all know it’s canon /j), some biting, some scratching (rafayel’s back bleeds), overstimulation (fem. receiving), violence (blood and cutting is involved in deity worship), is it stalking? 💀 (he keeps tabs on reader in the same way he kept track of mc in-game before they met), idek man, let me know if you need more content warnings 🙂‍↕️, kind of inspired by @poisonf0rest bc i read her siren rafayel fic and saw god and immediately decided i had to write a raf fic myself, so honorary mention of them LMAO (pls read their fics they are so fucking good)

A thousand moons and a thousand suns have risen and fallen on the waves, but none compare to the sight of you entering Rafayel’s court. You are the only celestial constant in this life from that day on, the planet around which Rafayel’s immortal life spins. How humorous, that mortals are so below Lemurians that they are not even worthy of appraising their worship, but it is a mortal bride that weakens the god of the tides.

You are radiant, ephemeral in your beauty. There is a certain kind of delicate balance in your mortality, a rose so ethereal before it withers. Your skirts, although handmade and of unparticular material, a sign of your lowborn upbringing, part to reveal the soft skin hidden beneath, an image that makes Rafayel’s fingers twitch in yearning. He has never envied the land-walkers their bodies, not once. But at the sight of your clay-formed body, loved and created by the earth, he finds himself straining for the shape. Your feet land on the coral floor as if the ground there had been prepared for your stride, blessed by your existence.

It’s not love at first sight, certainly not. But it feels like brushing your fingers over a book and knowing the story already. It feels like helplessly wandering into the trap out of your own volition, although you know that trap will bite. But you let it. It creeps in, the sweetest kind of death you could imagine.

Like poison, the first taste of you condemns Rafayel to eternity.

“Your divinity, we have brought you your sacrifice,” the priests chant, the human part of your procession. The Lemurian guards accompanying them cast them a dubious glance. Not every sacrifice is deemed appropriate, but it is not like the world beneath the waves would balance itself without the human’s worship. A necessary evil, an ugly truth. Their sacrifices are not acknowledged, but appreciated nonetheless. A god feeds on what is given, no matter how all-powerful they are. Even blood as soiled by the human world’s elements is sustainable. “Your bride, your blood, your heart. We have brought you your sacrifice.”

When you walked in, your beautiful face had been angled upward. Even the most stoic of people are forced by the frescoes set in the wall to halt and wonder, because there is nothing else in this world that compares to the sea’s creations. Rafayel’s court was closed in by a dome, decorated with mosaic illustrations of the kingdom’s history. Painted in with elegant whorls of blue, white and red, the image depicted here showed the creation myth of his people, rising from the foam on his fingertips. You had looked straight at that painting, ignoring the gaggle of eyes that had looked on, feasting on the sight of you. But at the call of your entourage, you lower your gaze, meeting his straight-on.

There had never been a feeling so violent seizing him than in that very moment. He wanted to crush you. He wanted to own you.

He wanted to know you.

Rafayel is not the first monarch to hold this court in his blue-scaled fist. He is also not the only one whose heart has ever been stirred for something that could wreck this empire forever. It feels like being hunted, heady and dangerous and addicting. In your eyes lies a future more enticing than anything the seven seas could ever offer him. This is damnation.

What a powerful heart that frail chest must contain; secured only by the soft bones that would willingly give way to his monstrous hands, protected only by the warm flesh surrounding it. Rafayel is the king of sirens, monarch of the abyssal deep, but it was your song that drew him in. He wonders if the prayers you had dedicated to the waves tasted as sweet as your lips looked.

The soldiers surrounding his throne stepforward, signaling the silent message until here and no further. But Rafayel has already risen. Not registering the court which sinks to their knees as they pay their respects, he draws near enough that he could grasp your hands, tucked away in your companion’s crook of his arm. You lowered your head, obedient supplicant as you are. “Court of clay, I accept your sacrifice,” he announces, breathless. He doesn’t care how giddy that makes the humans, how his court begins to whisper. A scandal, an outrage. He only sees you. Not able to hold himself back, he reaches forward to cup your chin - you are shaking, an information he shouldn’t delight in, but does - and your gaze is steady, certain. You are a docile little lamb, not afraid of the knife about to fall. He could crush your right then and there; he could snap your neck if he wants to.

That was his first mistake. Gods have always been unmade by the most simple of human emotions, a fact every single predecessor had heeded. He should have struck you down where you stood, before you could lay the seeds of destruction. But Rafayel doesn’t heed his instincts. There is nothing else in the world anymore but you. Your eyes search his face, taking in every detail, as if the roles were reversed and you were the executioner who was gently lowering him to the chopping block. He imagines your hands roaming his body as you prepare him for certain death.

Deep inside his cold, scaled body, under the layers of divinity and immortality, his godly heart skips a beat.

Rafayel is coming undone, unravelling at the seams. It is only a matter of time until he dissolves into the sea, cupped by your gentle hands, until he finally disappears.

Later, when night draws closer and washes the world in darkness like a paint dissolving in a glass of water, he accompanies you and the bridal party to the rooms you will be residing in for the near future. Gentle, gentle fingers in his hands; you are ashamed of being able to touch him like this, and he notices it. Rafayel angles his head so he can look at you. Although this is nothing but a fancy dress-up of the matter at hand, which means your death at the end of this foolery, the sacrifice is still honored. That means becoming familiar with the heart that will soon bolster his powers, immortalized in him forever. It’s an excuse, of course, but it’s what his mind settles on as a reason for trying to commit your existence to memory. Your eyes are swimming around, looking like the schools of fishes that lounge around in his stronghold. Taking everything in. His own are obsessed with gazing at every inch of your face; soon, it will become more familiar to him than his own. “Your name, supplicant,” he says, breaking you out of your trance. “You have not given it yet.”

Your answer is quiet, and he has to lean even closer to actually hear it. Your female companions, who will wash you and prepare you and celebrate the wedding with you, are chattering behind him to the point of annoyance, but the excitement is understandable. The syllables of your name take physical shape as they go through him, and Rafayel finds himself closing to his eyes as he listens to the melody of your words. Settling in. Taking root. “But you may call me as you wish, Your Divinity,” you demure. Someone has trained you well in the niceties. “I am honored to become anything that you desire.”

“Bride of blood,” he says, and his treacherous fingers finally begin to wander. The supple flesh draws him in, and he adores the way goosebumps claim your skin. He is quite cold-blooded after all. And you are oh, so warm. Human bodies are so confusing and strange that Rafayel can’t help but wonder what moves them. The unreliable skin that gives way too easily to the lightest of bites, the awkward bones that bend at the simplest of angles. As Rafayel chases the muscles running down your arms with his fingertips, you turn your wrist so he can seize it, as if you know what instincts he is following. An instinct as old as time. Life was created when intuition turned into contact, after all. You watch as the deadly king of the abyss stares at your flesh as if it was a wonder to behold. As if he is not the father of all miracles.

Soft, soft flesh. Brittle as wood worn out by the water. Rafayel does not relinquish his hold on you as he speaks. “Bride of clay. You have already become what I desired. You are welcome to ask any wish of me for the sacrifice you will accomplish. Let no one speak that the ocean’s court is ungrateful to your service.”

“I would never imply otherwise, Your Divinity.” Your cheeks are aflush with your humanity, heating below his touch in reaction to being so close to the object of your worship. You do not seem like a typical, blushing bride. He has already taken notice of the harsher, roughened way you admonished your bridal party earlier. Often times, the brides sent to him are scared, chosen at random, unprepared for what the sacrifice means. Often times, it means that Rafayel chooses other brides, casting over the human’s lot. Every year they visit, fighting to compete in their adoration with other worshippers, not realizing that they cannot compare. But you are true in your faith. There are scars feathering all over the palms of both your hands where you have drawn blood to cast into the sea. A moon-shaped indentation, where the lunar priests of the sea (as his worshippers are called above, named for the moon’s strained effort to become one with the sea) brand themselves after ascending to their positions, is situated in the hollow of your throat, right above that precious collarbone he could snap like a coral branch. You are calm, clear-headed.

You could not have been more perfect.

He tugs you along, deeper into the cold water. You do not complain once. The court to strangers is built like a maze, intended to confuse and rattle. A safety measure that is laughable. There is no one who’s might parallels the god of the sea. But Rafayel had taken care to implement it nonetheless, to protect the weak, even though the most vulnerable Lemurian could still overpower the weakest of humans. It is why it so unsettling that you stir him like this. He has loved nothing else on this earth than he has loved the folk of the water. He angles another look at you, suspicious.

The moonlight makes every edge of you luminous with beauty. From the tips of your lashes, to the curves of your features, down to the shape of your human body. It is normal to experience attraction. You were very comely, after all; it wasn’t only Rafayel’s head that had turned to follow your every move. During your presentation, even the most cranky of attendants had lit up with pleasure at such a delicious sight. But he wonders if this means more. He shouldn’t be so attuned to you, shouldn’t be so drawn in by a first encounter. Fate had such a funny way of working its motives. Its cruelty and its humor affected the happenstances of all beings, even gods like him.

The doors to your room have already been affixed with a pair of guards. They are armed with lances, sharpened at the edge to stab through even the most enduring of scales. Warriors of the sea are trained to handle even the most extenuating of threats. Rafayel dismisses them at once, and they stand aside, each taking a few steps away to grant the party their privacy. They will return to their post when Rafayel has left. He gesticulates with his free arm that the women may enter; your companions mouths shape oohs and aahs of wonder as they step inside, but you remain where you are. Your warm hand still lies inside his, a fact that makes his fish-blooded heart tucker inside his chest. “Forgive me for this presumptuous question, Your Divinity,” you say then, affixing your gaze to his face. A face of polite pliancy. He can almost imagine you leading the prayers in the rooms of your faith, the prideful upraised head looking to the sea. “But might there be a fountain which we can use for our prayers?”

“Praying to what, when all your prayers have been answered?” Rafayel swipes a thumb over the blood-darkened veins inside your wrist, the blood you wish to cast into the waves in the same manner as starlight spills over the endless sky. Your skin is as malleable as sand. He wants to dig in, a primal urge from when Lemurians still hunted humans for sport. Some still do. “You may ask the guards to show you to an appropriate location to perform your prayers. But you have already become a symbol of faith, bride of clay. You are being rewarded as such.”

You dip your head in acknowledgement. “I have, Your Divinity. But it does not mean I should stop dedicating myself.”

He stares at you, hard. You are going to die for your faith. That precious little thing you seem to guard so weakly inside your mortal chest will be ripped from you like a human child is torn out of the womb. And yet here you are, asking to dedicate yourself to the very faith who will murder you. Piety is a wondrous thing, and it has moved you so far that you have surrendered to your own sacrifice, but is it really piety that is making you go through the motions of something as superfluous as prayer, when the very act of sacrifice is the highest religious duty you could fulfill? “What an interesting bride they have brought me,” he says, and you lower your gaze, the picture of humility. “Pray, then. As long as you meet me after you do.”

You hum in response, and he watches as you finally rejoin the women already appraising the room. One of them, a younger woman who shares the curve of your jaw and the color of your hair, reaches out to grasp your hand. You free it almost immediately to brush over her hair, a startlingly gentle display of affection in comparison to the chiding you subjected her to earlier. She must be family, though she does not share your beauty.

How confusing to be jealous of a simple gesture like this. How idiotic to yearn to be in that woman’s stead. Rafayel turns his back on the bridal party, before he can do anything that could tarnish his reputation.

Rafayel finds you where he guessed you would be. Your blood is still dripping into the fountain as he approaches you, the thick drops submerging quickly as they fall, like tears of pearl. It was once said, a myth unfurling in the motions of history due to the fascination other creatures often felt at the people of Lemuria, that his folk cried pearls, a myth they had been hunted for. “Wasteful, don’t you think?” he quips at the sight, but his touch is gentle when he takes your hand into his own. “Spilling blood when you will spill so much more when we are wed.”

“Nothing performed in service of the sea god is wasteful, Your Divinity,” you answer calmly. The supplicant at your side, not the family member he saw yesterday, sends you an alarmed look before she lowers it. You questioned the words of a god, an action most people would never even dare. Had you been anyone else, your bones would have already become the fishes’ supper. Even if you had been part of this court, such a comment could still have costed your head. But Rafayel feels himself begin to bend, turning over in your scarred palms. For being the most powerful entity roaming this planet, he feels as though you are the one holding all the cards. “It may not be worthy, but I beg you to accept our meager offerings to you. It is an honor to live in the light of your divinity.”

A memorized answer, devoid of anything personal. It is not the answer he craves, and he wishes to tug at your hair, to tear the secrets you carry in your heart from your head. It is a gruesome instinct, supped on the desire that is beginning to grow inside his heart. “Come with me,” he says, and then, addressing your companion, “You may remain here. I wish to become my bride’s acquaintance.”

The companion lowers her head in pliancy, but she seems nervous, apparently not trusting herself to formulate words in answer. Not because of his presence, perhaps. Rafayel has the inkling that it is you who’s distressing the bridal party. Something mysterious is unfolding in front of his eyes, and he itches to know more. He turns to offer you his arm, and you hesitate, shying away from the fact that he is an immortal being that is worshipped by everything the waves washes ashore on. But you take it, your warmth as shocking as the flash of lightnings the rainstorms sometimes inflict on his domain. Rafayel begins to walk, directing you to the royal gardens.

The weather is much nicer today. The sunlight fights to flood the scenery wherever it reaches, creating shadows of myth. Power is appearance. This court has been designed in a way to strike both fear and awe in hearts untouched by the heavens. You turn your head as far as it reaches, taking in the sight in the same way you had admired the ceiling yesterday. You must have an eye for art. “Tell me about yourself, daughter of clay,” he says, using the address most non-humans utilize to respectfully interact with an unknown land-walker. You whip your head back around to look at him. Today, your face is kissed by the sun, the lovely light enunciating every feature, every trace of the ancestors who had loved the idea of you so much that they willed you into existence. The sight rips into him like a shark bite, and for a moment, he finds himself envying whoever created humans. They had been much more adoring and obsessed with their work than he has, and it is reflected in the creation of you. “And none of the faithful derision today. I do adore being admired, but we are to be wed, and I wish to know whose heart I am going to consume.”

“Faithful derision,” you repeat, clearly taken aback by him reducing the faith of the sea to a simple piece of doggerel. Most of humanity’s prayers go unanswered, after all, expected from an existence so frail it could be wiped out with the smallest of tsunamis. “You mock me so, Your Divinity. Very well. What is it you wish to know of me?”

How have you managed to bewitch me, you evil thing? Rafayel thinks, but does not say. The urge to consume not just your heart, but you in your entirety has still not left him, even after a cold night of serious self-reflection. He has never realized how much desire could blur into hunger. “Who raised you?” he asks instead. “Who were you before you came here? What is it that made you become the lamb to my slaughter?”

Your eyes glaze over, an unidentifiable emotion he only manages to glimpse before you veil it over with the distanced civility you employ to interact with him. “I never knew my father, but my mother is a shepherdess above the sea,” you answer, slowly. The words are chosen carefully. “My mother used to be a priestess, but she was released from her duty when she had me. I was born of sin, you know. A lunar priestess is supposed to remain unwed and untainted, but she became pregnant with me. I am absolving both my mother and me of that taint.”

What a human belief, Rafayel thinks. To categorize love and coupling and touch as something sinful. As if the simple act of dedicating yourself to another wasn’t the holiest experience one could live through. The wax and wane of desire is as holy as the kneel of prayer to a Lemurian, which live and die for love. Above all else, it is the connection to someone else that could be the most well-guarded treasure a Lemurian could ever possess. But humanity’s civilization keeps its own rule, and to laugh about their beliefs would mean disrespecting you, so he only responds with, “I am sure the taint you speak of does not exist.”

“You are kind to say so, Your Divinity.” You do not sound like you believe it. Your words are, like nothing else, an act of worship. But perhaps it is because you understand him that you accept the answer, and that means something to him: to be understood as he is. He guides you along until he reaches a pavilion in the middle of the garden. You sit down first, a distance away from him in the spirit of propriety, but Rafayel is done acquiescing to your silly human rules. He sits near enough that your knees knock against each other, and as he cages you in like a hunter would circle his prey, he takes hold of your hand again. A bone-deep ache has claimed Rafayel, an ardor he never knew he possessed. It is taking hold of him, surging up in him like a wave. It is more than just your body he craves, something that runs deeper and hotter than the center of his own existence. “There is something you are hiding from me,” he tells you, watching as your eyes darken. You do not like being perceived, and the realization almost makes him laugh. “I will not make you tell it. You are free to do whatever it is you wish. But you fascinate me, daughter of clay. It is rare to enrapture a god’s attention, you know.”

As the night before, you roll your wrist in his hold so he may grasp it properly. Perhaps you search out his touch in the same manner as he does yours. Your fingers graze the flesh of his thighs as he lowers your hand to his lap. “I will get in over my head, Your Divinity, if you keep complimenting me like this,” you say. It makes his lips quirk into a genuine smile. Clever human, to play along like this. Your pulse thrums below his fingertips, the rhythm addicting. A true siren song. “I may overstep myself. That would not befit me at all. I am here to be free of sin, after all.”

“You are free already.” Rafayel���s fingers trace patterns into your skin, lower and lower. He unfolds your fingers for you, stretching them as far as they go. The scars on your skin are hypertrophic and ugly, but they fascinate him as much as every inch of your body does. They tell the stories of experiences and lived memories. Each one contains another secret he wants to unveil, a pearl he wants to claim as his own. “And we are to be wed, aren’t we?” His fingers curl over your own, and then you’re holding hands, intertwined in all manners of fate. Rafayel leans in, close enough to make you uncomfortable, close enough to kiss you. You don’t lean away. “There is nothing sinful about being betrothed, or what you do in the name of love. You are mine now, daughter of clay. All mine.”

For the first time since you have arrived here, you smile, your teeth gleaming like knifes. He feels it cutting into his chest, cutting away at his restraint. Although Rafayel is part of a species that is the apex predator of all predators, hunting and reigning over all that lives and breathes, in this moment, it is you who becomes the huntress.

How easy it is to climb a throne. How easy to be torn from it.

In the following days, he feels that tear at his existence in everything you do. Your allure only grows with every minute spent in your vicinity, and finally he has grown so needy that he absolves you of your prayers. Instead, he makes you worship him in person, and the time blurs into eternity, the noose at the end of the road long forgotten.

Rafayel spends afternoon tracing the traces of your creation; every bone, every tendon he explores with the devotion of a fervent prayer. Your fathomless eyes, glinting with the knowledge and the plans you keep hiding away from him, draw him in like the bait at the end of a fishing rod, and even though he knows it’s a trap, he lets himself be caught. Three nights before the day at your wedding, he finds himself caught on the sharp hook as he submerges into a bath with you.

You are not naked, but it almost seems like you are with the way the fabric of your dress begins to cling to you as the water kisses your skin. The shivering claiming your human bones create little currents in the pool, the water much colder than the ocean that surrounds this make-shift castle. Rafayel presses you closer to him, and then his face is in your hair, breathing in deeply. You both have long stopped caring about the rules of polite society. Rafayel has not allowed you to. Every touch, every word, every smile has made you more pliant, until finally you have even allowed him to partake in your ablutions before the wedding.

Every sacrificial bride of the sea god is supposed to take a bath before her wedding, washing away her past so that she can present herself in her most purified state. Most times, the bridal party is asked to help her with that, but Rafayel has stolen that role. It is the single most blasphemous thing one could do. But he is a god, and it is him who dictates the rules, delivers the scripture. All it took was a jut of his lip, the allusion of a pout, and you had caved immediately.

And now you were here, in the curve of his arm, your ear hovering above his chest. His heartbeat was powerful, pounding as loudly as the waves crashing on the beach, the sound susurrating inside your very soul. You breathe in deeply, shaking. This is the most divine thing you have ever experienced, something your mortal shell never thought it would be able to feel. “Sweet conch shell,” Rafayel murmurs in to your ear, shocking you to your core. “I’m sure you know that we have to step in even further to be able to perform the purification.”

“Just a second, please,” you speak through gritted teeth. This man vexes you in the most alluring of ways, and you cannot help but acquiesce to his every whim. You know your pleading falls on deaf ears, though, because Rafayel’s immediate reaction is a smile so mischievous it borders on schadenfreude, and he is already tugging at your shoulders in an attempt to submerge you further. You try to stand firm, even though your determination is crumbling. “It’s cold. It’s really cold.”

“Hmmm.” Rafayel nips at your ear, then your throat; you shudder violently enough for the water to splash. In the silence of your private little bubble, it almost sounds like an explosion. It makes your eyes snap open, as if preparing itself to fight or flee. Never had you let a man so close into your proximity. The village had always been ripe with gossip-mongering and backtalk. Your mother, although the most honorable person in the world to you, had been a demonized figure, to the point where your own worship had made you cull out the presence of men. No one had ever expected you to follow in your mother’s footsteps. No one had expected you to become a bride worthy of the sea. The simple pleasure of his ministrations floods your cheeks with hot blood. “See, I already warmed you up,” he teases, mouthing the words against your carotid artery. Speaking the words directly into your heart. You are guided much easier now, the water sloshing as you are pulled in. “I’ll take care of you, my pearl. You’re with your god, aren’t you?”

With your god. You turn your face toward him. Rafayel’s fingers tug at your lower lip, and you watch as his eyes zero in on the flesh; he is weirdly entranced with the way your human body works, the strange reaction it elicits from him. It is something you have become accustomed to in the past few days. His nail is sharp enough to draw blood. “See, that wasn’t so hard,” he coos, mocking you outright. But his fingers are shaking. It’s you who’s got him wrapped around your little finger, and that feels both emancipating and sacrilegious, a conflict so confusing that you do not know where you have to draw the line. You don’t even want to draw a line. When you had joined the faith of the waves, the image you had conjured during prayer had been ephemeral and fleeting, as changing as the sea. Not in your wildest dreams would you have been able to picture a man, a deity as flawless as Rafayel. His beauty kills. It constricts your lungs and tugs at your heart, as if falling into the maw of a great beast. The still water does nothing to take away from your hypersensitivity to his proximity.

Mortals aren’t made for divine dalliances. You burn too easily. But here you are, playing with fire.

You aren’t delusional enough to think he loves you. You are clay-born, after all. Rough and hastily assembled, none of the precision that the sea god had employed to give birth to his people. You are dazzling in the same way as a fire is dazzling: a short burst of destruction that is as awe-inspiring as it is revolting. But even you can recognize that he is attracted to you, and to a simple servant of the faith, that is quite enough. You are basking in whatever affection he grants you, any scrap at all.

Although you are still on the cusp of youth, old enough to yearn but young enough to grasp the moment, you had never in your wildest dreams conspired of something like this ever happening. Love just wasn’t on your cards. You had your sister, and your mother, and your faith, and that was truly enough. It was fulfilling to the point that you had felt untethered to the earth, free from the judging glances of the village, free from all the expectations the convent placed on you. Living and breathing and becoming one with the sea. If you had died tomorrow without ever having glimpsed the miraculous sea god you had entrusted yourself to, you would have died happy anyways. It was as simple as that.

But this was life-changing. Altering. You were experiencing an out-of-body experience, mythology come true. After all those years you had thrown your love into the universe, the universe was reaching back. You were spinning off axis, losing sight of everything but Rafayel. He was the new epicenter of your existence.

You jump as his fingers trail the naked skin of your arms. He settles on your hips, the touch so electrifying that you bite the lower lip he is still so fascinated by, staring at it as if it were a treasure he discovered at the bottom of the sea. The moon behind him outlines his shape in silver and white, making him seem more like an apparition than an actual person. How fitting, when you have been fantasizing about him all your life. “We should perform the purification now,” you whisper, but Rafayel is still lazily drawing patterns into the flesh of your curves. “Certainly,” he drawls out, every syllable enunciated in the abundant leisure only a god could possess. Your nerves feel like they are on fire. “In a minute.”

“Your Divinity,” you caution.

“Raf-a-yel.” He pronounces the words slowly, but with a deadly intonation. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “Say it. Say my name.”

You look at him, unsure. He looks just as much the deadly hunter he is sometimes depicted as in the murals. Before humanity had started building shrines in honor of the sea god of the abyss, they had painted warning signs about him, about the quick and bloody death he delivers. Some sailors still caution against all interaction with the creatures of the sea, their doom-calling stories a fresh batch of nightmares every time you hear them. The way Lemurians used to drag their willing prey beneath the waves, where they watched as the light left their eyes. What remained of them were the last bubbles of air as they rose to the surface. You cannot say his name, not with your tainted tongue. Not with the bastardry you carry in your veins. Not when you are deceiving him for the sake of your sister. But … “Rafayel,” you whisper.

You should feel scared about the way his lips curve into a smile. Beneath the most beautiful skins still lies the deadly bite of a venomous snake. Somehow you don’t think it’s fear that spikes the speed of your heartbeat, though. It’s not adrenaline that makes you angle your face upward so Rafayel can nuzzle your neck, and you almost buckle at the swipe of his tongue. Tasting the salt on your skin, the earth you came from. “Here, I purify you,” he answers. “I’ll lick you clean.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s what the scriptures meant, Your Divinity. Rafayel,” you hastily correct. He had frozen in his motions, but resumed nipping at your skin when you had added his name. The cold water was doing absolutely nothing against the fire racing inside your veins.

“Don’t care about the scriptures.” Rafayel draws up, pulling you with him. The languorous stretch of his figure forces you upward, and following his guide, you wrap your arms around his neck until you’re flush against him. His eyes darken at the press of your breasts against his chest. You screw your eyes shut at the delicious pressure, the way your nipples had brushed against his skin. How easy it is to throw all caution into the wind. You were losing sight of everything you built, in the name of love. “My word is law. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Rafayel.”

He almost seems to purr at the sound of his name, easily pleased. It’s a deeply unhuman sound that should make you shrink away in fear. You screw your eyes shut as his lips trace the shape of your cheeks, inching closer to your mouth. “My name sounds so delicious on your tongue,” he whispers against the corner of your lips, bordering on a kiss. “If only all your prayers had been like this. I would have flooded all the ports and claimed the land just to have you.”

“I am yours,” you tell him, and you mean it. Rafayel grips your hips hard enough to draw blood, and he doesn’t need to tell you to know what he wants from you. You repeat it, again and again, telling him you belong to him, until Rafayel shuts you up with a kiss that tastes of both sanctity and sin, and the poison he pours into you is so decadent you almost don’t realize it’s killing you. You forget that at the end of this, it will not just be his kiss consuming you whole. You welcome the knifes and the sharp teeth and let Rafayel devour you.

The night passes then with the two of you trading kisses in the dark, small touches bordering on disgrace. You bend so many of your rules that at the end of the night, you’re not sure whether your virginity is sacred after all. But Rafayel never asks you for it, and you both remain clothed, although the bath has made you drip all over the floor. Inside the enormous bed that Rafayel claims as his own, you watch the sun rise as his fingers trace your ears, your collarbones, the shape of your body. It feels intimate in a way that is devoid of sex. It almost feels like Rafayel is the supplicant and you his deity, with the reverence he dedicates to touching you. “You do not need to be purified, bride of blood,” he says, addressing you like he did on the day you met him. Once again, it is a sign of respect. A sign that although he doesn’t understand your beliefs, he still wants to adhere to them because you treasure them. “You are flawless as you are. I chose you because you are everything I want.”

Although your sight is already blurring from tiredness, you make an effort to look at him. “Even though I am human?”

“Despite everything,” he tells you. “My heart sings with the presence of you.”

The sincerity of that statement dizzies you. You fall back into the blurness, feeling light as a feather. Never in your life before have you experienced a joy as profound as this; you have seen the face of God, and God has looked back at you. He is only looking at you.

“You do not have to do this, you know.”

It is the sister who speaks. Rafayel turns over the ceremonial knife, staring at it as he strains to hear the soft voices in the room behind him. Technically, he was eavesdropping. It was a breach of privacy, of course, but there was the matter of intention; he had come to see you, to fall into your lap as you told him about the human world, to allow himself to be reduced to a lover at the beck and call of a mere human like you. The days were beginning to slip away like sand in an hourglass, the wedding inching closer with every passing second. He had been trying to identify where the pit of dread inside his stomach came from when he heard your sister speak up, a feat so rare that he had forced himself to stop behind the door before she stopped. Your bridal party was composed of the most annoying people in the world, all of them paling in comparison to you in both faith and creature, but your sister guarded her words like a clam her pearls. And now, when she finally spoke, it was to deter you from marrying at all.

Rafayel hears something shift. You must have sat closer to her. “Do not say those words,” you hiss, a tone he has never heard you take before. “Do you forget how easily it is for a human to lose their head down here? We are already on thin ice.”

“I’m serious. You do know we could all die anyways, right? How can you be so calm? I feel like I’m about to go insane!”

“Then keep it together!” The answer is too loud, a cat mother snapping at its young. The anger in your voice is palpable. For a moment, the silence claims the room alongside the tension created by the secret conversation, but then you speak up, much calmer. “We either die together for this treason, or I die and you will live to tell my tale. In either case, it’s fine by me. I don’t care about my own life, but so help me god, Alia, if you even think of ending this ruse I will send you above water myself. I’m your older sister. It is my duty to think of you first.”

Treason. Rafayel’s fingers skim the edge of the knife. Blood pearls at the tip of his fingers, the sight of it as nauseating as the thought of a possible betrayal by the human world. Already, the world above them has started to leave them behind, with their experiments of gunpowder and weaponry. More and more patrols return decimated, the serving soldiers reporting death and violence. Complaining, pointing fingers. It’s no secret that the bridal party at court has become somewhat of a group of hostages. And hadn’t Rafayel already known that you were hiding things?

But he thinks of the way you let him cup your face in the sight of only moon and sky, how your eyes glint with the unspoken tenderness between the two of you. It was easy to lie with words, but your souls sing to each other. You both know it. There is something tucked away inside your human heart that belongs to him and him alone, something that makes Rafayel forgive you for every past and future grievance you could possibly muster against him. There is something every living heart wants for itself, and his heart wants you. The metaphorical knife sinks and sinks and sinks into his chest, slamming into bone, stuck there like Rafayel is stuck on his throne. Forever a hand-width away from everyone else, even his happiness. Just then, your sister whispers, “You love him, do you not? You have already given him your heart.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you gently reprimand her. Rafayel closes his eyes; the hand twisting the knife is rough and scarred, but familiar. He imagines taking that hand to aid it. Stab here, he wishes to say. Just a little deeper. I permit you. Only you. “This plan isn’t going to work, and I don’t care. I’ll take them down with me if I can. If I’m dead, I can’t be blackmailed, can I? I don’t care whether I die, as long as you live.”

As long as you live. Rafayel thinks of hearts, and the consumption of them, and of weddings and happy endings. He tucks the ceremonial knife away, his insides cold with the grim certainty of what he is going to do.

Later on, Rafayel will not remember the way his wedding had crashed and floundered into flames. He will not remember the sharp sting of betraying his own people, how his power had bled and bled. It was always so gruesome when gods fell. They weren’t destined for tragedies of this scale.

The only thing Rafayel will be able to commit to his recollection is how stunning divinity looked on you. He will forget the way his home had tasted, how the blooming kingdom of Lemuria had seemed to explode with colors, how the laughter of his folk had accompanied him everywhere. The only thing left will be you, your radiant face and your warm, warm tears, as warm as blood, sparking a fire in even the coldest of deep sea creatures. It should make him curse your name.

And yet he cannot forget you.

He looks for you everywhere, at every time, in every moment. The way your smile looked like the warm rays of the sun as they broke through the rain-heavy sky. The way the sound of your steps seemed to echo like the drum-like rhythm of his heart. He races after people who seem to have just the right hair color, who seem to share the shape of your eyes, who remind him just too much of you, only to realize that it wasn’t the person he was chasing after. You are haunting him. In every waking moment, in every dream that tortures his sleep, it is always you.

The resulting soul-devouring longing has turned him into quite the artist. When Lemuria fell, it took everything with it. Every painting since then he has ever drawn up fails to compare with the real thing, and he is terrified by the idea that he is forgetting how his home looked like. Already the details begin to slip away from him, becoming eroded over time. What remains crystalline is the imagine of you. Devilish you, crux of Lemuria you. It torments him to love you, but what torments him more is the loss of you. He had never been prepared for this possibility. He had never even considered what giving his heart away would look like.

And yet, he would do it again, and again, and again. Selfishly, egotistically. What he wouldn’t give to be able to make you smile again. In his most desperate nights, he strains himself to remember the way you used to laugh, the sound more heavenly than any music ever composed on earth. Even the falsification of the sound still manages to bring him so much peace that Rafayel stills his hands and abstains from painting another death trap. Although revenge has become the new mistress of his heart, he doesn’t love her as much as he will ever love you. It is the memory of you that makes him halt, makes him grant mercy to a possible victim. That, and the everlasting fear it is your blood he could be punishing. Your wish had been granted, after all - it was your sister who had lived and witnessed the death of a civilization, your sister who had escaped all culpability.

It was one of the most earliest memories he managed to commit to his brain after the atrocity that was the destruction of Lemuria. He had dug your sister’s grave with his bare hands. He had never even known her, not closely anyways, but it was your blood running in her veins, your love that had raised her. After so many years of searching and retracing his steps, he had finally found the village you had been born into. But by then, his bride had disappeared, and your sister had grown old waiting for you, and she had barely been able to squeeze Rafayel’s hand before passing on peacefully. That had hurt him in an entirely different way. Here was someone, who loved you and missed you just as much as him, who would understand how severely the loss of you had impacted him, but then she went and died. A cruel fate, as usual. But he did not regret finding her. For a little while, someone had been able to share his grief. And for a little while, that had been enough.

In his worst nightmares, Rafayel dreams he will never see you again. He will live and die for his love, but it will not matter. The bond that connected your souls stretched on into nothingness, past the place where living beings could reach, and you have already passed onto a place he will never see, because you’re an angel and he’s going to hell. Whether he believes it or not, he has betrayed his people, his court, his duty. There was no redemption, no way to come back from that.

Sometimes he resents you for it, so much so that his soul grows heavy with the anger he carries within. He stares at himself in the mirror for hours, trying to claw off the Lemurian mark that bonds you to him, but then he dissolves into sobs. He is hollow of you, a carved out corpse, a mermaid drowned. An oxymoron, like he was. He loves you so much that he convinces himself the pain is worth it; he convinces himself that he can survive this.

He becomes a renowned artist, his paintings a manifest oh the emotions he tries to overcome. But in every single one, his muse remains the same.

Like divine intervention, it is his paintings you admire when Rafayel finally finds you again.

He almost doesn’t trust his eyes. After all, this is not the very first time he has chased after a mirage like a traveler lost at sea. The back that is turned to him is not as scarred as yours was, and the curls of your hair are tucked away in a neat coiffure that almost makes him look away; you had hated to have your hair up. His favorite part of the morning routine you both established was when you had let him sneak into your rooms, and you had let him brush your hair until it was smooth and silky to the touch. But then you cock your head at the painting, and Rafayel sees your face, and he almost buckles.

The moon pales in comparison of the sight of your face twitching into the amazed expression at the painting before you. The sharp teeth remember him of your knife-like grimaces, the ones you used to grace him with when he saw a little bit too much of the truth inside you. There is a horrifyingly familiar birthmark where your brandmark used to identify you as one of the most devoted priestesses of the sea’s faith. You are as beautiful as the day as he lost you, as stunning as the day you had walked into his life.

He stumbles into Thomas, who steadies him with an appalled noise. The rest of the world falls away as Rafayel drinks in the sight of you like a man completely parched with thirst, as if he might die from it. You’re staring at a rendition of how Rafayel had imagined you might look in a bridal gown. His legs carry him forward, and never has the burden of walking on earth hurt him as much as now; he feels that knowledge tearing at him, clawing away at every protective measure, before he even reaches you. Every step is razor-sharp and painful, a conscious memory of what he sacrificed to roam the earth for you. He already knows before you meet his eyes. Your eyes are as clear and amazed as the day you had been brought to him.

You have no idea who he is at all.

It had already been a weird day. You had woken up to your face wet with tears, but as you touched it, you couldn’t for the life of you remember what you had dreamt about. There was only the disturbing feeling that were was something missing, something you couldn’t live without. You had laid in bed for a very long time, your hand placed over your heart, before your bestfriend and roommate Simone had burst into your room and told you to ‘get your ass up before we miss work’.

In the subway, the feeling hadn’t subsided. Beneath the bones of your breast cage, your most vital organ sputtered and stuttered, strangely arhythmic. The thing wasn’t very reliable, anyways, and you already had monthly check-ups to ensure it wasn’t fucking you over and you could continue your work. And then sometimes, it performed miracles. So many times you had woken up in a hospital bed after having passed out with the certain thought that you were going to die, but every time your heart had won out, like it loved battling death and beating the shit out of it every time. It had mystified Zayne, your childhood friend, to the point where he had suggested setting up a field study for his university studies, but you had firmly declined. You didn’t want anyone else to know about this freak heart, thank you.

Work itself had passed by quickly either way, and you had almost passed over the opportunity of going out with your friends. But Simone had wheedled at you and whittled your rejection down until it turned into acceptance, so now here you were.

Staring at this stranger.

He almost looked familiar. In another life, perhaps, you would have walked up to him and struck up a conversation. You had a special weakness for pretty boys, even though you knew even the most beautiful of predators are still deadly. But you had sworn off men after college, the short dalliances that had sparked up remaining unfruitful, so you thought it was for the best.

But the look in his eyes was so heartbreaking.

If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he knew you. He seemed to be looking at you like someone who he had believed dead had magically been brought back to life and returned to him. When you finally mustered up your courage to approach him, because he had been staring at you for quite a while now, the gorgeous man had turned and left. You quickly lost sight of him, which made you frown.

You were a Deepspace hunter, one of the best. You usually don’t lose track of your prey, especially not pretty ones like him.

It didn’t matter. You never saw him again afterwards. Your fake vow of chastity remained stable, even after the countless club nights Simone dragged you to and even after Tara’s desperate pleading to please, pretty please let her set you up with someone. You declined every time. Not because you were stubborn, but because there was a hollowness inside you that starved for tenderness, something so unreal you were sure you were never going to find it. There was a beast encaged by your veins and bones, starving for the scraps of affection. You had fed it and fed it and fed it, to the point where at the end, you were the one who had been left unnurtured, so you had abandoned the search.

You had never once thought it would find you instead.

There were times when the timing seemed almost too suspicious. The appearance of a fake account perceiving your social media posts. The feeling of someone keeping watch of you. Not following you, but checking in on you. The knowledge that someone was looking out for you, but every time you turned the corner, what greeted you was the sight of a whole lot of nothing.

It’s Wednesday night after Simone’s shift when the doorbell rings. “Did you order in?” you ask the girl, but she shakes her head, the freshly washed hair whipping around like a flag in the wind. “Maybe it’s Michaela?” she theorizes, and you shrug. You’ve met Michaela before; she was Xavier’s hunting partner, a competent hunter that was sure to rise through the ranks. You hadn’t realized that Simone and her had become so acquainted, though. You were definitely going to needle Simone about that.

You went to open the door, but it wasn’t Michaela standing in front of it. Instead, a delivery boy that looks like the most bored employee you’ve ever seen holds out a packaged bouquet to you. “Please sign here, miss,” he says, and holds out a board where a paper has been pinned to it. You scan it quickly to confirm it’s actually for you, then give him the signature he requires.

“Who was it?” Simone appears in the hallway, scrubbing away at her hair. You are momentarily distracted from the bouquet and stare at her instead; you always scolded her for walking around with wet hair. “Is that a bouquet?” she asks before you can say something, her voice amazed. “I thought you were a chaste nun and all that!”

“I’m not dating anyone!” you immediately defend yourself. But your heart is racing as you pass her, and you quickly walk to the kitchen counter where you reach for the scissors in the drawers. Simone rejoins you and watches as you free the flowers from their paper cage.

It is the prettiest bouquet you’ve ever received. Nestled inbetween baby’s breath and foxgloves, water lilies in full bloom reach upward, filling the kitchen with their dizzying fragrance. Simone begins to sneeze almost immediately; she is violently allergic to foxgloves. You, on the other hand, breathe in deeply, almost light-headed with the violent longing the flowers fill you with.

You stare at the flowers for a very long time.

After almost an hour of theorizing and reaching to no conclusion, you place the bouquet on the windowsill in your room where it can be seen from the street. It’s intentional, because you are almost sure that the feeling of that watchful stranger was not just a feeling. Maybe it was a secret admirer or something. But your heart was at peace with that knowledge, and the feeling that encapsulated you was as familiar as a dream; a dream where you are loved as you are, with every inch of your being. You sleep deeply and restfully for the first time in a very long time.

As someone rounds the corner, he angles his eyes upward to stare at a certain window. He passes by here almost daily, just to see whether you were sleeping and taking care of yourself. Worrying about whether when the lamp burned deep into the night, it meant you were overworking yourself or haunted by nightmares. Reassured when the light was off and your shutters closed, because it meant you were home and sleeping. When the shutters are open, he doesn’t even bother to pass by this street, having learnt quickly it meant you were on a business trip of some kind. He has quickly become resentful of your vocation because of how much it drains you. But today, he sees the bouquet he sent you, proud on display on the very windowsill he is able to see from below here, so far away from you.

Almost unwillingly, because he has yet to relearn the motion, his lips curve into a smile. Rafayel walks home, his heart as light as it never has been before. Well, maybe once. Back when the waves were still the emperors of the world. When love meant a certain, moonlight-illuminated face.

It doesn’t take long for Rafayel to re-enter your life under the guise of a part-time job. A bodyguard, for a painter. The joke almost writes himself. But you couldn’t deny how you had clapped your hands in joy when you saw him again, the pretty face with no name you had seen on that day of the art reveal. You let him seduce into the worst side-gig ever, which might as well have been a babysitting job instead of a bodyguard position.

You learn that he’s a recluse, famous painter with the weirdest quirks. You’ve never met a man as strange as him. He was immature, and whiny, and a brat. Most times, you were too exasperated to handle him, despite the ridiculous amount of money he was paying you (the dude was rolling in money) and the bonus of getting to see his gorgeous face every day for free. Sometimes, though, when you are careless, your heart jumps to your throat when your fingers brush. Other times, when you watch him paint, you have the counterproductive urge to grasp his face and kiss him until you’re breathless. You cannot understand it. You don’t know where the instinct comes from. But it runs deep in your blood, a calling as old as time.

Simone calls you a horny freak, almost guffawing when you meekly admit to having developed a crush on him. And hey, sure, maybe you were a little horny. (A woman gets quite desperate when her only sexual encounters were the reliable appendages of her own hand.) And sometimes you did want to jump Rafayel’s bones until you were sure you (or him) wouldn’t be able to walk for a least a week. But it’s not what stirs you when you look at him. Deep inside your heart, something yearns for Rafayel, something that’s even hungrier than the beast you call your own heart.

You’re never sure what will overcome you. On most days, where Rafayel mooches off the vacation days you get from Deepspace hunting and calls you in to watch him live his life, your cravings run on the need of wanting to touch him. You want to ruffle your fingers through his hair to discover whether it’s as soft as it looks like. You’ve even candidly wondered what it would be like to hug him while he sleeps; Rafayel often falls asleep on his own job, curling into a sleeping position right in front of his unfinished paintings, the elegant fingers unfurling around his brush. The need to touch him can get so severe that you brush your fingers over his hand as he sleeps, just to satisfy it; it feels like fire grazing your skin, as dangerous as his Evol. You never tell him about anything of this, though, even though you know the secret is burning you.

Sometimes he looks at you as though he can tell exactly what you’re thinking. Like now.

He looks up before you can tear your gaze away. You had been staring at him for a little too long, admittedly, but he was looking downright ethereal today. You had almost collapsed on his porch when he had answered the door. The man was already a threat because of his looks, but he had opened the door looking like he fell right out of the bed and walked to the door without doing anything. The sight of his sleepy face and frazzled hair was doing a number on your heart. He claimed he’d already had breakfast and had laid out a plate of pancakes for you (not prepared by him, of course, the man was too lazy to stand in the kitchen without incentive), then gotten straight to painting. You were fantasizing about what it would be like to wake up in bed with him, to wipe away the sleep from his eyes and kiss the eyelids, when he caught you red-handed. “What, do I have something on my face?” he quips, and you jerk upright.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“You’re looking at me as if I sprouted another head. I’m not an alien, you know.”

“Technically, you are. Aren’t you?” You blink at him, the question innocent. Rafayel rolls his eyes, though, as if he had both expected your stupidity but had hoped you would overcome it. “Lemurians are from the ocean, idiot,” he retorts, turning back to his painting. He was swiping away at another creation, something that looked like the abstract rendition of a hurricane on the sea. “Last I checked, that was still on earth.”

Well, he got you there. Before you could think of a smart response, your phone rings, bringing the conversation to a halt. Rafayel clicks his tongue in annoyance; he likes to be the center of your attention and has often hidden your phone during work hours just so you couldn’t distract yourself. As someone with the attention span of a goldfish, you had rebelled pretty soon. You turn your attention to the device in your hands and read Simone’s name on the display before you answer the call. “Hello?” You drawl out, gaze still fixed on Rafayel.

“Where are you?”

“Working. At Raf’s.” You don’t miss the way Rafayel straightens up at the nickname, looking like the satisfied cats he often chases away due to his hatred of them. It’s your turn to roll your eyes; he was easily pleased. At the same time, his simple joy at a nickname makes your heart soften. Although his dramatic flair ensures that he is never taken seriously, deep beneath it all, you have come to realize that Rafayel is a genuinely tender person. And who are you to judge for being needy when it comes to affection? “I told you that this morning. You know, when you were in bed with Michaela.” As far as you knew, they weren’t dating, since Simone claimed Michaela had only slept over yesterday because they had stayed out late, and she had refused to let Michaela walk back home in the dark.

“Do not say that out loud,” comes Simone’s buzzing response from the other end of the phone, and you momentarily hold your phone away as you cringe at the sound. You put it back just in time to hear her add, “I do not need the fish-man to know about my private business, thank you. He’s an employer after all.”

“Everyone knows about your fat crush on Michaela.”

“Well, how about your fat crush on…”

“NO!” you shout down the phone before she can speak it out loud and ruin your life. You manage to startle Rafayel so strongly that he topples from the chair he was situated on; you wince and turn around guiltily, not wanting to deal with the consequences of that. Simone had almost given away your secret feelings for the man currently painting his heart out on the canvas. “Alright, point fucking taken. Is that why you called me? To bully me?”

“You decided to bully me first! Anyways, I called to let you know that they emergency-scheduled you for this afternoon. Something about you being familiar with that no-hunting zone.”

You narrow your eyes. She was probably talking about the suburb north of Linkon that had just recently been declared a no hunting zone; they were still carrying out evacuations from the area, although majority of the place had been abandoned ages ago due to a factory accident. You often ran patrols there and had been the one to notify the agency about the rising threat-level which had ultimately led to the declaration of it now being a no hunting zone. Still, it must be pretty serious if they scheduled you without checking back with you first. Jenna usually didn’t take advantage of your willingness, since you often offered to cover shifts for your colleagues.

“When?”

“7:30 at the subway station. North exit. You’ll patrol alone, but I can join you if you want to.”

“No, that’s fine,” you answered absentmindedly, already racking your brain about what could have happened and how you could get there. Perhaps another luminivore? But you had cleared out a nest of wanderers just a week ago…

You barely remember to say goodbye to Simone before you whirl around to face Rafayel. He’s still on the ground, pouting, his full lips jutted at you in irritation. “Let me guess,” he grumbles. “You’re gonna abandon me again. Forget aaaaall about me on your fancy wanderer-hunting job.”

“Rafayel,” you sigh. He always got vexed about this, the fact that you had a life aside from basically being his handbag that he carried everywhere. Rafayel doesn’t even like public appearances, and rarely appears often enough where the necessity of a bodyguard was warranted. You step towards him and offer him your hand so he can let himself be pulled up, but he turns his face away like a child. “Don’t be like this. I’ll literally be back tomorrow.”

“Oh, will you? And what if you get another emergency? And what when your free days are over and you have to go back to your regular work? Since you’ve managed to forget to text me every time you’ve been busy, I’m assuming you’ll check back with me as soon as sharks have started walking on land.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Rafayel turns his head to glare at you. It’s the only thing your register before the world is flipped upside down in a rapid whorl of colors. Rafayel has taken hold of the hand that had intended to help him and had pulled you down. The movement is so swift and sudden that you squeak in indignation before you can remember your training, but your fight-response dies down as soon as Rafayel leans over you, his hands pinning yours over your head. You could easily free yourself if you wanted to. You were a Deepspace hunter, for crying out loud. But it’s Rafayel who’s pinning you down, Rafayel whose lovely hair is as blue as the swirling sea, his eyes capturing you like a predator hypnotizing its prey. “You’re a liar,” he tells you. It’s an insult, but your skin tingles as if the word was a caress. You squeeze your hands into fists in his hold, and he grips your wrists tighter, as if he can imprison them. As if he can imprison you. Rafayel’s eyes are as hard as flint, and you recoil from the real anger inside them; he’s never looked at you like this, never. The air is thick with tension. “You humans always lie. You’ll leave me and forget about me.”

The situation seems so silly, but there’s something urging you to take it seriously, something in Rafayel’s eyes that tugs at your heartstrings. You feel like a deer in the headlights, yearning for the approaching car. “I’d never lie,” you tell him after a few moments, unsure where the words are coming from. “And I’d never leave you.”

Rafayel scoffs, and you feel the embarrassment creep up on your face. Well, it’s not like you were the one who initiated this ridiculous situation! But you cannot help but feel this isn’t a joke. You scan Rafayel’s face, but he’s as unreadable as the calligraphy of a foreign language, unavailable and unreachable to you. “How can you be certain?” There’s a tang of anxiety to Rafayel’s voice, a tone so disquieting that you feel desperate to get rid of it. The urge is strange, but not unwelcome. You think for a long time before you tell him, “I can’t be. I’m only human, after all. But I mean it with all my heart when I say I would never intend to.”

Rafayel’s eyes visibly soften at the words. It’s a confusing, mind-muddling reaction. Although your relationship to Rafayel is indescribable by words and constrained by its professional setting, you would still be able to claim that you had grown close enough to realize this was an extremely uncommon reaction. What’s even more confusing is when Rafayel lowers himself to tug you closer; you fit like puzzle pieces as he cradles your head in the hollow of his neck, holding you against his heart. You return the embrace with a racing heart. This is everything what your touchstarved brain had asked for and more. You turn your face to tuck it into the crook of his neck, and the man above you sighs with what sounds like content. After a few moments, he finally releases you, his arms unfurling like the petals of a flower. He’s still pouting, but he looks appeased. “Go, then,” he says, sitting up and crossing his arms. “But don’t expect me to miss you or anything!”

Like a sea creature that’s washed up on the beach, unable to breathe air, you gape at him. Meanwhile, Rafayel dusts himself off, as if nothing ever happened. He goes straight back to his art, sparing you not even a glance as he says, “Be sure to lock the door behind you, will you? I really don’t want Thomas to crash in whenever he wants again. I like my privacy.”

That damned fish!

This is the shape your relationship takes on, the constant push-and-pull between tearing each other apart and digging into every crevice you can reach in the other. What has started as a simple crush is starting to drive you insane, what with how Rafayel begins to take advantage of how familiar you both become. It’s on a night like this where he makes every effort to blur the lines between you two, like colors mixing and washing over each other, creating something new. It’s the middle of the night, and you should really be in bed sleeping before your newest mission in the morning, and yet you’re standing in front of the art gallery in the middle of nowhere. Thomas’ face looks like a tomato. He’s been blushing and apologizing for at least ten minutes, begging you to forgive him and spewing excuses about how he absolutely couldn’t call anyone else. He pawns Rafayel off like a discovered item being handed in to lost-and-found, abandoning you to your new task so he can hush back inside and hide the fact that a) the artist in question being discussed in there is drunk out of his mind and b) he’s pulling the Frenchest exist ever known to humankind, having slipped out the backdoor that is supposed to be reserved for the staff. You stare at the label that marks the closed door as such long after Thomas has left you, ignoring the whiny little sounds Rafayel is making. Asking for your attention, probably. Eliciting a very different kind of response in both your pissed and tired mind, but also your easily excited abdomen.

How did you even get here?

“Can you pleaaaase stop staring at that door and stare at me instead? And I made all that effort to look pretty, too.”

Your eyes snap back to Rafayel, momentarily distracted. “Surely you didn’t dress up for me, mister,” you huff, although you did take note of his attire. It’s an elegantly cut suit and tie, the cuffs of his shirt studded with something that looks like glinting stars in the dark. As you step closer, you realize that the buttons are not buttons, but rather pearls. From Rafayel’s left ear dangles an ear ring, a silver fishing spear that seems to pierce through the earlobe. “Because you best believe I didn’t agree to be dragged out at the ass-crack of dawn to pick you up just because you can’t hold your liquor.”

“I can hold my liquor!” Rafayel complains. You want to muster up a snarky response, but then he grabs your calf and falls forward, his head coming to rest on your thigh. The proximity is making your breath catch in your throat. “That was just …. a lot of piña coladas. They were just so delicious. It’s not my fault.” The drunkard at your feet squishes his stunningly beautiful irritating face against your leg, looking up to catch your gaze as he pleads you to swallow the lie.

You are robbed of speech.

It’s one thing to have an unrequited crush. It’s another thing to live with it. And then it’s something entirely different to have that crush used against you. Rafayel’s cheeks are red from intoxication, his eyes lidded, seemingly in a haze. But his hands are steady, goal-oriented. They feel their way along your legs, up to the hollow of your knees, until finally Rafayel digs his fingers into the back of your thighs and closes his eyes.

If anyone knew how fast your heart was racing right now, you’d never live to hear the end of it. You are shy and overwhelmed and in love. Before you can embarrass yourself even further, you take Rafayel’s hands into yours and pull him, the sound of your blood rushing in your ears reminiscent of the way the thunderous waves crash on Whitesand Bay when it storms. “Let’s get you home,” you hear yourself speak as if from a distance. For once, Rafayel is obedient. He nods eagerly, wrapping both his arms around the one you offered him, and you manage to find your way back to the main street as you round the art gallery and hail a cab.

The driver looks as tired as you are. The meter, calculating the price for the amount of distance travelled, sets a ticking rhythm for the drive. As you settle in and buckle up both Rafayel and you, the former uses the chance to inch closer to you. You direct your gaze to the roof of the car, thinking, dear god, please help me survive the ride back home.

Because this is just plain torture. It takes Rafayel five minutes, tops, to fall against you and hide away his face against your throat. His breath comes more steadily now, not as erratic, and he’s still got the scent of coconut syrup and rum on his breath, but beneath all that, he smells like the Rafayel you have come to know. That strange smell of salt and paint and mint, the latter being part of the perfume he prefers to use. He’s close enough to bite through your throat if he wanted to.

Somehow, the thought doesn’t terrify you. The lack of fear ought to be a warning sign, but all you can think about is how lovely it would be die on those teeth, like the drowned sailors crushed to pulp as the waves throw them against the cliffs over and over again. You curl your fingers to your fist in your lap, willing yourself to endure it. In the darkness of the cab, every touch seems amplified.

“Missed you,” Rafayel mumbles then, almost making you leap out of your skin. He hadn’t been loud, but you’re growing incredibly hypersensitive to his every mood. His lips brush your skin as he speaks. “Thought you wouldn’t come.”

You slightly turn your head to create some life-saving distance. Your heat is threatening to jump right out of your chest. “Of course I would come to get you, silly fish,” you whisper back. Through the window, you see the cab cut by the city, drifting through its streets like a snake through a flower field. Even in the middle of the night, Linkon City doesn’t seem to sleep. You try to fixate on the sight outside, instead of the man beside you that was threatening to make you lose your grip on sanity.

Rafayel grunts, then shifts his position. As he sits up, his hand falls into your lap, and with an ease you usually only ever see him exert on his brushes, he claims your hand for his own and turns it over. He presses a thumb to your palm, the touch light, but something feathers in your muscles. Your hand twitches. “You sound so sure,” he sighs, sounding petulant. He doesn’t believe you.

When finally the sight of Rafayel’s humble appears on the horizon, Rafayel manages to step outside the cab without falling over once. In the time it takes him to step outside and stand up-right, you’ve already paid and thanked the cab driver, who only nods and speeds away as soon as the door to his vehicle closes. You watch for a few moments until the cab merges with general traffic and then disappears, then turn back to your drunk, pouting companion, avoiding your eyes as if the eye contact could be embarrassing to him. For being so touchy in the cab, he sure has some nerve of acting like this. Without another word, you enter the passcode to his door, and Rafayel slips inside.

The studio looks like a mess. Clearly, nothing had been cleaned or tidied up before someone left to attend their oh, so important event. There is paint everywhere, even on the couch you know costs more than an entire year of your salary. You avert your eyes and press your hand on Rafayel’s back; you would talk about that tomorrow. The studio usually was a representation of Rafayel’s mental state. Whatever bothered him, had exploded into the artful reorganization of his home. “Quit pushing me,” Rafayel nags at you. He winds around so that he can free himself from your touch, then glares at you as if this was somehow your fault. “I can walk on my own.”

“Well, then maybe you’ll take yourself home, too.”

Your voice comes out too harsh. You know it as soon as you close your mouth, but Rafayel has already flinched. “I’m sorry,” you say as you try to soften the blow, and it feels ridiculous. Why is it you who has to apologize right now? But you continue speaking as if compelled, because you can’t stand the thought of hurting him, of him thinking he meant nothing to you. He doesn’t answer, so you step closer, intending to make him look at you so he’d see that you’re being earnest. That’s not what happens, though.

What happens is that Rafayel’s hands find your shoulders, and you’re about to ask what he’s doing, and then the only thing you can feel is the shape of Rafayel’s full lips crashing against yours, swallowing your words. It’s not even an actual kiss, too messy to be actually deemed one; his teeth clack against yours, grazing your lip painfully enough that you’re almost sure he’s drawn blood. But then he re-angles his face and Rafayel is actually kissing you, tasting you, stealing the air you breathe. Your brain shortcircuits. For a second, you forget why you’re here, and your fingers act faster than your mind does, gripping onto Rafayel’s shirt so forcefully you almost rip the pearls off them. Thankfully, your brain snaps back to reality almost immediately, and you push Rafayel away before the realization that you had been tasting his sinful tongue can actually hit you. That would be an information your brain would deconstruct later. “You’re drunk,” you exclaim. It is the most difficult thing you ever had to do, tearing yourself away from Rafayel. His face is the very picture of longing, an expression that makes you want to eat him alive, bones and all. But you did it anyways, because it would not be fair to him, and this is something that would have to be discussed when he’s sober. “Come on, Raf, I’ll take you to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.” His fingers haven’t left you. They wander up the sides of your throat, digging into the space beneath your jaw, forcing you to angle your head up. Like this, he almost looks like the deep-sea predator he is. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that seems to reflect your own hunger, a kind of starvation that will not leave a single scrap of you to scavenge. If you’re not dangerous, he will drag you into the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again. “I want to make you feel good and make it up to you, please, pretty please. You’ll let me, won’t you?” He tugs and tugs, unrelenting. His wicked lips are shaping his typical pout, his favorite expression of getting you to do his bidding. He almost gets away with it, too, and the only thing keeping him from kissing you again are your quick hands, placed on his mouth before he can even think of capturing your mouth again.

“Raf, I will not take advantage of you while you’re being drunk!” you exclaim. It’s unbelievable how his face grimaces into the most heartbroken expression ever, just because you refuse to be the villain here. It physically hurts, to see him in so much anguish. You quickly spin him around so you don’t have to see his face, directing him to his bedroom. “You can make it up to me tomorrow,” you say tentatively. Secretly, you hope he will forget all about this, and you’ll never have to talk about it all. You’ll file away the kiss in your secret drawer inside your mind palace and polish the memory until it physically deteriorates, like it’s your last dinner on death row. You’ll make that memory last. Because you know he doesn’t love you; you had just been a warm body who had been kind to him at the wrong time.

“You’re so mean.” Rafayel sniffs, but this time, he comes more willingly. In the bedroom, the atmosphere has almost returned to its original tranquility, the silence enveloping you both seeming to sober him up. The bed feathers, creaking as Rafayel falls into it, but then the only sound left is his quiet muttering as he continues to complain about your attitude. He falls asleep like that, grumbling about how you would regret not letting him kiss you, how he could make it worth your while. He almost looks innocent like this, his face relaxed and devoid of his usual dramatic flair. It smoothens out the deeper he falls into sleep, sinking further into the mattress, looking like a pre-Raphaelite angel in a painting. Peaceful. Neutral. Entirely ethereal. He’s so surreal, you wonder if you might not be imagining this moment, the way you imagined him doing other things to you as you laid awake at night.

You fan your burning face, wondering what exactly had Rafayel intended to with you. It only adds on to the maladaptive daydreaming you dedicated your time to every day, ever since the fish-eyed king who called you his bodyguard had stolen your heart.

You stare at him for a very long time, until every ethereal feature of him is burned into the back of your eyelids. Your heart is light as a feather, floating, yearning. It sings his name in a steady pattern, synching almost naturally to the breath that stirs in Rafayel’s chest.

From then on, there is a current of tension underlining every interaction.

It’s not on purpose, of course. You just can’t help yourself. Every single nerve is on fire, at the beck and call of your favorite painter’s whims. You twitch when your fingers accidentally touch. There’s an involuntary gasp whenever he comes near, a sound tugged out of you against your will. You would have never thought that love would feel like a thousand fireworks going off at once. Soft, resounding explosions going boom, boom, boom in your chest.

You are so very conscious of Rafayel. Your heart jealously guards every moment you share with him.

Amor vincit omnia, famous poet Virgil once said in his own works. Love conquers all. Poets have to describe it like that, for emotions to be so consuming. It’s supposed to be a fun little tale, a nice piece of text, to be read and enjoyed. It’s not supposed to be something that happens to you, in the most violent way possible. Rafayel, although his own empire has been laid to rest centuries ago, his claim on the throne long faded, has succeeded in conquering you after all, heart and soul.

But, spoiler alert: you do not talk about what happened. In fact, you make every effort to escape the conversation whenever Rafayel tries to bring it up.

Why, you ask? Well, that’s something not even you can answer. Your friends have grown intolerable with frustration, to the point where Simone has staged an intervention to get you to fess up and confess to Rafayel. (Michaela, finally dating Simone, had planned an entire powerpoint dedicated to the benefits of admitting your feelings to someone. Which is ironic, because it was Simone who had finally gotten her shit together and told Michaela about how she felt.) Even Zayne, uninterested in your love life and its endeavors, had chipped in with his own opinion, which you had quickly ignored, because Zayne was the only mentally-sound, responsible adult in your friend group, which meant unresponsible you didn’t want to think about his advice at all.

It probably has a lot to do with how Rafayel is the epitome of perfection in your eyes, and you are nothing. You know it’s completely idiotic to think of someone as flawless, although Rafayel, being a sea creature of mythological background, might be a little closer to fitting that description than a human would. But you do. He is tender and attentive and all-encompassing. You refuse to lose him like this, to lose him to an unrequited crush that he had nurtured on a whim because he had been intoxicated.

No, you’d rather dance around it and be able to stay in his vicinity. Even if it kills you to be the outstander in his life forever, you’ll sacrifice yourself for it.

Unluckily for you, Rafayel is entirely fed up with sacrifices.

To say the door was closed would be to put it gently; it crashes into the hinges as Rafayel shuts it in front of your nose, cutting off your only route of escape. The evening sunlight paints him in a rosy hue that only adds on to the weakness your heart feels when you see him. He is exquisite. “We are going to talk about this,” Rafayel states, crossing his arms in petulance. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Ah, I’d love to, Raf.” Your lips quirk into a nervous smile. The memory of those arms wrapping you up in their embrace is so powerful, it manages to spike your blood with adrenaline. You theatrically check your wristwatch, then point at it, as if Rafayel needed some kind of extra confirmation that you were out of time. “But I really have to get to this meeting, and I already told Simone that I would…”

“Nope, don’t care.”

“But I…”

“Nooooope. You want me to say it in Lemurian?”

“Raf,” you groan out. “Don’t be like this.”

“Me, not be like this?” It seems as if you’ve missed some kind of signal in his communication, because suddenly Rafayel draws up, taut as a bowstring. There is a palpable taste of anger on your tongue, like a shark tasting blood in the water, and the realization dawns on you that you probably shouldn’t have answered him like that. “You’re really one to talk. You know, I thought we were finally getting closer. But you can’t even look at me properly! Have I done something to you?” His eyes are unhappy, glassy with emotion. It tears at you. His anguish has always been like a knife in your gut, disembowling you like a fish being gutted.

Your breath hitches. Yes, you have done something to me. You’ve ruined me. All I can think about is you, and the way your smile looks like the first streak of warm light at the break of dawn, and how even your annoying jokes make me float with joy. You’ve done something, alright. But all you say is, “No, of course not. I mean, no you haven’t done anything. I like spending time with you.”

“Then, what is it?” Rafayel has stepped closer. You instinctually step back, craving distance from him so that your heart won’t explode in your chest, but it seems like he has had enough. He ignores your attempt at evading him and grabs your arms, shaking you like a child would its toy. You look up at him, helpless. “Please. I can’t stand the thought of being apart from you.”

“Don’t say that, please.” Your voice is meek. You cannot believe he is even saying those things to you, that he could possibly replicate all the feelings in your heart, both the light and the dark.

Rafayel sucks in a breath, as if the words were a slap to his face. “Does it disgust you? That I feel like this? Because if you don’t want me to take liberties, if you don’t want me to bother you, then that’s all you have to say. I promise I’ll go back to any role you want to cast me in, as long as we go back to what we were, and you will talk and laugh with me again.”

What even is this moment right now? You are dizzy with emotion, incapable of producing speech. In all your wildest dreams, never once had you thought that it would be Rafayel begging for even a scrap of your attention. It was always in reverse, the natural order of things. You shake your head, appalled at his words, heady with them. “You can’t possibly feel like this,” you manage to say through gritted teeth. “You can’t possibly feel like you’re the one being pushy, when all I’ve done is ruin things between us. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. I knew you did it because you were drunk, and I’m not mad at all, but I should have been the responsible one, and now I’ve ruined everything.”

“Ruined everything?” Rafayel’s voice is ripe with incredulity. When you finally gather courage to look up, you see Rafayel’s face suffusing with blood, although you can’t tell if it’s in anger or frustration. You don’t understand that in reality, Rafayel has spent his entire existence living in devotion to you, praying to you, deifying you. There is a split second where you both look at each other, completely silent, but then Rafayel’s painter-roughened fingers circle around your wrist and guide you back into the studio.

There are art supplies strewn everywhere, littered on every surface, but the actual paintings have been draped in curtains, hidden from view. Sometimes, even the most talented of creators gets shy about his works, and you’ve never once pushed him or teased him for it, respecting his privacy. But now you’re standing in the middle of his domain, his one hand still gripping your flesh, the other curling around the soft fabric that hides his art. “Then believe this,” he scoffs, and before you can protest, he rips the curtain off to reveal what is beneath.

You are robbed of speech.

That day in the gallery, your eyes had been cloudy, blind. You never once thought to stop about whether Rafayel had a muse that he venerated, something he enshrined with his paintings in an effort to cage in the feeling. Like the visionary described in Plato’s allegory of the cave, you are stumbling towards the light, blinded by the grace Rafayel utilizes in everything he shapes and touches.

Blooming all over the canvas is a rendition of you, floating in the ocean, kissed by the sunlight straining to reach you in the depths of the water. You almost reach out to feel the brushes, each stroke of the paintbrush a loving word, a compliment to your existence. Rafayel has painted you with the loveliness of an artisan completely entranced with their source of inspiration. There is an unspoken language of love woven into the material of the canvas itself, every color, every shade fondly handpicked to highlight your radiance. The drawing of you is glowing, basking in Rafayel’s attentiveness, completely wrapped up in his adoration.

“This,” Rafayel speaks up at your side, leading you back to reality, “is how I feel about you. I worship you.”

“Worship me?” You are breathless. It’s an impossible feat to tear your eyes off of the craftsmanship, but you manage to do so. The sight of Rafayel almost knocks you to your knees anew. His gaze is so full of warmth that for the first time in years, your heart is expanding, feeling full and hungry at the same time. Rafayel takes your hands in his, pulling them towards him. “You sound so shocked,” he laughs gently, the reaction so untypical for him. You let yourself be guided closer into the circle of his arms, into your safe haven that Rafayel represented for you. “Is it so hard to believe that I love you? There is no one else I’d want to kiss, no matter whether I’m drunk or sober. I dream and think of you all the time, and I hate it, trust me. Did you really think there would have been anyone else that could take your place in my heart?”

You are still adoring the painting, but when you angle your head back to look at him, Rafayel is already looking at you. It’s a soul-connecting look, the kind that reaches deeper than his eyes, the color of them ressembling the star-speckled sky reaching to kiss the pink waves. He is literally cracking open inside his chest so that you may look within, so that you will believe him. There is a memory at the edge of your consciousness, something that washes the saltiness of the ocean and the strangely sweet taste of divinity over your tongue, something that you cannot recognize yet. But what you can recognize is the heart inside Rafayel’s chest, so similar to your own, even hungrier than yours possibly could ever be. “Say it in full,” you plead with him, just to hear it once more. To realize that this incomparable man, more legend than reality, in all his heavenliness and gracefulness, belongs to you. That although your heart has always been the most insatiable creature alive, it has finally found a twin that matched its voracity. “Say you love me.”

Rafayel’s hands come up to cradle your face, cupping it like one would hold their most precious treasure. He is looking at you like a devotee who has seen his salvation, like you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. It’s the look of love you’ve always, always wanted directed at you. “I love you,” he says, sounding entirely to exultant for a moment like this, his voice like the bells of heaven. It is utterly unlike your sassy crush, the man who’s outwitted you countless times, who always tugs a laughter out of you whether you want it or not. This is someone else, someone who’s set fire to the earth just to dig you out of its ashes. “I will love you until the day I die and if there is another life after this one, then let me love you in that one too, in all lives that may yet come.”

You screw your eyes shut then. You are blinded by joy, amazed at what just a single string of words can do to you. There is a key turning in the lock inside your chest, something that opens up a tsunami of emotions inside you. I love you. I love you. I love you. “Rafayel,” you whisper, and then you stumble forward at the same time as Rafayel tips down, and you collide like stars. When Rafayel finally kisses you, it tastes of cosmic dust and red strings of fate and it tastes like eternity. Your hands reach upward, seizing at his clothes and shoulders, until finally your fingers claw at his cheeks and you are probably hurting him. Neither of you cares. You fold around each other until no one can tell where you stop and he begins.

Rafayel groans into the kiss, a sound of such profound relief that you almost manage to stop kissing him just to laugh. There is no opportunity to do that, though, as Rafayel keeps dragging you back for another kiss, and another, and another. “My pearl,” he gasps against your lips, and you swallow the sound eagerly, lips moving against his like the tide crashing back into the shore. There is a loud crash as Rafayel moves backwards; you are momentarily distracted and look downwards to see the palette having strewn all its paint and contents all over the floor. In the heat of passion, you had completely forgotten your surroundings. “Whoops,” you murmur, not feeling sorry at all. It makes Rafayel burst into laughter, and for a moment, you are two idiots stumbling in the dark, two boats in a storm.

Holding on to another.

“It’s so typical of you to make a mess when I’m trying to be romantic,” he whines, becoming your unserious Rafayel again, love of your life Rafayel. You brush a lock of his storm-blue hair aside, and he tilts his head until his cheek is fitted against your palm. “You exist to sabotage me, admit it.”

“You admit something first.” Still love-drunk from the kiss, you swipe your thumb over his cheekbone, the touch electric. “When did you paint this? Do you really like me for as long as I have liked you? Because if I’m being honest, I’ve been having the most embarrassing crush for the longest time. Simone can tell you all about it.”

Rafayel dips his head, looking at you straight on. “You have no idea,” he tells you, entirely honest. He looks as if he can tell that your heart is racing, like he’s speaking the words into your veins, carried to your heart with the steady pump of your blood.

You step closer to him then, the need so primal you feel your entire body shivering. The urge is so tantalizing that you threaten to choke on it, succumb to the threat that Rafayel’s love poses. He is a walking siren song. “Help me understand then,” you whisper. “You’re always so chatty. Chat to me now.”

“But I’ve done all the talking, you know.” He pouts, the expression entirely bratty and so Rafayel-coded that you can’t help but giggle. The corners of his own mouth twitch, clearly pleased by the reaction, the sound the only symphony in his ears he likes to hear more than the swell of the ocean.

Your arms come to wrap around his neck, and you slot together like puzzle pieces, every rib fitting into the hollow of Rafayel’s chest. It feels like you are made for each other. You place your lips on Rafayel’s ears, your own only hearing the rush of the ocean, the sound of your blood racing. “Tell me, please, Raf,” you whisper. He shudders violenty, a reaction that reaches deeper than evolutionary instinct. His hands find their home on the dips of your curves, every finger digging in. “I want to hear about every single thing inside your head. Always.”

“You are unfair.”

You kiss the curve of his ear. “Of course I am. I’m the human that stole your heart.”

Rafayel’s lips are seized by a helpless smile, an expression you’ve never seen before. It’s almost as if he’s reminiscing about a secret that you don’t know, something that feathers along the edge of your memory. But he answers you nonetheless. “But there was no theft, my love,” he purrs. It’s the sound of pure, languid affection, the kind that wells up from the depths of one’s heart. “I’d give you my heart again and again and again. You can tease me all you like, but in truth, I’d sink to my knees whenever you’d like and worship you forever.”

Your lips part in astonishment. You don’t miss the way Rafayel’s eyes zero in on the reaction in hunger. “You were right, you shouldn’t talk,” you stutter then. “Your words are gonna go right to my head.”

“And it’s such a pretty head, too.” Rafayel’s lips begin to chase the soft slopes of your face, tracing a fiery path across your cheeks. It is unbelievable how such a simple act unravels you, how you are going to explode beneath the simple touch of Rafayel’s kiss. You almost preen beneath the ministrations. You angle your head to entangle him in a kiss, but this time, it’s him who moves before your lips can touch. “Let me prove it to you,” he whispers, the words itself as soft as a kiss. It’s a dangerous promise, an even more dangerous game. “Please, pretty girl, let me prove it to you, show you how much I adore you. I’m all yours. Let me show you, I beg you.”

You bite your lips. You’re pretty sure the bar is in hell, but this is the single most attractive thing a man has ever done for you. Here he stands, his heart on a silver platter presented to you, his entire being at your whim. You are heady with power, dizzy with the implications. But at the same time, you have never felt so safe. You are in the palm of Rafayel’s hands, safe and comfortable and oh, so loved. “Show me,” you tell him, biting your lip. “Please, Raf, show me.”

Those are the magic words. You didn’t even need to plead. Before a single ‘please’ has left your mouth, Rafayel’s lips once again crash into yours, and this time, he kisses you properly. His tongue, as commanding as his personality, tastes like a weirdly enticing combination of cherry coke and ocean salt; there is a loud, embarrassing squeak that escapes you when Rafayel’s teeth drag over your lower lip, but the sound quickly changes into a drawn-out moan when he gently sucks on it. He releases it with a groan of his own, and his eyes, like mirrors to his soul, reveal the depths of his hunger. “God, you have no idea what I’d do for you,” he gasps out, his brain working faster than his own mouth, the words hurtling from some part in his soul he has been jealously guarding. You are his only vulnerability, the only one. “What I have been looking for all my life. Light of my life, my love, my pearl. Need to show you.”

“Show me what?” You’re so drunk on his kisses, you’ve already forgotten what Rafayel requested from you in the first place. He tugs you in the direction of his bedroom, and you follow with a scary compliance. Maybe all those stories about the sailors drowning at sea had more than just a kernel of truth to them. Who wouldn’t throw themselves into the waves, for a chance to experience Rafayel’s experiences, even if it was only mere seconds? Your haziness chases you into the bedroom; your head is still spinning when he pulls you down into the luxurious bed you’ve always mocked him for. Suddenly, all that space begins to make a lot of sense. You spread out on the bed entirely too easily, unfolding beneath Rafayel like the blossom of a flower.

He sucks in his breath, his chest rising rapidly. Even though you are dizzy in your stupor, your brain still registers with a delight that it’s not alone in its sensation. You are doing this to him, you are undoing him just as much as he is you. The knowledge is so sweet that every inch of your body seems to sing. “Show you how much I love you,” he says. “Never gonna make you doubt me again. You’ll never think about anyone else after this. No one will ever love you like I do, I promise.”

The promise sounds entirely too harrowing for the romantic atmosphere you had been cultivating since the reveal of the painting in the studio. You almost sit up. Not too argue against him, but to question where the need for the promise came from; after all, you’d be just as ready to prove to him that no one in your life would ever come close to the reign he held over your heart. But then Rafayel bows over you, and you’re entirely engulfed by his shadow, and Rafayel’s hands are carving their way out to your abdomen.

It almost makes you shy. You’re not a blushing virgin, but you’ve never let anyone into your body in this way, not like this. You’re afraid that Rafayel’s gonna get inside and seize evey cell of your body for him, and he’ll settle in your bones and your marrow and your blood, and he’ll stay there forever. It’s a delicious fear, a kind of anticipation that makes you peer into the void, listen to its call. You want it so bad that your own fingers dig into the way-too-expensive fabric of Rafayel’s blankets, tearing, anchoring. Finally, finally, his lips kiss their way down the shape of your hip bones, chasing their way to the edge of your jeans. “May I, please?” He asks, his voice laced with desperation, the picture of a petitioner.

You look down at him, at this siren bewitching your body and spirit. Although he looks like something straight out of a pornographic movie, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything this beautiful. Rafayel was like the most ethereal pictures, his lovely features carved out with the tender carefulness that makes even stone seem soft. His eyes are hopeful, open, trusting. You are falling in love with someone more divine than your mortal mind could have ever conjured, your every dream come true. “You better,” comes the weak response from you.

It’s all the consent he needs. Rafayel all but tears the pants off of you, his hands chasing flesh, craving connection. “Thank God,” he moans, and you almost think he’s enjoying this just as much as you are, more than you are. You watch his own hips buck into the soft mattress, chasing the mock-sensation your pussy would offer him, and you clench your thighs so hard your kneecaps almost pulverize. He grinds into the blankets, the torment of his own desire seemingly making him delirious, but his touches are determined, measured. Your curves fit perfectly into his hands, the elegant painter fingers gripping into your ass to angle you to his liking. “I thought I’d die without ever tasting you again.”

Again? You repeat in your mind, thinking you misheard. But Rafayel doesn’t permit you to think. Another pull, another tug, and then his treacherous mouth is around your core, kissing you through the cotton, mouthing around the shape of your pussy. You cry out, more in surprise than pleasure, but that quickly changes when he begins to drag his tongue across your pussy in a long, languorous swipe that makes your insides twitch wantonly. “Get those panties off of me or so help me god, Rafayel,” you manage to push out between gritted teeth, your own hips flying up to chase his touch. His grip is unrelenting, pinning you back into the mattress. “Weren’t you gonna prove something to me?”

Rafayel’s answer comes in a purr. “Your wish is my command, beloved.”

He pulls your panties to the side in a swift motion, placing another kiss on your clit. “Fucking hell,” he seems to mutter in amazement, and you’re not sure you were supposed to hear that. A mere moment later, Rafayel digs in like a man starved, moments away from the death sentence. You are not just a death row meal: you are the entire five-star course. You cry out entirely too loud as Rafayel plunges his tongue into you, the flexing muscle angling up to trace the soft, sensitive spot you chase with your own fingers when pleasuring yourself. You have no idea how he knows that, but you have no time to ponder as his left hands begins to trace circles around your clit, bullying the bundle of nerves with the pencil-roughened pads off his fingers. “Raf, oh my god!” you gasp, the sound dragged out of you in the same steady rhythm as his tongue pumping into you.

“I’m your god,” comes the moaned response, the sound’s vibration making your insides twitch in response. His fingers don’t let up, the ministrations steady, slowly picking up in speed in tandem with the coil of pleasure tightening inside your belly. You are twisting like a snake, your body shortcircuiting. “Say it.”

“Rafayel.” You are suprised in the coherency you fathom in expressing his name; your mind is already blurring at the edge, falling apart in soft colors like the confetti inside a kaleidoscope. “You’re my god, Rafayel, mine all mine.”

“Yours,” Rafayel keens. You notice the admission make him almost feral; he immediately puts his mouth back to work, slurping your essence in the most obscene manner. You are way beyond proprieties, way beyond embarrassment. All you can hope for is that he catches you at the end of this, as he hurtles you past the point of no return, the death-drop on a scary rollercoaster. You almost scream his name when he sucks your clit into his mouth, nursing on the spot like he’s going to die from thirst. The flick of his thumb makes you come undone; you fall back into the mattress into oblivion, shaking out of existence as Rafayel’s skilled tongue continues teasing your slit until you push him away, over-sensitive. “Stop, stop, stop,” you chant, the words slurred around the mind-blowing effects of your orgasm. Your tongue is heavy, your throat scraped raw. Did you scream that loud? “Can’t, Raf, can’t anymore, stop. So sensitive.”

“But I wasn’t done,” he whines out. His fingers still chase after you, even after you hastily sit up, dragging your unwilling body up the bed. He crawls after you, looking deliciously pathetic, his stunningly beautiful face pulled into a heartbroken grimace, as if the world was going to end if he couldn’t keep you eating out. There’s an unmistakingly large tent inside his thousand-dollar-designer pants, one that makes your mouth run dry again with hunger.

Heavens have mercy, you’ve never wanted to suck someone off so bad. You wonder if his pretty eyes would roll back into his head if you took it deep enough into your throat.

You don’t get to fulfill that wish, though. Rafayel pounces on you almost immediately, your sight taken over by his beautiful face as he kneels over you. His hips knock aside your thighs, demanding entrance, and you open up to him too easily. “Wanna make you feel good,” he begs you, but you’re too distracted with how delicious his kiss-swollen lips look. You trace your thumb over his lower lip, watch him as his mouth chases to suck on it.

He almost gapes when you place your thumb into your own mouth, tasting yourself. If he didn’t look so fucking attractive like that, you’d have laughed.

“You’re killing me,” he admits. Despite how vulnerable that sounds, he doesn’t hesitates at tearing at your legs until you’re laying below him chest to chest, ignoring the way you squeak at being manhandled into position. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Now you laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing. But I’m definitely not trying to kill the person I love.”

His face softens. It’s that expression you’ve begin to adore, categorized in your mind palace which is entirely dedicated to being a shrine for Rafayel. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one submitting to you at the moment, wrapping himself around your finger. It’s you who’d move all the seas in the world just to be with him. “I love you more,” he tells you, and he sounds earnest. “I love you so much more. Here, I’ll show you.”

The kiss he places on your lips is entirely too sweet for the debauchery his lower half is committing. While his teeth gently tug at your lips, begging for entry, his hips have begun to grind against your pussy. You mewl into the kiss, the sound quickly swallowed by Rafayel’s greedy tongue as he curls it around your own, tasting you, tasting him. There’s a string of saliva connecting your lip when he disentangles from you, and you’re too busy staring at it to notice the way he stares at you like you’re the single most important thing in his world.

He’d die a thousand times just to live through this night once more.

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the realization that Rafayel has begun tugging off his clothes. You quickly mirror him by shedding the last of your own, tugging aside all the fabric until you’re as bare before him as the day you’ve been born. You feel a little self-conscious, but to him, you must look glorious: this time, you visibly see the way his chest expands with the sheer joy, the admiration that drowns out all the color in his eyes. “Like what you see?” you tease him, but there’s an edge of nervousness tainting the words. You’re literally offering yourself up to him like a sacrificial bride.

“I adore you more than anything,” he answers, his voice reverent. His fingers shiver with tremors as they brush their way down the curves of your breast, enveloping your waist until you’re snug in his grip. It makes you blush; he’s looking at you as if he’s seizing up every detail so he can paint you anew, the devotion only a painter can muster up for a muse he loves. “This is the single greatest thing I have ever experienced.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t been inside of me yet.”

His eyes darken then, returning to their sinful mischievousness. “No, I haven’t,” he retorts, and then he pulls you towards him, the head of his cock nudging aside your labia, knocking at your entrance. You yelp, and he snickers like the bastard he is. “May I come in?”

“Fuck you,” you tell him, breathless. It was supposed to be a harmless insult, your usual banter with Rafayel that most often ends up in you guys thinking up the most creative “your momma” jokes until you guys dissolve in laughter.

This Rafayel doesn’t. “You should not have said that,” is the only warning you get, before Rafayel drags you down on his cock, sheathing you entirely on it. Your back arches off the bed as if your heart was trying to escape your chest; the intrusion is so sudden that the nerves in your brain spasm before you register there’s something kissing your cervix. Not possible, you think. Not fucking possible. He can’t be this big.

Oh. Oh.

Rafayel bundles you up in his arms and pulls back his hips just to snap back into you with the deadly precision of a predator who’s killing its’ prey. This time, you’re fully conscious of the scream you let out, your insides squeezing the living hell out of Rafayel’s dick in a desperate attempt to contain him. The only thing that amounts to is him being spurned on; you turn your head to the sound of Rafayel’s sinful moans flowing into your ear, tingling right down into your abdomen. “Rafayel, slow down”, you manage to squeeze out, but at the same time, you raise your hips to meet his every thrust, your eyelids fluttering at the same time as the rapid rhythm Rafayel sets as he pounds you into the mattress.

“What was that, my pearl?” Slap, slap, slap. The lewd noise of his Rafayel’s balls smacking against your entrance makes your toes curl in delicious pleasure, and you wind around in his hold, sobbing from how good he makes you feel. His cock cruelly bullies into you, your cervix screaming up through your nerves every time the circle of muscles makes contact with his cockhead. Your fingers claw at his back, desperate to steady themselves somewhere, anywhere. You barely even register the fact that there’s blood dripping from where your nails dig in; you’re too distracted by the fact that the pain you’re inflicting on him only seems to make him fuck you into the mattress harder. “You want me to go faster?”

“Can’t,” you wail, feeling incredulous by the fact that sex can illicit a response like this in you. You’ve severely underestimated how much everything changes when you do something with the person you love. “Can’t, Raf, it’s too much, too much.”

Rafayel’s only response is to ignore your begging. He frees a hand from where it’s digging into the mattress above of you to balance himself and cradles your face in it easily, angling your face up so you look at him straight-on. “Wish I could stop, my angel, but I’m obsessed with you. Need you to cum all over me, mark me as all yours so I can never run away again. Can you do that for me, sweet thing? Cum for me, please?”

“Raf,” you whine out, the tell-tale sign of your orgasm approaching muddling your mind again. How exactly does he expect you to form a coherent thought when he’s fucking you like it’s his last night on earth? Your fingers search for purpose, gripping into his shoulders, weaving a cradle around his neck. He bows then, kissing you like his life depends on it, never once stopping his rhythm of fucking into you. “Gonna cum.”

“You promise?” he whispers against the curve of your lips. He angled his head, instead kissing his way down your throat, swallowing the sound of your heartbeat screaming his name inside your veins. Every thrust claims your soul more and more, until you’re nothing more than a prisoner to his love. “Please, my seastar, I can’t fucking take it. Need to cum with you so bad.”

“Pleeeease.” The sound is a single cry, hollowing out your chest as you hug him closer. Rafayel bites into the soft flesh of your shoulder, and you interlock your legs behind his back, seeing white. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. His bite feels like the soft brush of a kiss, violence mingling with lust. “Come with me, Raf, I’m coming, coming, coming.”

Your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. You arch off the mattress, weightless for a moment; Rafayel continues to fuck you through it, chasing his own release as the most lewd moans tumble from his lovely lips, which are probably going to haunt you and your daydreams forever. His semen mingles with your release, the messy sound making you hide your face in the hollow of his neck; you slap at Rafayel’s chest when he doesn’t relent, almost wailing when the pleasure gets too much. Your heart feels raw and cradled at the same time; Rafayel doesn’t pull out when he falls off from you, instead pulling your leg with him so that you’re locked in an embrace while you both lay there, panting like animals who’ve been chased. For a long time, no one says anything. There are no words for the way your souls have converged. You’re almost not sure whether what you did even can be called sex. But then you feel Rafayel’s cum drip out of you, and the blush that rises to your cheeks reassures you that yes, it still is sex.

Rafayel squeezes your hips, hugging you against him like someone would a teddybear. “I love you,” he drawls against your still naked skin, kissing the raw teeth marks he left behind on your shoulder. You sigh out, a sound of pure contentment. Your heart still feels like it’s on the tip of your tongue. “Love you more,” you tell him, but Rafayel, stubborn as always, shakes his head. He kisses you into silence, hands cradling your face gently as he angles you upwards to receive his kisses. “Never,” he murmurs into each one. You don’t argue with him. As the moonlight bears witness to the whispered love declarations you speak in the dark, the two of you curl around each other until you’re an indistinguishable tangle of limbs, cuddling into each other like cats bathing in the sunlight.

You fall asleep like that, head pillowed against Rafayel’s chest as he props you up against him. He continues to mumble compliments into your hair long after you’ve fallen asleep, thousands of words of adoration he’s had to keep to himself in the years that have passed waiting for you.

It’s finally his turn to become your worshipper. Finally, finally, Rafayel’s hearts soars with happiness again. The sea always returns what it takes. You have washed up on the shores of his life again, mate of his soul, love of his life. And this time, he’s never going to let you go.

[demaparbat-hp]

For your Dandadan AU. Are we in a "Modern Setting" (e.i. No bending)? Or you are having their "supernatural powers" be homages to their bending powers?

Something tells me that Aang is going to get the Jiji role. Only Aang to be that goofy, and do the thing that will happen in Season 2.

Are you also having Kanna as the stand-in for Seiko?

Hi, and thanks for asking!

I'll be leaving this over here and the rest of the lore under the cut.

The Dandadan AU takes place in a modern setting, much like the anime/manga does. There are legends about people who could control the elements in ancient times, but those are just tales—humans can't bend.

Spirits and Yokai, however, are a different story.

Each character's supernatural abilities reflect their original bending prowess! Zuko is a bit of an exception, since I'm leaning towards the shadow and stealth aspect of the Blue Spirit. Fire is still there, just in a different form.

Katara has natural bloodbending powers which the Painted Lady enhances. Whenever Katara taps into the yokai's curse on her, she becomes able to control water as well. Azula (in Aira's role!) will get lightning, illusion, and deception powers from a Kemurikage yokai.

Seiko's role gets passed on to Hama and Iroh. They're both part of the White Lotus, a society of mediums and yokai hunters from all nations.

Hama is Katara's Gran Gran, a stern and rather intense old woman who has made several deals with the Gods of the Land. She delivers corrupted souls to them in exchange for strength, protection, and an emergency tap into the bloodbending powers that she wouldn't be able to harness otherwise.

Meanwhile, Iroh becomes spiritually enlightened after his son's death. He's a beacon for corrupted spirits and bloodthirsty yokai—mostly because of his unnatural ability to rehabilitate said beings. The Painted Lady is one such yokai, and isn't it ironic that Iroh's own nephew is now one of his patients?

Hama sends most of the yokai she hunts down to Iroh due to his ability for dealing with them. If Iroh can't help a yokai move on peacefully, she finishes the job. Not because he can't do it, but Hama is the one who does what she considers to be "the fucking bulk of the iceberg" and Iroh can't take all the credit for it, damn it.

As for Aang...

The Avatar State is terrifying, which makes it the perfect stand in for the thing. Aang has such an outstanding amount of spiritual energy that he's a beacon for all spirits and yokai out there. Which...isn't good. Especially when one of the most ancient and powerful spirits out there wants to possess him.

Which leads us to the Avatar State.

I made the choice to remove his power over the four elements to focus instead on something much more interesting and fitting for this AU: energybending.

The Avatar is able to manipulate all vital and spiritual energy around him, as well as give or take everyone else's powers at will. This makes him pretty much the most dangerous being to ever exist, since he can make everyone powerless by simply willing it so.

As for the Avatar's motivation? He's a protective yet ruthless spirit that has laid dormant for thousands of years, but a certain event woke him up to a world in disarray. His purpose has always been to keep balance in the world, but the concept itself of balance can be easily corrupted.

The Avatar comes from a world that doesn't exist anymore—a far better place that he wishes to recreate and bring to life once more. Even if he must destroy this version of earth to birth it anew.

[the-crooked-library]

Creative Lineage - Dracula, Orlok, and the others

Here's the thing: the relationship between Nosferatu and Dracula is incredibly interesting - especially considering that Nosferatu (1922) was based on Dracula the book (1897), and most subsequent visual adaptations of Dracula for some reason used aspects of that film as inspiration, instead of adapting the original novel directly. As a result, there have always been endless comparisons between the two; but, in light of our most recent Nosferatu (2024), I must expand on what I personally think is their most significant (in regards to both plot development and analysis) difference.

TL;DR: it's characters. The main source of divergences between Dracula and Nosferatu is that these stories consist of vastly dissimilar characters, stuck in relatively similar situations.

I could go into heavy detail, and I will - under the cut, for the sake of all our dashboards.

At first glance, the stories of Dracula and Nosferatu are almost identical. The beginning sections follow the same essential plot beats - a young, newlywed solicitor travels to a creepy castle in Eastern Europe to assist a reclusive Count in his immigration to the West. This Count is, in fact, a vampire (otherwise known as a nosferatu), and terrorizes the young man for weeks, before departing and leaving him imprisoned; the solicitor escapes, is rescued from the wilderness by a nunnery, and returns home - where the Count has already begun his murderous process of settling in.

Here, in my opinion, is where the similarities end.

The key to understanding Nosferatu is remembering that Orlok is not Dracula; Thomas is not Jonathan; Ellen is not Mina, and so forth; and despite the mutual inspirations that affect each film adaptation of either story, the characters never react to the plot as a viewer would expect, if their precursory experience has been limited to only one or the other version.

Naturally, there are reasons for the continued addition of Nosferatu elements to Dracula adaptations. The most prominent of them is that, quite simply, audiences enjoy a fated, dangerous, inadvisable monster romance. By and large, we are titillated by the taboo; and - without adapting Le Fanu's Carmilla (1872), or adding a vampiric element to an adaptation of Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera (1910), or expanding on the queer elements of Jonathan Harker's sojourn in Transylvania - the easiest piece of classic media to sample for this sort of theme is Nosferatu (1922).

The 1922 film was, in a sense, an adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula (at least, enough to get the creators sued by his estate). In its efforts to circumvent copyright laws, it plays fast and loose with Stoker's lore and characters, renaming the Harkers, the Count, and everyone else - and, crucially, adding an element of erotic fixation that the vampire develops upon seeing a portrait of his solicitor's young wife. While still overseas, he builds a psychic connection with the melancholy and sensitive Ellen; it is both horrifying and sensual, and ultimately what she uses to destroy him - sacrificing her own blood and life to keep him out of his coffin until cock-crow. Ellen dies, but the sunlight annihilates Count Orlok, and the ending is a bittersweet new dawn.

This fixated, possessive, murderous eroticism (first displayed in its currently recognizable form by Carmilla) has become a cornerstone of the vampire genre. Elements of it are recognizable even in relatively modern media like Interview with the Vampire, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Twilight, as well as numerous Dracula adaptations (of which the 1992 Coppola film might be the most well-known); it is even present in other, indirect offshoots like NBC's Hannibal TV series. It is, therefore, essential to note that these overtones did not exist in the same way in Dracula the novel; and the reason for that is, specifically, a difference in character.

Count Dracula, while dangerous, vampiric, and psychic, does not possess that same singular fascination with any given character in Stoker's book (save perhaps for Jonathan Harker, temporarily). He does drain Lucy night after night, and his method of killing, like with all vampires of his type, is allegorically sexual; but it isn't personal. She keeps receiving blood transfusions - effectively, refills!.. Other than her blood, he has little interest in her. He has companionship enough already - after all, he lives with three female vampires, who may be courtesans or wives, but are colloquially referred to as Vampire Brides; and, additionally, he maintains ongoing communication with some of the people and animals that live on his land. As such, when he does bite Jonathan's wife Mina, it is a practical decision - made in order to establish a potential spy in a group of people who appear to be intent on hunting him down.

Similarly, Mina herself - despite the usual characterization of her film portrayals, which are in many ways epitomized by Coppola's 1992 version - was not originally a vulnerable maiden. She is confident and educated, she has worked for a living as an educator prior to her marriage, and she knows how to use a typewriter as well as shorthand. She has no emotional connection to Dracula whatsoever beyond pure incandescent hatred; and, frankly, forcing her into any sort of romance with him is deeply inaccurate to her character - because Mina Harker is endlessly in love with her husband Jonathan.

They may be on the lower end of middle-class, but relatively stable and planning a life together - not only as husband and wife, but as solicitor and secretary, as well. It's as close to a power couple as a novel from the 1890s will approach.

This is not the case for Ellen Hutter, largely because her social circumstances are far more precarious.

Unlike Mina, she has been forcibly isolated for the majority of her life. In that, she is yet another in the line of tragic madwomen of the gothic genre - mostly due to her eccentricities and her psychic gift, which (as the Eggers version specifies) manifested early in her childhood and became socially inexcusable during her teenage years, much like any real-world form of neurodivergence. It is implied that she has been institutionalized at some point as a result; and even prior to that, her father kept her confined indoors and away from other people in efforts to control her.

This isolation is what originally leads to her connection with Orlok - who was woken from his centuries-long deathlike sleep when he heard her reaching out into the ether, begging for a friend. Then, later in her life, the same circumstances unfortunately have a direct effect on her relationship with her husband Thomas, too; while she is attached to him, she cannot ignore that she is also utterly dependent on him as her ticket to a stable life, as well as out from under her father's thumb. Again, unlike Mina, she has no marketable skills or opportunities outside of this marriage; and while Thomas never shames her for her past, he still pressures her to ignore and repress it. The manifestations of her psychic ability concern, then unsettle, then frighten him - and, ultimately, there is a transactional aspect to their union. Thomas expects himself to move ahead in the world, like his friend Friedrich; and Ellen is expected to eventually become normal. She is expected to become a happy, pretty wife and mother like Anna Harding - because, while Thomas cares for her and fully intends to provide for her, he refuses to actually understand her.

Furthermore, it must be noted that leaving her father's estate for her husband's house did not entirely save Ellen from her isolation. Unlike Mina, she has no real friends of her own. Her only friend in the 2024 film is Anna, her husband's best friend's wife; and in the 1922 original, even that tentative affection is unclear. As such, Orlok remains the only character that truly knows and accepts her as she is - which inevitably complicates their dynamic.

While Orlok is, by his own admission, incapable of a human love, he is overwhelmingly and exclusively obsessed with Ellen. Unlike Dracula, who even in death keeps the company of his women and his people, Orlok exists in utter solitude. Prior to his death, he was also heavily avoided due to his being in "covenant with the devil." The 2024 film especially makes it clear that Ellen's call, which woke him from his slumber, is exceptional; their connection is intensely personal, and it is as close to love as he can ever feel.

This aspect of the vampire's characterization fundamentally alters the context of his behaviour throughout the film. While Dracula moved to England in search of new hunting grounds and little else, Orlok goes to Germany specifically to find Ellen. By marrying Thomas Hutter, she broke the covenant she made with Orlok in her youth; thus, knowing that his claim has been infringed upon, the Count makes contact with Hutter's real estate law firm, summons him to the Carpathians, crosses the sea, and arrives to Wisborg as a physical manifestation of every dark urge and ability she has been attempting to repress. He torments her husband, tricks him into signing a marriage annulment, plagues the city, and murders the Hardings - all of it for her. She is his unique and all-consuming motivation. Again and again, he insists upon their covenant, reminding her that she has never truly belonged to the human world, and he is not incorrect in his assessment. Ellen's surrounding society infantilizes and binds her, often literally. She has nothing to lose by leaving it, except for her own sense of morality; and that is why Orlok, who represents her own abnormality, remains a beautiful, nightmarish temptation.

The other characters diverge from Stoker's just as much.

Thomas Hutter has little in common with Jonathan Harker beyond his choice in career and his time at a vampire's castle. Despite his careful attachment to his wife, he does not actually take her opinions into consideration when he plans their life - he prioritizes his social and financial advancements, which are of no interest to her, and which he sees as his duties to her and to himself; and, when she exhibits any of her unusual or melancholic traits, he does his best to try and move past them as quickly as possible. He does not experience the same attraction to the horror that she does; he cannot bring himself to understand it; and both in 1922 and in 2024, he is also largely oblivious to her eccentricities, gifting her flowers despite the fact that she does not like to see them picked and dying in a vase. That is a far cry from Jonathan - who knows his wife's love of train schedules, who is practicing shorthand with her, and who is willing to join her in cursed, godforsaken undeath when faced with the possibility of her turning. Ultimately, Thomas exists too firmly within the same societal constraints that Ellen abhors, and their relationship has none of the foundation that is unshakably shared by Jonathan and Mina.

At the same time, while the Anna is a parallel to Lucy, and her husband is a corresponding Arthur, the Hardings (once again) have no particular commonality with them. Their characterization remains undeveloped in the original 1922 film - and while Eggers does grant them some definition, it is still in no way similar to Stoker's.

Stoker's Lucy is a charming, cheerful, flirty, and a little coquettish young girl; she exists on the cusp of womanhood and marriage, and her pre-vampire arc revolves around her choice between three almost-equally delightful suitors. She adores and idolizes Mina, she is childishly excited about her future; and in these things, she is very different from Anna, who is already married, a mother of two with one on the way - and who does care for Ellen, but in a motherly, rather than girlish, fashion.

Her husband, too, is quite different from Arthur Holmwood.

In 2024, Friedrich Harding is - above all else - the film's personification of the trap that is patriarchy. He is the epitome of what a man is expected to be: a successful business owner with a pretty blonde wife and 2.5 kids (I thought Anna's pregnancy was very much on the nose. Quite literally, 2.5 kids!). He is generous, he cares for his family, and he is firmly Rational. On the surface, Harding appears to be an ideal made flesh; and as the film progresses, it becomes evident that this ideal is designed to crumble.

Much of Harding's rationality is heavily hypocritical. While he claims to be making all his decisions based on pure logic, Ellen's - an outsider's - perspective exposes the truth behind his motivations. He ignores her warnings because he does not like her and considers her impudent; he kicks his own sick best friend out of his house with only his similarly sick wife to care for him, because he is annoyed and unsettled by their references to the supernatural; he refuses to listen to Von Franz and ignores the danger his family is in, because he is frightened of losing them to something he cannot comprehend, rather than a mundane, potentially treatable illness. All of these decisions are emotional, rooted in his misogyny and closed-mindedness - and so, Harding loses his daughters, his wife, his unborn son, as well as the unflappable, rational facade he had been so carefully maintaining. He ends the film a wreckage of himself, having committed necrophilia with the corpse of his wife because he was emotionally, irrationally unable to let go of her even in death; he dies of the plague that came to Wisborg through his own ship yard, holding her in his arms. Even under the guise of benevolence, his patriarchal worldview undermines and fails him entirely. It is a terrible thrill to watch him fall apart, and the ruin that is left in his place is one of the most obvious illustrations of the story's principal themes.

The other characterizations follow a similar sort of pattern. Sievers, unlike Seward, has no romantic rivalry with Harding; and beyond a professional connection, they are not really friends. Von Franz is far less knowledgeable about vampires than Van Helsing - for the majority of the film, he is stumbling in the dark with the rest of the cast, only finding a way of destroying Orlok in Herr Knock's codex. Knock, too, is far less noble than Renfield - even though he is just as insane as his counterpart, he sees Ellen as an object to be traded for money and power, rather than a kind soul that he would die to protect.

(Quincey Morris, unfortunately, does not exist in Nosferatu. Murnau hadn't found a place for a cowboy in his production; consequently, Eggers could not, either.)

The point is, really, that while Dracula and Nosferatu share a common premise, a comparison between them cannot be made without acknowledging the glaring differences between their characters. For instance, even though Orlok's relationship with Ellen is toxic in the usual vampiric way - part sex, part horror, part possession, part liberation - Thomas is by no means a perfect partner for her, either, because he is not Jonathan Harker, and Ellen is not Mina. Similarly, Von Franz, Sievers, and Harding are not a brave vampire hunting team - they are all blind, each in their own specific way (Von Franz, lacking straightforward knowledge; Sievers, trusting Von Franz without question; Harding, unable to think outside of societal rules). Expecting them to react to their situation the same way as the cast of Dracula is an exercise in futility.

As such, if you do get the chance to see the film again, or if it merely plays in the darkness of your skull when you close your eyes - instead of fixating on the few surface-level similarities between two different vampires and the people they haunt, allow the story of Nosferatu to seduce you on its own terms. Whether it is 1922 or 2024, we, as viewers, deserve its living blood - rather than the shadow of its predecessor.

[honeyryewhiskey]

careful what you wish for, dean !

Ride on, Baby !

/┆\

-` under the hood ´- turns out baby is much more than a pretty little ride. thanks to missouri's reading and a mishap with a cursed object you take form as baby ! the real girl. dean's favorite. his constant. the one damn thing he refuses to lose. but how can dean—ever emotionally damaged dean—handle you becoming flesh and blood? especially when you know every scar, every secret, every song he's ever used to keep himself together. you were never just a car. you were home.

-` shocks n struts ´- canon divergence au, mutual pining, fluff / humor, mostly lore accurate elements, sam and dean banter, mentions of john and mary winchester 4.5k words

“Oh, I knew I could count on you boys,” Missouri sighs, giving each of their arms a gentle squeeze. The warm sun settles over them like a blessing, soft and golden in the aftermath of a clean hunt. Wins have been rare lately, too rare, and this one feels like breathing again. Like purpose. Dean needed this.

“Anytime you need us, we’ll be there,” Dean assures, nodding. He lets Missouri’s gratitude settle into his chest, warm and quiet, easing that ache that’s always sorta just there.

“Yeah,” Sam adds with a small smile. “Anytime.”

Dean can’t help it—he’s already thinking about the drive back. About slipping behind the wheel, cranking the volume up on his favorite tape. The songs he only plays when he lets himself feel… okay.

A soft laugh draws him back. Missouri’s turned to the Impala, one hand sliding affectionately over the gleaming black hood. Her expression shifts to that far-off look she gets when she reads an object. Like it’s whispering to her, letting her in on a secret.

Then, with a slow, knowing smile, she murmurs, “Well, I’ll be damned… she’s got a soul.”

Dean blinks, scowling in confusion. “Come again?”

Missouri cuts him a sharp look. “You heard me.”

She pats the hood. Dean can see the word lashing building up behind her steady gaze. It’s one of the things he admires most about the woman, the natural maternal energy she carries. “Sometimes, if you love something enough, if you pour enough of yourself into it—grief, joy, rage, hope—a little life grows there.” She shrugs, gesturing around her, “everything reacts to human attention. But if you give enough of yourself to something… eventually, the wires spark.”

Dean scoffs, almost laughs—but it dies halfway. He glances at the Impala, at the way the sunlight clings to her curves, he’d never admit it, but even as a child he felt like the car was part of the family just as Sam or Dad were.

But a soul sounds far too much like the plot of a children’s story book. Yes, magic is real—strange things happen everyday in this life, but it’s never this pure. No, it’s grim. Unruly. Dean knows better than to sit in the daydream of his baby being anything more than metal and oil.

He scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it. He doesn’t believe Missouri, but this isn’t a soapbox worth stepping on. “Great. So what you’re saying is I’ve been emotionally codependent on my car and now she’s got a soul?”

Missouri raises an eyebrow. “I’m saying you gave her more of yourself than you’ve given most people.”

Those words make the blood rush to his face—but he shakes the feeling before it can grow roots in his mind.

Dean lets out a low whistle, giving the Impala an appreciative pat. “Well, hell. Guess that makes her the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

“Probably the healthiest, too,” Sam mutters.

Dean’s flat expression is on his brother just as Sam starts to chuckle at his own remark, but Missouri just smiles, turning back toward her house. “You boys drive safe,” she calls. “And treat her with a little more respect. She’s been carrying your sorry asses for your entire lives.”

Dean watches her go, then turns back to the car—to his Baby—and mutters under his breath with a grin, “Don’t let that go to your head, sweetheart.”

Dean sits behind the wheel of the Impala, windows down to let the late afternoon breeze drift through. His FBI suit clings uncomfortably in the sun, but he barely notices—too busy absentmindedly rolling a coin through his fingers while waiting on Sam.

This coin is the reason they're even in this dusty corner of South Dakota. Word around town is that the local underground gambling scene’s been getting their wishes granted—so long as they’ve got this coin in hand.

It’s small, worn, with a faded face stamped on one side and strange markings around the edge. Dean knows it's old—how old, he leaves to Sam, who could probably date it down to the century and rattle off the dead guy’s name without blinking.

Dean glances at the coin, then at the dash.

He always talks to his car. Or, at the very least, thinks out loud when he’s in her. But after Missouri’s reading… it feels different. Like maybe, if he says the wrong thing, the Impala might answer—maybe through a flicker of static or a song that knows too much.

“You ever notice how this crap always looks the same?” he mutters, flipping the coin between his knuckles. “Some crusty seal, some guy who’s been dead a thousand years, some Latin no one’s translated since the plague—and somehow it always gives you what you want… right before it screws you.”

He pauses, listening to the birds outside. Not waiting for a reply—he’s not that far gone.

“Anyway,” he sighs, settling back, “we’ll salt and burn it like we always do, yada yada, save the town—and then it’s back to the road, Baby. Just you and me.” He smiles, affectionately running a hand over the steering wheel before tilting his head in thought, “well… and Sammy, too.” 

He flicks the coin into the air a few times, watching it shoot up from his thumb and land cool against his palm. “Would be nice if these damn things made wishes come true without demanding a soul or some other evil crap.” 

He lets out a bitter huff, “I’d wish for what Missouri said to be true,” he sighs, “that I could love something enough to make it real.” 

He scoffs at himself, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping the coin back into its pouch and tossing it onto the passenger seat like it burns. “Jesus. I think the sleep deprivation’s finally caught up with me.”

He glances at the rearview mirror and raises an eyebrow at his reflection. “You know I’m only half crazy, right?”

Then he pushes the door open and climbs out, muttering, “I’m gonna find Sam before this gets any weirder.”

The Impala sits quiet and still behind him, her glossy black frame catching the sun. On the seat, the coin—unnoticed—begins to glow faintly through the fabric of the pouch.

Dean finds Sam pacing outside the motel office, phone pressed to his ear, mid-rant about pagan gods and enchanted coins. Dean barely catches half of it—his head still half in the Impala, half stuck on the strange weight the coin left behind.

“…and there’s an inscription on it in Latin,” Sam says, flipping through mental notes, “which I think translates to—” He stops abruptly, brow furrowing. “Uh… Dean?”

Dean lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

Sam steps back a little, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell is that?”

Dean turns, following Sam’s gaze—and stops cold.

You’re leaned up against the Impala, checking your reflection in the side mirror like you’ve done it a thousand times. Then you straighten, one ankle crossing over the other, arms folded neatly across your chest as you watch them. You look… patient. Like you’ve been waiting.

Your hair glints in the sunlight, smooth and sleek like the Impala’s body. Your nails are silver and sharp, catching the light with each twitch of your fingers. And your outfit has Dean’s brain short-circuits for half a second. A little black babydoll dress, silk blouse beneath, bold red tights, glossy Mary Janes—you look like you just walked out of a 1960s dream.

And then your eyes glow.

Silver.

Dean’s already reaching for his gun. Because of course you’re not just some bombshell lounging against his car. That’d be too easy. He can’t shake how weird everything has been since they left Missouri’s. He’s not even surprised that this simple case of a cursed object has new creatures popping up in this sleepy town. His mind races with each step, not a vamp, not a werewolf, not a shifter—he’s sizing you up and hoping that whatever the hell you are, his bullets can do some damage. 

The boys close in—scowls sharp, posture tense.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even blink. You just tilt your head, calm as a cat. You’ve never been on this side of those hunter-hardened stares. It almost makes you laugh, because you know them as the brothers that bicker and sing with each other within the same hour. 

You know the fears they voice on dark backroads, when life gets too exhausting—even for them. The bravest boys you know.

The ones you keep safe. Everyday. 

Dean growls, “What the hell—”

Because you’re their only semblance of home. 

You hum softly, interrupting. “Took you long enough.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Do we know you?” Sam asks warily. His gentle skepticism makes you smile, you always did love how soft Sam can be. Even as a little toddler with few words in his vocabulary, he’d always find a way to ask if someone else is okay. 

You glance between the two of them, then back at the car, back to them. “Only for your entire lives.”

There’s a silent stand-off and the boys look almost dumbfounded before the horror of realization dawns on the two. You have to bite your lip to hold back your laughter. John would probably slap them upside the heads for this little mishap, and your angered soul would burn a hole in the oil line just so that he’d have to take a trip to Bobby’s to fix it. Where the boys sprinted from the backseat and into the house, barely paying you any mind. 

But that never bothered you when you’d catch glimpses of those smiles of theirs through the living room windows. 

“No way,” Dean squints. 

“Dean, what the hell did you do?”

Scoffing, Dean turns to his brother with his hands at his hips. “Why do you immediately assume I did something?”

Your eyes bounce between the two as you let out a huff, letting your head slump back. Clearly, they need a moment. When do they not need a moment?

Sam’s completely turned his attention to the side, having deemed you as not-a-threat, his anger is on Dean. “I left you with the coin. Who else would wish for his car to turn into a woman?”

“Whoa, hey,” Dean snaps, defensive. “I would never go all Geppetto on my Baby.”

Sam rolls his eyes, rubbing his brow. “Uh-huh.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “I may have… briefly thought out loud about what Missouri said…”

“Jesus, Dean.”

You can’t help it anymore, you chuckle, light at first but it quickly devolves to a laughing fit. Dean certainly wasn’t just briefly thinking out loud. At some point, maybe when he was twenty-six and it was just you—the car—, him and the open road, when his thoughts became a one-sided dialogue you didn’t mind hearing. 

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” you say, gliding your hand along the Impala’s roof like it’s still part of you. “But it is nice to have some legs to stretch. Being the soul of a car does have its… limitations.”

Sam groans. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The motel room smells like stale air conditioning and something vaguely lemon-scented—and you love it.

You’ve only ever seen peaks through windows of what inside is like. Inside motel rooms, diners, Bobby’s, Jodi’s. The list goes on, and it never really bothered you much to be outside like some car-guardsmen. But now that you’re here, with your boys, you’re not sure how you could ever be satisfied as nothing more than a pretty piece of metal ever again. 

Your fingers skim over the fake wood nightstand, flick the chain on the lamp, pause on the cheap notepad with the motel’s name printed in faded green ink. Everything feels small. Fragile. So… new.

You press a finger into the mattress and marvel at the way it gives under your touch. Softer than seat foam. Bouncier, too. And the pillows? Downright insultingly fluffy.

“Okay, okay—don’t touch that,” Dean snaps, snatching the TV remote from your hand just as the screen flickers blue. He groans. “Jesus. That could’ve been pay-per-view porn, Sammy. She doesn’t need to see that yet!”

You grin, already buzzing with amusement from watching Dean. Seeing him through real eyes is better, much better. And so isn’t making him blush. “Oh,” you quip, all wide-eyed, “but it’s fine when you stash those boob magazines in my trunk?”

Dean raises a brow, playing innocent but the color is drained from his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam, pacing with both hands buried in his hair, spins around. “Dean, focus. A cursed coin turned your car into a person. We need to figure out how to reverse it before—” he waves a hand at you—“before we find out what else she can do.”

You glance down at yourself, wiggling your fingers, flexing your legs. Everything feels warm—like an engine left running on a summer night. But softer. Quieter. Human.

“Uh, Sammy?” you start, gesturing to your very solid, very real form. “Pretty sure I’m just a regular-shmegular human. Got skin, a heartbeat, even blinked a few times. Just a hunch.”

Dean opens his mouth, ready with some smartass remark—then stops. Rubs the back of his neck like it personally offended him. “Well… at least she’s got jokes.”

That earns both of you a Sam-eye roll, “No, Dean, she has your jokes. She sounds exactly like you!”

You flash a grin, drop onto the mattress, and bounce like it’s your first carnival ride. “Guess I take after my maker.” You shoot Dean a wink. “Daddy.”

Dean chokes on air. “Okay—nope. Nope. Not doing that.”

Sam exhales sharply, dragging his hands down his face. “Okay! This is officially the weirdest night of my life, so why don’t we—no, actually, you two… stay here. Don’t touch anything else.”

Dean throws a hand up, indignant. “What, like I’m the one who wished my damn car into a person?”

“You literally were holding the coin!” Sam gestures between you two. “And you talk to her all the time! Missouri said your emotions were tied up in her. And now—poof. Flesh and blood.”

You wave politely. “Hi. Yes, that’s actually exactly what got us all here.”

Sam points at you, like you're Exhibit A in a trial. “See?!”

Dean shifts uncomfortably, jaw working like he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out how. You watch him, amused.

“I wasn’t wishing, okay?” Dean mutters. “Like I said, I was just… thinking out loud.”

“Well, next time try not to think so loudly around cursed objects,” Sam snaps. “Because now I’ve got to figure out how to fix this before the universe does what it always does and bites us in the ass.”

You tilt your head. “So what’s the plan? You gonna turn me back into a car? Just shove me in reverse and hope for the best?”

Sam rubs his temples. “No. Maybe. I don’t know yet. But I’ve got a lead.”

Dean lifts a brow. “On what?”

Sam snatches his laptop from the table and slings his bag over his shoulder. “There’s a minor Roman god—Invictus. God of victory, the unconquered sun, immortality, wishes granted through battle or sacrifice—he’s connected to enchanted coins, especially ones like that.” He nods toward the pouch lying on the dresser like a live grenade.

“Invictus?” Dean repeats. “Sounds like a cologne.”

“Yeah, well, if your cologne starts rewriting reality, let me know.”

You lounge back on the bed, arms behind your head, tapping the toes of your shoes like you still can’t believe these limbs are yours. “So what—you think Invictus made the coin?”

“I think it’s connected,” Sam says. “There’s a small collection of Roman relics archived at Black Hills State. I’m going to the campus library—see what I can dig up.”

“Be back by dinner?” Dean asks, hopeful. He’s not sure how long he can stay with just you and him. It’s too weird, and he’s conflicted between shameful excitement and fear of whatever the hell this mean for you and what you are now. 

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Dean watches Sam head for the door, then glances back at you. You’re stretched out on the mattress now, studying the motel ceiling like it's the Sistine Chapel.

Sam pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder. “Dean, seriously—don’t let her go anywhere.”

Dean scoffs. “She’s a person, Sam, not a possessed toaster.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “You wished her into existence. That makes her your responsibility.”

The door slams behind him.

A silence settles between you and Dean. You sit up slowly, cross-legged now, your head tilting.

“So…” you begin. “What do people do when they’re not a car?”

Dean stares at you for a beat. He’s not even going to think about how that sentence has probably never been said before in the history of everything. Instead, he shrugs, “Eat. Sleep. Watch TV. Argue with Sam.”

“Sounds kinda boring.”

He cracks a faint smile. “Yeah, well. Welcome to humanity.”

It’s unnervingly quiet to be human, there's no settling engine noises or cars wooshing past on a nearby road. The big black box Dean didn’t want you looking at made noise, so you reach for the remote again.

Dean snatches it out of your hand like it’s a loaded weapon. “Nope. No TV. Let’s, uh… let’s get food. Yeah. You eat, right?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed. “No clue, man. I’ve only been human for like an hour. But I’ve watched you inhale enough burgers to kill a lesser species, so I’d love to know what that’s about.”

Dean mutters, half under his breath, “It’s like I’m talking to myself trapped in a smokeshow straight outta Mad Men.”

You clap him on the shoulder, breezing past toward the door. “Easy, Winchester. Try not to short-circuit. Let’s go.”

The diner’s tile floor squeaks under your shoes as you walk in, eyes darting across the booths and barstools like a kid seeing the world for the first time. You’re buzzing. Not with electricity like you used to, but something warmer. Quieter. You feel giddy. 

Dean grunts as he holds the door for you. His eyes sweep the room, and he trails in behind you closer than necessary. “Try not to lick anything.”

You grin up at him. “Can’t make any promises. Everything smells so… greasy and mysterious.”

Dean gives you a look as he heads to a booth in the back. “You always this chatty in your head?”

You plop down across from him, tugging at the ends of your sleeves. “Only when you’re playing AC/DC on repeat for twelve hours. A girl’s gotta entertain herself somehow.” 

He smirks, opening his menu. “Didn’t realize I gave my car a damn personality.”

“You gave me a soul, technically. That’s on you.”

Dean freezes mid-flip of the menu, jaw tightening just a little. “Yeah. Guess it is. And hey—you sayin’ you don’t like my music?”

You throw your hand over your chest, fake exasperated, “I would never. I simply prefer twelve straight hours of Zeppelin, thank you very much." You know this man well enough to know his particular music taste is woven around his heart. 

He looks up from his menu, cheeks tugging into a crooked grin, “good answer.” 

You tilt your head, watching him. Feeling him out, he’s spent enough of his life with his hands wrapped around some part of you that you can sense when something is off. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” he says, a little too breezy. “Just tryin’ to wrap my head around the fact that I’m sitting in a diner across from my Chevy Impala, who’s now got legs, opinions, and sass.”

You raise your hand. “Don’t forget taste buds.”

“God help us.”

The waitress swings by, popping gum and scribbling orders. You get the same thing Dean does, because it feels like the right choice—like muscle memory in a body that’s never eaten before.

Once she’s gone, you rest your elbows on the table, looking at him with a strange softness. “So. What now? You planning to garage me? Take me for a walk? Teach me tricks?”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “You’re a damn menace, you know that?”

You smile. “You love it. Besides, this is weird. But we don’t have to let it feel weird, y’know? I mean, technically I’ve known you for as long as your parents have. I’m not a stranger, Dean.”

He meets your eyes for a beat too long. “Do you remember them, my parents?” 

You pause, surprised he asked but not unwilling to answer. Your fingers trace idle shapes on the condensation of your water glass as you search for the right words. You’re suddenly grateful for the background chatter and clinks of the diner. Sound, distraction, something simple that can keep you grounded for the moment.  

“Yeah,” you start softly, “I remember them.”

Dean doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. He’s biting down, trying to contain his expressions for whatever you might say. It’s both pain and relief to know more about his parents before that dreadful night in November. Something he wants to know, but it always ends up feeding that ache in his chest in the long run.

“Your mom,” you smile, “she had this laugh—light and fast, like she already knew the punchline to every joke. She used to sing to you in the backseat. Off-key, real sweet. Gosh, she was such a Mamabear, too. Nothing was gonna hurt her babies, that’s for sure.” 

Your eyes flick up to meet Dean’s, and he winches at your words. They sound like a compliment, but her the manner of her death makes it feel more like an omen of how she met her end. 

“Well, then there was your dad…” you trail off, struggling for a second to recall John before he was angry John as you often thought of him. “He was different back then. Soft. Kind. He used to talk to you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Dean’s mouth opens like wants to say something—but no sound comes, so you keep going. 

“After Mary, um… was gone, it all changed. I watched him go from this gentle giant who kept a hand on the wheel and an eye on you in the rearview mirror, to someone… colder. Angry. He didn’t smile much. Started barking orders instead of saying good morning.”

Dean’s silent when you meet his eyes again. You take a deep breath, sitting back in your seat. It’s a quiet passing of though between you two. He looks smaller now, like the words are breaking him down where he sits. But gently, he nods. 

“It was like someone flipped a switch,” you continue, “And I couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t stop it. And you—” you swallow the unfamiliar lump in your throat, eyes burning like salt on a rust spot, “God, Dean, you just… you tried so hard to be brave. Even when you were too little to understand why everything hurt so much.” 

Dean just stares at you, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your voice. Like hearing this from you—his one constant in all that chaos—makes it real in a way nothing else could. 

He leans back, jaw clenched as he pinches at his eyes. “I always wondered what he was like before.” His voice is quiet, soft, and when his eyes meet yours again theres so much hurt swimming in those pretty green eyes it makes your chest hurt. “But at least something, or someone, I guess… noticed me. Noticed what it was like for me.” 

You nod, fidgeting with the silky cuff of your sleeve, “he did love you, Dean. That never went away. I think it just got buried under a mountain of fear. It’s not fair… but I guess nothing has ever really been fair, right?” 

He huffs a dry laugh, nodding in agreement. A quietness settles over the table. Not entirely awkward—just full. There’s too much history, too many feelings in this conversation. So you smile, soft and small. 

“So… yeah. I’m not a total stranger. I’ve been riding shotgun for your whole damn life.”

Your words ease a genuine laugh from Dean, and he lets it take the stress off his shoulders. “Jesus, I guess so. What would I do without you?”

You shrug, already feeling the tension start to ease, “probably be stuck breaking down every other night with a much shittier car.” 

The waitress swings back into the little world you’ve created in this corner booth, arms full of heaping piles of grease and carbs. Your eyes grow the size of saucers as you size up the food before you. 

“Let me know if you two need anythin’ else,” she chimes before moving onto the table next to you. You’re still staring at the food when Dean clears his throat to get your attention. 

“Alright, Baby,” he states, and hearing your name roll off his tongue with that serious tone of his makes your heart flutter, “let’s see what being human tastes like. And if you hate burgers, I’m driving you straight back to that coin.” 

You sit up straighter, eyes wide with mock offense. “If I hate burgers, you’re gonna re-coin me? What is this, Pimp My Ride: Eternal Damnation Edition?”

Being the soul of a car is strange, but it’s the only thing you know. One thing you’ve always felt with absolute certainty was a deep fondness and love for this odd human across from you. Getting to join in on his play, his banter, is sweeter than you could have ever imagined. 

Dean’s brow shoots up, and he’s looking just as excited to have someone join him in his bit. “I’m just saying, Baby, there are lines even I won’t cross.”

You gasp, “and here I thought unconditional love meant something to you.”

You pause, then lean in, grinning. “Besides, odds are if you like it, I’m hardwired to like it too. Might even need my own shiny weapon to start hunting with. I’m thinking a colt like you, but all sleek and black like my paint job.”

Dean groans, gutteral, like he didn’t mean for the sound to come out. It’s quickly fixed by the charming smile that claims his face as he chuckles. “As hot as that sounds, I’m not sure I trust your aim.”

“Can’t be that hard, besides, I’ve got you to teach me don’t I?” You wink back at him.

Dean’s shaking his head, half-laughing, but you’re not done. “Just promise me you won’t go all grumpy mechanic on me. I’ve seen what you can do with a crowbar.” 

His cheeks color, a bit embarrassed as he winces at the memory. It was shortly after John passed that Dean let all that pent-up anger unleash onto the battered frame of the Impala. And unbeknownst to him, onto a little hidden soul that was sharing his pain. “Yeah… sorry about that, sweetheart."

You laugh softly and wave it off, “you turned around and made me brand new after that. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” 

Dean’s smile softens, and he’s looking at you like he’s really seeing you for the first time. His baby, his silent comrade. You’ve always been there when he needs you, and you always will be. It’s up to Sam and Dean whether or not that happens in this human form, or as the beating soul of an old ride.

geeking on this one bc the silver details on reader are for the impala's silver details and she was made in '67 so helloooo 60s style fit for dean's favorite girl anyways this was fun hope y'all enjoyed it <3

tag list 𐚁 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @snowluvvie @flow33didontsmoke @figthoughts @tinas111 @fitxgrld @rubyvhs @stoneyggirl2 @faephoria @deans-yn @spiidergirlsworld @loverslantern comment to be added / removed !

[ennn]

Recontextualisng the Ballad and Road with the Con and the Hex

I know some folks are upset or disappointed that the Witches' Road here was revealed as the product of Agatha's long con and Billy's Hex magic – that this seems to devalue or invalidate what was being explored about covenhood and sisterhood, or maybe "made it all about a guy".

Here's how I've processed it:

The heart of a good con is a story that rings true

The first version of the Witches' Ballad that Nicky performs for others already has a certain darkness to it. Because even though it was born from their love, the song was used to con and kill witches.

After Nicky's death, Agatha further expands the Ballad for her new deadly long con, adding more flourishes to it, including the mention of "death's hand in mine". It's dark, enticing, powerful, magical. Very much on brand for Agatha Harkness.

What's interesting are the changes between this version and the Sacred Chant version we got in Episode 2. And it's these more recent changes that seem to trip up Agatha with the coven.

For example, the version Agatha used across many years (the one overlaid with her killing witches) does not contain the lines mentioning:

"wake thy power earthly and divine"

"a coven true / two"

" fire, water, earth, and air" – Agatha's earlier version does contain spirit however

I think this speaks to how the Ballad and legend of the Road have gotten away from Agatha. At the heart of the con is a story, and this story has out in the world for centuries.

And it's not like Agatha would have stopped it: For the con to work, the story has to spread. The more witches who know about the Road and the Ballad, the more witches Agatha can target.

But people tend to change the stories they come in contact with, making it their own.

Consider that the story under the long con didn't even come from Agatha: a random witch interpreted the Ballad as a way to get to the Witches' Road, and the Road as an actual place. The con worked because Agatha saw what people wanted, a Road to what they want.

People infuse stories with their own dreams and desires, interpret and transform them to fit with their own lens. That there are apparently multiple versions of the Ballad in the show (more than we see as they mention Lorna's version being the most popular) speaks to this, I think.

The Sacred Chant version of the Ballad is probably a relatively recent attempt by Agatha to update the song she uses given the more modern interpretations of it. She knew about Lorna's version and how popular it is, so I wouldn't be surprised if she pulled elements from that.

So Nicky and Agatha created the Ballad, and Agatha developed it as as a killer con, but over the centuries, I'd say that the Witches' Road has become something bigger than two people.

This lore and ballad has become part of this world's witchy history and culture, reflecting the community's hopes and dreams, beliefs and fears: First with its promise of glory and reward – because that's Agatha's hook – and then thanks to artists like Lorna, with the promise of love that never dies, love that cannot be turned.

So what if the Road doesn't really exist? There are stories that are true that never happened. That doesn't make them less true or important.

It was probably... not helpful that we only get Agatha in full asshole mode addressing this reveal. Her dismissing the song as not meaning anything might be the biggest outright lie she’s ever told, given that the song began with Nicky.

Remember Agatha lies. The Road is not just a con and the song actually means everything, especially to her.

And it is significant that it is the Lorna Wu version of the Ballad – the version Billy is shown listening to – that the Hex Road is built around. It is this version that brings the Ballad back to a place of undying love and family and hope, promising "I'll see you at the end".

We probably wouldn't have gotten the Road we did get if it wasn't for Lorna Wu’s selfless love and sacrifice for her daughter. Because that’s the version Billy connected with. Not the ones Agatha used for her long con.

What's real is what you make of it

So Jac Schaeffer has mentioned that this twist was inspired by The Usual Suspects movie. Not just how the reveal was done – with Agatha framed as the mastermind figure who knew all along (camera wink) and Billy piecing the revelation together from clues with growing horror – but more importantly, how it didn’t detract from how the viewer felt about the characters and what they went through:

When you learn it was all a made-up story, it doesn’t undermine your experience of the movie. You still care about Gabriel Byrne’s character, you still care about Edie, and you care that Fenster died.

Does the Witches' Road being a creation of Billy's chaos magic, led by his subconscious invalidate what the coven went through, what these women and this boy did together?

I don't think it does. Because the experience this coven had was real. Their emotions, decisions, triumphs, lessons learnt, the moments of connection they had with each other — all of it was real to them.

Schaeffer wrote for the Black Widow movie and I'm reminded of the scene where Yelena rejects the idea that her family wasn't real because it was rooted in them being deep undercover:

That wasn't real – who cares. Don't say that. Please don't say that, it was real. It was real to me.

With the exception of Agatha (and Rio at least by Episode 8) who were aware that the Road was a hex, there was no filter on what the coven took away from the Road.

After all, chaos magic bends reality and creates.

Consider Jen at the end of this journey. She may never know the Road was conjured by Billy and rooted in a con of Agatha's but she did have her arc and incredible growth – to the point where she was committed to saving Agatha as part of her coven in the earth trial.

Jen got her power back and embraces being a witch again, as a sister in the craft, because of their shared experience on the Road.

For Lilia, her divination magic didn't care where the Road came from or what conjured it. Outside the hex, she still had the vision to place a sigil on Billy, and later the vision of her coven – the coven she needed – and their destiny together.

Lilia's beautiful journey, her remembering herself and her power, is still intact.

For Alice, she still discovered the truth about her mother's quest to keep her safe from her curse. And with the help of her coven, Alice did lift her curse. She did let go of her anger and found new peace in with a coven.

All of that is still real and still happened.

Agatha is more complicated because she knew from the start that the Road was a Hex. But this is also a deeply hurt love-starved person who also allowed herself to believe for a brief period that Billy might be Nicky despite all evidence to the contrary, until Rio made it clear otherwise.

Did Agatha genuinely find herself caring about this coven by the end of Episode 4? I think she did. I think the fear of losing Billy that episode was genuine too, as was her regret and remorse for killing Alice, because she did feel the loss of that coven relationship that had just started to form.

Agatha's knowledge of the Hex further explains why she lashes out at Billy after Alice's death, aside from his moralising. The spirit trial was a product of his subconscious after all. It was just set up for tragedy because of how the Hex worked (more on that below).

Ultimately, the bonds these witches did make with each other, them coming together as a coven even for a limited time, did matter I think. Jennifer, Alice, and Lilia had their arcs.

Agatha's is more of a mess – and that's a whole other discussion to go into – but I'd say that she's made progress on her arc. With Jen healing Billy, Alice stepping up to protect her, the earth trial moving her towards acknowledging the indiscriminate nature of death. She did see and feel what a coven could be for her, and she does remember them, and what could have been.

The magic of the Road

I think part of the magic of the Road was how it seemed to have purpose in bringing a coven together. How "the Road changes for the coven". Well uh it still did... just with different mechanics behind the curtain.

As a reference point: Why did Wanda create her Hex? To get a reality where she could have a happy family. Why did Billy create the Road? He immediately needed somewhere to escape the Salem Seven, but ultimately he wanted a way to find Tommy.

Note that it's not like Billy made up a version of Tommy just waiting at the Road. His Hex doesn't have a solution or answer, his Hex manifests a Road to find a way forward.

It helps to contextualise the Road as not only the product of out-of-control magic, this Road is also a manifestation of:

a genuine love and curiosity for witchcraft, including its culture and history (let's not forget Billy is a witch who doesn't have a coven)

a need for family and community

a desire to help others find personal growth or what they are looking for (Billy is a good kid that's been raised by a loving family)

Most importantly, as a telepath Billy isn't creating the Road only for himself or using only his own thoughts: with his mind-reading his subconscious is pulling from the coven members around him.

That's why the trials are designed for the coven members, with the spirit trial being so weird because Billy has trouble reading Agatha's mind. And what does Billy learn at the start of Episode 5 with the Salem Seven reappearing? Agatha killed her own coven and doesn't seem remorseful about it at all.

Safe to say Billy's subconscious did not like that.

I hear Schaeffer has confirmed this thinking in a recent interview with House of R, saying there were deleted lines in Episode 9 with Agatha explaining that the trials were informed by Billy's subconscious mind-reading. Agatha was not a fan of how Billy's subconscious wanted personal growth and team-bonding.

So while we were joking about the Road forcing these witches to get therapy, it actually closer to what was happening than we realised. It just wasn't driven by some mysterious cosmic force or divine entity, but by a kid subconsciously who meant well.

There's perhaps something to be said about how there isn't a magical Road already existing out there for Witches to find themselves.

Unlike sorcerers in the MCU who pull magic from the universe or other dimensions, the magic of witches comes from within.

[circus-clangen]

Can u tell us about ur process woth designing Candy and Peanut?

Absolutely! This goes hand in hand with this ask

So here’s kind of an all-encompassing “how Lynx designs these freaks” guide.

FIRST OF ALL

The name of the character almost always reflects and influences the design of the character. RNG assigned Tigertoe’s kits the names “sandykit” and “nutkit”, so honestly I didn’t have to do ANY thinking to decide what to name them.

I didn’t have to change much from Candy’s sprite as far as colors go, because she ALREADY was just built like a box of conversation hearts

For Peanut, I at first considered desaturating and warming his colors up to make him more peanut colored, but ultimately decided against that. Instead, I interpreted his spots to be like the shape of the indents on a peanut shell

SECONDLY

I know this isn’t always possible but I also pulled a lot from the designs of Candy and Peanuts family members for their designs.

Candy, for example, I wanted to strongly resemble Marquee but with a lot of Trapeze mixed in. Her face shape and eye shape are directly taken from Trapeze, whereas the shape language of her fur and her coloring is directly taken from Marquee.

For Peanut, I wanted him to strongly resemble Tiger and Ringstar…. (🦅), so he has Tiger’s face shape and goatee, as well as shape language, but he has that kind of weaselly hunched lankiness that Ring has.

These are both VERY OUTDATED because I designed them as adults to de-age to kit designs OVER A YEAR AGO but the general shapes and body types hold true… plus you can see me trying to make Peanut beige which I ultimately decided against

THIRDLY

I tend to have a very strong sense of what I want a character to look like, even if I don’t quite know what it is and have to do a ton of drafts to get there.

For candy and peanut, I knew I wanted her to look like she’d experienced nothing but horror and agony since before the womb

And I knew I wanted Peanut to look like this

Very dorky and unserious, so I gave him big ol front teeth and big round mouse ears

And LASTLY,

Design your characters and with what you like and what works for your story! You can see my designs change as my preferences and story needs change!

the designs start off very goofy and bright, because the story started off as a joke and something I did for fun, never intending to share

Once I put Circusclan on tumblr and it started to not only gain attention because become a scarier, more puzzle oriented story, I changed their designs to still be fun and silly and cartoony but also flexible enough to fit in with more serious scenes

And more recently, after deciding I wanted to go FULL scary beginning with moon 20, their designs changed to not only reflect the increasingly serious nature of the story, but also to reflect with some degree of realism the lore of cats who were really sentient enough to make similar stylistic choices to humans. Colors changed to show dying, hair changed to show cutting and styling, and accessories changed to reflect a more practical handmade nature, not to the mention the period the comic is set in.

And… most importantly…

Accept feedback, practice a lot, but ultimately trust yourself! Only you truly know what kind of design you want and what kind of a design fits your story. Don’t sacrifice your favorite design elements just to please others or just because it ‘doesn’t really make sense’. You want people to love your designs because they’re YOUR designs, so take whatever it is that you specifically enjoy about the design process and run with it! Make it your own! Don’t be afraid to really take your time and really pour your heart into a design.

ABOVE ANYTHING, you want your characters, your designs, and your story to be meaningful to YOU. Mess around, try things out, have fun, and all the while you’ll be building a design style that is markedly and distinctly unique and your own.

[lizardsfromspace]

So one fact from my investigation of the Matrix plagiarism case that drove me absolutely insane but I'm not sure I ever made a post about was her explanation for why the press didn't cover her "victory"

So for people who weren't around for that, look up "Sophia Stewart" on my blog, but long story short: there's a viral story claiming that the premise for The Matrix & The Terminator were stolen from a writer named Sophia Stewart, and that she won a billion dollars in a lawsuit. She actually lost her case, but a mistaken article from a Utah community college magazine spread online, and she still regularly does media appearances based on the idea she won. That's what fascinates me about the case: unfounded plagiarism accusations are a dime a dozen, but the bizarre fluke of a community college sophomore's journalism project making a mistake & that mistaken article going viral has elevated this one to being the most famous one

A major element of this is a narrative relating to race and gender, but that's a narrative she denies in that very Utah community college article. In her view, Hollywood isn't oppressing her for being black. They're oppressing her for being Christian.

Because I got my hands on a copy of her treatment (no, she never wrote an actual script) & I discovered that even most people who've debunked the story never read her pitch because it has nothing in common with The Matrix or The Terminator besides vague plot beats (a chosen one, robots used to rule over a society but not ruling the society themselves). It is, in fact, a new age-y evangelical Christian planet-hopping space opera filled with rants about the powers of the pyramids and the like. The treatment spends like seven pages raving about banks and the media before it introduces the hero, who is a literal, not figurative, Space Jesus. It ends with a mass sacrifice of his cultists followers to grant him power, an epic and stirring Jonestown moment, at which point the final battle happens over the course of a couple lines bc when writing a pitch for a movie five gazillion pages of lore is more important than detailing the climax of the film. There's a lot more to it than that (and tons of wild parts I never posted) but that's the gist

But every now and then in an interview, someone asks, "hey, why can't we find a story saying you won besides this dubious one?" And here is her explanation:

'The reason you have not seen any of this in the media is because Warner Brothers parent company is AOL-Time Warner... this GIANT owns 95 percent of the media... let me give you a clue as to what they own in the media business... New York Times papers/magazines, LA Times papers/magazines, People Magazine, CNN news, Extra, Celebrity Justice, Entertainment Tonight, HBO, New Line Cinema, DreamWorks, Newsweek, Village Roadshow and many, many more! They are not going to report on themselves. They have been suppressing my case for years.'"

So: Warner Bros owns the media. 95% of it. This explanation is wrong. But also it's...really funny.

The AOL-Time Warner merger had happened a few years before this, and it was already regarded as the worst merger in corporate history. Like. Historically bad. Far from ruling the world with corporate synergy up the wazoo, AOL-Time Warner was horribly disorganized, with most companies operating independently from one another and all of them at odds. There's a concentrated plan to destroy her from the dogshit company that couldn't do anything!

But it was never the case that they owned 95 percent of the media. They don't even own a lot of this list. Let's go one by one

New York Times: owned by the same family since forever

Los Angeles Times: owned at the time by Tribune Media, who owned several TV stations affiliated with The WB. Owning The WB affiliates never counted as "controlling the media" at any point, I think, but you know the old adage: "whoever controls the airing of One Tree Hill in the Los Angeles metro market controls the power........"

People Magazine: owned by Time, she's got this one

CNN: owned by Warner, she's got this one. Why MSNBC (owned by Microsoft and NBC at the time, though Microsoft was an absentee father already trying to sell it off) or Fox News (a network that spent like 25% of its time attacking Hollywood, often with claims that they target Christians!) never covered her story is left curiously unexplained. I don't know how far back Fox News' archives go, but I did search since I thought they'd be the most likely to cover this, and: no results

Extra: a celebrity gossip show owned by Warner Bros, she's got this one

Entertainment Tonight: owned by Paramount, a rival studio with every reason to report bad legal news for Warner Bros, and yet near as I can tell, they never covered this case. I'm starting to think it may not be true

Celebrity Justice: what the fuck is Celebrity Justice? It was...a short-lived & obscure celebrity gossip show that indirectly lead to TMZ?

HBO: owned by Warner Bros, she's got this one

New Line Cinema: so she's saying this one bc it had just produced Lord of the Rings. But while they're known for that now, we really should put it into context how much of an anomaly LotR was. New Line Cinema spent most of its history producing low-budget horror & comedy films, made Lord of the Rings, never produced another film with a similar scale, and were shut down a few years later. Actually, there's a whole story about how another film they released the same year as Fellowship of the Ring flopped so hard it effectively cancelled out its success & got the head of the company fired, but that's for another time. They were not so much Hollywood power players as a studio that accidentally lucked into the biggest film trilogy of all time in between Friday the 13th sequels, but they were owned by Warners, so

Dreamworks: never owned by Warner Bros at any point, it was straight up an independent studio at the time whose distribution deal was with Universal. It looks like they co-produced some films with Warner Bros, but they were never owned by them.

Newsweek: at the time owned by the Washington Post

Village Roadshow: they had a co-production and distribution deal with Warner Bros, but were an independent Australian company that made movies and theme parks. Again, a company collaborating with Warner Bros doesn't mean it owns them

"and many, many more!" She claimed the company owns 95% OF ALL MEDIA and she just gave up listing who they own after a dozen. And she was wrong about half of them! She had to resort to listing "Celebrity Justice" as a platform on par with the New York Times and just kind of shrugged at all the others. Clearly, you can't trust any press, besides Utah community college magazines

[avelera]

(Critique) Mel Medarda Should Have Known About Her Latent Magical Ability

Overall, I have very little to complain about with S2 of Arcane, but there's a couple very, very small fixes I'd make as a writer to bring it more in line with how tightly written S1 is. Personally, I think the Arcane team either 1) opted for pacing over exposition in S2, which is a completely valid choice or 2) had some limitations in S1 as far as background lore (they hadn't decided how much to tie it into League yet as canon or as an AU) which is why some elements which are teased in S1 (the Gray, Mel's powers) don't get named or explained.

The reason I think Mel should have known about her latent magical powers from the beginnings is two-fold and based almost entirely in writing principles:

Audiences should be given the tools to at least have a chance to solve the mystery at the same time the characters do

It's more powerful when a character's fate is decided, directly or indirectly, by their own deliberate choices

In the case of point 1, we never really get a hint about Mel having any sort of power until the very last shot before the rocket hits her, there's a slight glow which could easily just be artistic flare.

In the case of point 2, Mel's bloodline is what makes her magical, a choice entirely out of her hands.

Personally, if I could do a few small tweaks to sort of bring Mel's story into focus, this is what I'd do:

Make Mel aware since childhood that she is a bastard who was conceived specifically for magical ability that her mother hoped would give House Medarda the edge against their mage enemies.

Have Mel's abilities not develop when she was a child, thus leading her to believe that the reason she was banished from House Medarda was because she failed her mother and her House (rather than to protect her, which was Ambessa's true goal).

Have Mel's banishment encourage her to become skilled in many other areas, like diplomacy, but still keenly feel the inadequacy of not being the weapon Ambessa wanted. (That way, we the audience have some prayer at correctly predicting what's going on with the glow of her tattoos in the last shot of S1, that she has finally come into her power as a mage during a moment of crisis.)

Make it clearer in the flashback to her childhood that the people Ambessa was fighting then were mages. Then, when the young girl (the "Symbol of the Old Regime") is killed, Mel will feel keenly how it is only her own bloodline that keeps her mother from killing her as well, making her question her safety and loyalties.

Let her talk to Jayce about how she grew up believing she had magical abilities, only to never have them develop. It would give her and Jayce one more thing to bond over, since he almost certainly wished he had innate power too after the Wizard saved him, hence why he turned to artificial means to develop the magic he could never develop genetically. (And oh, the irony of the fact the Wizard didn't have it either, it was always Viktor and Jayce gave him that power.)

Have Hextech be the thing that awakens Mel's powers. This one in particular drives me crazy. Mel is the first investor in Hextech, the first believer in it besides Jayce and Viktor. Have exposure to Hextech be something that magically changes her too, because of her deliberate, purposeful choices. Have her choices be why she is "touched by the Arcane." It's heavily implied but never stated or resolved that Hextech is wearing thin the veil between Arcane and reality in Piltover. Mel's close involvement with it should be the thing that triggered her latent powers, because then it's a deliberate action on her part that leads her to being kidnapped by the Rose once her powers awaken. It's no longer a coincidence caused by Jinx's rocket that developed her powers all at once.

By having proximity to Hextech be the thing that awakens Mel's powers, it also brings her story in line with the themes of the show, "Everyone's choices get them what they wanted, but not what they needed." All her life now, Mel wanted to develop the power her mother literally bore her to have. Now she has it and it's horrifying, and alien to her, and has changed the course of her life. In the end, she becomes Head of House Medarda with all the innate power she always dreamed of and it tastes like ashes in her mouth, because she needed to kill her mother to achieve it, and she must leave the city she loves and the independent life she crafted by her own hands behind, in what becomes a tragedy rather than random chance.

It also makes the mirrors and foils of Mel vs. Viktor much clearer. Jayce, in his desire to become the Wizard who saved him as a child through artificial means, has instead turned his two closest loved ones into the powerful mages he wanted to be. As it is, it seems coincidental that Jayce happened to pull two godlike powerful beings, which is unsatisfying, rather than it being the product of all of three of their deliberate choices to become involved with Hextech and how it changes the trio as a result.

It also reframes her support for Hextech weapons at first and then her opposition to it and her mother using Hextech as a weapon. At first, Mel wants to be a Medarda and make her mother proud, she feels keenly her own lack of magic and her inability to be the weapon her mother wanted, but Hextech promises to give magic to the people in a way she and Jayce both keenly feel because they can't access magic genetically. But once Mel develops her powers because of her exposure to Hextech "radiation", and learns how dangerous Hextech/magic can be through conversations with Jayce and seeing its impact on Piltover, she can now, as a mage, change her mind on the subject and decide to stand in opposition to her mother because this power is too dangerous to weaponize.

Again, I think the reason they didn't make this through-line more obvious was because they probably just didn't know what direction they wanted to take Mel in in S1, and then they decided to give her powers as well and it had to be some big secret birthright that got sprung on her to explain why she didn't know in S1. But it makes the story just a smidge less satisfying because the characters feel moved about by fate instead of by their own choices.

[bumbled-bees]

Lily's Lack of Media Literacy

Lily’s video essays are rarely about the media she covers—rather, they’re vehicles for her to push whatever narrative she wants, whether that be a political take she only half understands or a passive-aggressive jab at her critics. Instead of engaging with media in good faith, she cherry-picks elements that support her predetermined conclusions and disregards anything that contradicts them.

This is why her critiques often feel shallow, reductive, or outright incorrect. She isn’t analyzing media to understand it—she’s filtering it through whatever argument she’s trying to make. If a piece of media happens to align with her worldview, she’ll champion it as a masterpiece. If it challenges her perspective or doesn’t fit neatly into her talking points, she’ll misrepresent it, ignore its themes, or insist it’s badly written. This results in blatantly inaccurate interpretations and a tendency to talk down to her audience as if they’re too stupid to realize she’s misrepresenting the very media she’s reviewing.

Then there’s her habit of using videos as thinly veiled subtweets. Many of her video topics seem suspiciously well-timed with whatever drama she’s currently involved in, and it’s not subtle. When a critic calls her out, suddenly there’s a video about “bad faith criticism.” When someone questions her behavior, here comes a rant about how “toxic” the internet is. If she’s losing favor with her audience, she pivots to preaching about “loyalty” and “how to spot fake friends.” She rarely, if ever, addresses drama head-on, instead choosing to air her grievances through her content under the guise of “analysis.”

This pattern makes her critiques wildly inconsistent. One day she’ll argue that a character or trope is inherently bad, only to contradict herself in another video when it suits her. The Dragon Age playthrough is a perfect example—more on that below—she clearly didn’t care about the games, but because they were associated with a critic, she forced herself through them purely out of spite, skipping dialogue and misrepresenting the story as she went.

At its core, Lily’s content isn’t about media literacy or thoughtful analysis. It’s about control. She uses her platform to shape narratives, settle personal scores, and reinforce her own biases. Whether it’s politics, fandom discourse, or drama, her goal is never to understand—it’s to win.

The Dragon Age Series

Lily’s Dragon Age playthrough is a textbook example of her lack of media literacy and how personal grudges guide her content to the point of self-sabotage. She didn’t play Dragon Age because she was interested in it, nor because she had anything insightful to say about it. She played it because Sai, one of her most prominent critics, is a huge fan of the series. Rather than approaching the game with curiosity or respect for its storytelling, Lily brute-forced her way through it with no regard for its themes, character arcs, or world-building.

Her button-mashing through dialogue is the biggest indicator of this. Dragon Age is an RPG where player choices significantly impact the narrative, and its story is delivered primarily through conversations, codex entries, and lore-building. Skipping dialogue in a Dragon Age game is akin to fast-forwarding through a movie and then complaining that the plot doesn’t make sense. When Lily inevitably misinterpreted key events or made uninformed takes about the story, it wasn’t because Dragon Age was poorly written—it was because she actively avoided engaging with it.

This ties into a larger pattern in her media analysis. Lily frequently presents herself as an authoritative voice on storytelling and character writing, yet she consistently demonstrates a shallow or even outright incorrect understanding of the media she critiques. She often ignores context, misrepresents character motivations, or oversimplifies themes to fit her own narrative. Instead of analyzing stories on their own terms, she reduces them to whatever point she’s trying to make, even if that means cherry-picking details or outright contradicting canon.

Her Dragon Age videos fit right into this habit. Because she skipped through crucial dialogue and refused to engage with the story properly, she ended up making numerous errors in her analysis. This mirrors past instances where she confidently misinterpreted media—whether it was claiming a show had a “bad message” while ignoring context or insisting a character was poorly written while disregarding their development. The Dragon Age series, however, exposed this flaw in a way that was impossible to ignore. It’s a franchise with an invested fanbase that knows its lore inside and out. People immediately picked up on how badly Lily was fumbling, and instead of making Sai or her critics look bad, she only discredited herself.

The irony is that this whole endeavor was likely an attempt at some weird flex against Sai. She didn’t just pick a random game to play—she specifically chose Dragon Age because of its connection to one of her detractors. It was meant to be a smug dismissal of something Sai loves, but in the end, it only made Lily look ignorant. Instead of proving anything, she just reinforced the idea that she doesn’t actually care about the media she talks about—she only cares about how she can weaponize it.

[kiirostarz]

I love AFK Journey and its lore beyond all the stories and characters, there’s something that truly intrigues me: Merlin’s role in the story. Am I the only one curious about the character we play as? I became so fascinated that I even started researching the real Merlin, the one who inspired this version.

I’m not sure if it’s because I enjoy finding similarities and references, or because I want to better understand his role in the game and try to predict his future in the lore. I know the writers don’t necessarily follow this kind of analysis, but I’ll do it anyway!

The Original Merlin and His Powers

According to the original story, Merlin (or Myrddin) was born from a demon, a corrupt spirit, and a mortal woman. He was considered the most powerful magician, and according to different legends, he had incredible abilities: he could talk to animals, become invisible, shape-shift, control the weather, and manipulate the elements. However, despite his immense power, he was always careful in his actions.

More than just a simple sorcerer, Merlin had deep knowledge of the world—the sun, the moon, the stars, and everything around him. His wisdom allowed him to earn the respect of magical creatures such as fairies, gnomes, and even dragons. This reminds me of our Merlin in AFK Journey, who is not only a great magician but also seems to have a deep connection with the world and its beings.

Another interesting aspect is his relationship with Nimue. It is said that Merlin fell madly in love with her and taught her his most advanced spells. However, she feared his demonic heritage and, using his own knowledge, imprisoned him forever in a crystal prison, a rock, or a tree—depending on the version of the story. This made me think of Mirael. I don’t think she would ever betray us, but I can definitely imagine her using a similar spell to protect us from a greater threat.

Additionally, Merlin wasn’t limited to a single role—he was a druid, bard, shaman, and prophet. This reminds me of the different factions in the game, each with its own philosophy. Perhaps our Merlin, just like the original, transcends these barriers and isn’t tied to a single faction.

The fact that the original Merlin was the child of a demon immediately caught my attention because, in the world of AFK Journey, the Hypogeans fit that role perfectly. Throughout the story, there are hints that our character has some kind of connection to them, which leads me to two theories:

We are the true Merlin, and therefore, the “child” of a Hypogean, which would explain why we have a special relationship with them.

We are not the First Merlin, but rather someone who inherited his power, meaning our connection to the Hypogeans is more indirect but still significant.

Both options are fascinating because this connection isn’t obvious in the story, and if it were revealed, it would be a huge twist. What if the very source of our power comes from the same beings we fight against?

Another idea that came to me after rewatching the opening cinematic is the possible existence of a "First Merlin." In this scene, several characters are trying to claim a sword, but one of them doesn’t take it. Instead, they hold up a torch in the darkness.

If this scene has actual value in the lore and isn’t just a symbolic representation for the players, could it be that the Merlin holding the torch was the very first one? The torch could symbolize knowledge, enlightenment, or even the origin of our power.

This leads me back to the recurring question in all my theories: What are we, really? Are we immortal? Are we a reincarnation? Does our body remain the same, but our essence changes?

I don’t want to believe that all of this is just a coincidence. Since the game allows us to interact with other players, I’d like to think that this is a small reference to the fact that we’re not the only Merlin out there.

Where are the other Merlins? If there were others like us in the past, what happened to them? There aren't many mentions of them in current history, which makes me wonder about two possibilities:

Many succumbed to corruption, using their power for dark purposes.

They were eliminated or sealed away, and that's why they're rarely talked about in the present. If this is true, what makes us different? What allows us to endure where others have fallen? Perhaps our existence is an attempt to right the wrongs of the past.

Another detail that strengthens the possibility that more people like us exist is Serene Lyceum Academy. Based on what we know in the story, we weren’t just a professor there—we were also a student in the past.

At first, I assumed that this school was located somewhere in Holistone, but after checking again, I realized there’s no clear reference to its location. This makes me think that it could be a secluded place, similar to a magical academy like Hogwarts, located in a yet unexplored region of the game’s world.

If we consider how new areas like Cedartown and Rustport have been introduced, it wouldn’t be surprising if Serene Lyceum Academy is in an unexplored region. And if that place truly exists in the game’s lore, then it means we are not the only ones with the potential to become Merlin.

Maybe the protagonist was chosen from within the academy, just like others could have been selected before. This reinforces the idea that Merlin’s power isn’t unique, but rather a legacy that can be passed down or inherited.

Another interesting detail about the opening cinematic and the idea that Merlin (Original) is part human and part demon is the stained glass window that appears in the game. I feel like this image could be a direct reference to Myrddin's original story.

In the window, the yellow part could represent humans or celestials, while the purple part symbolizes the hypogeans. This aligns with the legend of Merlin, who in many versions of his story is the son of a demonic spirit and a mortal woman. In the center, the image fractures, which could point to an internal conflict between both natures or even our character's destiny as someone caught between two worlds.

Also in another trailer, Merlin (AFKJ) appears in front of a tree, but behind him there are only heroes; perhaps this emphasizes that the yellow part represents his more human side.

Well, that's it, I really found it interesting to find Myrddin's story and I wanted to do this kind of "analysis" of references in AFKJ, in the end I think I got too excited and talked about a bit of everything, but I hope you liked it.

I also want to mention that, after all this analysis, I remembered that AFK Arena does have a character named Merlin. However, I didn't consider him in this theory because his story in that game suggests he's from another dimension. I wanted to focus more on an analysis that fits directly with the lore of AFK Journey. Still, including him in the discussion would be perfectly valid, as there could be some hidden connection between the two games, or perhaps his existence in Arena is a clue about what might happen in Journey in the future.

[solarockk]

can we know more about the bitter water au pls

im gonna rewrite here some lore dump from twt fjdhgh that i forgot to post here

the au does contain some horror and psycological elements! (mostly eldritch horror, grief/mourning and amnesia) also pls don't tag Gem and Pearl under this au, even if it doesn't break boundaries I'd prefer if it stayed in fandom spaces only. (I'm not sure how it works here on tumblr so please let me know if the shinyduo tag is fine to use or not, for the characters I'm gonna tag them as bw!NameOfCharacters mostly for organization)

now, for actual lore!

as the original post impliy the main story of the au centers around Shinyduo, sailing, and the horror of what lies beneath the waves

Gem currently works as a Fisherwoman at the minor port of Hermitopia, She owns a small fishing boat that Bdubs and Cleo fixed up for Her (Etho helped too but don't tell anyone that) and she makes just enough money from selling what she memages to reel in from the ocean to enjoy her simple frugal life in the small port.

her daily life changes drastically when one day out at sea she finds and unconcious Pearl floating among the waves, Gem fishes her out of the water in an hurry and is a little weirded out that Pearl (once awake) is completelly fine after spending gods knows how long lost at sea. Well, except the fact that she seems to not remember anything about her life except Gem's own name. (drawn here! "first meeting")

that is the basic premise, a silly Amnesiac trying to regain her memories and a gruff fisherwoman who feels resposible after fishing her out of the waves. but.. there are things that.. don't match in both their narratives? Why was Pearl in the ocean? why did she somehow remember Gem if they had never met before? ..did they never meet before? did they always used to look like that?

maybe in another life,, another time,,

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐓𝐨 𝐃𝐫𝐨���𝐧 𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐝

[ 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 ] — [ 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧!𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐲𝐞𝐥 ]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

∿ 𝐚/𝐧 : Rafayel has become my muse. There’s something devastatingly beautiful about him—soft in the way storms are soft just before they break. This story was born from that ache. Loosely inspired by The Little Mermaid and ancient siren myths, it twists familiar longing into something darker, older, and entirely its own. It will unfold over several parts. Below is the prologue. I'm writing the next few chapters now, and the full work will eventually be uploaded to AO3.

∿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : In the depths, a siren waits—voiceless, cursed, and forgotten by the gods he once defied. When the sea delivers him a woman with the face of the one who cost him everything, longing stirs where silence reigned. But the ocean remembers his betrayal, and it whispers: her death could restore what was taken. To love her again is to drown twice.

∿ 𝐜𝐰 / 𝐭𝐰 : This is a non-canon work of fiction inspired by Love and Deepspace. While elements from the game’s lore are referenced, they are used in a purely imaginative and transformative context. All characters and narrative choices reflect the author’s creative interpretation. NSFW.

∿ 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

[ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 ] — [ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 ]

❝ My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man's life? ❞ — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights, 1848.

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 time, the sea fell in love with the sky.

And it ended, as all love between gods must end: in silence.

This is how the tale begins. Or rather, the lie we whisper when the truth draws too much blood. For truth—real truth, the kind that survives myth—is not gentle. Love, in its truest form, is not light, nor warmth, nor sanctuary.

It is hunger.

It is collapse.

It is the breath before drowning—when water feels like a womb, and death becomes a lover’s touch.

The Lemurians knew this.

They did not fear the sea; they worshipped it. Their temples rose not in homage to flame or stone or stars, but to the voice beneath the surface—older than gods, older than grief. A voice that sang the world into ache.

From that voice came the first siren.

Neither god nor beast. Neither man nor woman. Only longing, made flesh and sound. A creature not born to live, but to be yearned for. With its voice, it stilled tempests. With its voice, it ruined kings. With its voice, it taught mortals the shape of desire.

But even voices tire of being echoed.

One day, the siren loved.

And sirens do not love gently.

It gave up everything—voice, power, divinity. Tore the music from its own throat and drowned it in the deep. All for the chance to be near. To touch, and be touched. To be known.

But mortals are faithless things.

She loved another.

And the siren—mute, undone—was left to wander the salt-thick shadows of its sacrifice. Alone. Eternal. Forgotten.

And so the sea learned vengeance.

The voice that once sang the world into bloom now hums lullabies to ruin.

There are still sirens. Not many. Not whole.

Somewhere, one swims in silence, beautiful as a sin the gods refuse to name. He does not sing. He waits.

For her. For you.

For the one who will hear him—without a voice.

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝… — © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰