#mystery mist ask

[mystery--mist]

Idea I know some one come up with this idea on reddit (So shout outs to the person who came up with this idea) but .......

Imagine them being in a trio (Spamton G Spamton from Deltarune, Fawful from the Mario RPGs, & Magolor from the Kirby series) Meet the chaotic salesman trio (Spamton is obvious, Fawful was one in Partners in Time, & Magolor was in the Kirby Clash series) AKA The Fury Trio of Fury! (also, all three were manipulators to get what they want if you think about it) They could be rivals with the Jester Trio!

Oh yeah, I know perfectly all these manipulative gremlins! You tempt me so badly 👀 Gonna write down this idea~

Thanks for the tasty suggestion ♥

[velidewrites]

No one remembers her name. But I do.

— Chapter 23, A Court of Wings and Ruin (Sarah J Maas)

Pairing: The Bone Carver x 👀

Word Count: 18.2k

Warnings (please read before proceeding): Graphic depictions of violence, injury, blood, gore, and death; loss of a loved one; implied/referenced miscarriage; implied/referenced domestic abuse; poverty; mild(ish?) sexual content

Read on AO3

The cold seemed to seep into his very bones.

It began deep beneath the cobblestones of the street—as if the winter itself had planted it in the earth, content to watch it grow as the year neared its end. The sun hadn’t yet set over the horizon, thank the Gods. The seeds of the frigid season bloomed most eagerly in the dark.

Another hour, and he would leave. He reckoned he could survive another sixty minutes out on the street—though he hoped he wouldn’t need to stay that long. Gods willing, someone would take notice of the boy curled up in the pile of hay sooner than later. Even through the long, thin straws, he could feel the cold clawing at his lower back, sending his entire body into shivers.

Oh, how he hated this.

If only he could have it his way. He’d be back by midday, early afternoon, perhaps, if the merchants have proven especially difficult. During the winter, he found, they would all become more…possessive.

But—he promised. Had given his word, even, though he supposed it hadn’t meant much coming from the likes of him. Not to her, though—he couldn’t break her heart like that again. He feared she wouldn’t survive it. And given her current condition…

His mother was the only thing he had left in the world. And so, he would behave—for her.

For her, he would sit his ass on the side of the alley and wait—wait until someone took mercy upon a nineteen-year old boy, begging in the streets. Unlikely.

They found him laughable—had even said so to his face. Nineteen. Not a boy—a man. You could’ve found work had you only tried, they laughed as their shadows hovered over his wimpy form. Had you had any honour, any pride. Instead, you’ve chosen to remain in the filthy streets like the trash that you are.

If only things had been that simple.

The village folk must’ve known that he had tried—so many of them had turned him down, after all. Before he even came of age, he’d wandered the main square, looking for work, any work—to no effect. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. He’d brought this upon himself, after all.

Thief, they called him. A dangerous, deranged thief.

He quite liked the sound of that, even if his mother was inclined to disagree. As far as he was concerned, any nickname was better than trash, and unfortunately, the latter was becoming more and more common these days. For that reason alone, today would’ve been a perfect opportunity—an opportunity to remind them what he truly was.

His long-suffering sigh turned into a wheezing fit as the icy air scratched at his lungs.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his pale hand closing on his chest, fingers digging into the scraps of fabric draped over his body. He needed to be more careful. In a weather like this, even something as mundane as breathing could very well lead to his untimely death.

Untimely, because…it wasn’t his time yet. It was the last scrap of hope he held onto these days. That there was something—anything—out there. Waiting, for his mother—for him.

The wind howled again, the biting breeze from the North like needles prickling at his skin. Perhaps the Gods had heard his dreams, somehow, and decided to laugh in his face.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. When had he become so bitter?

It was unlikely that the Gods were watching over him, anyway. A traitorous thought—but a true one. Undying and all-powerful, he doubted that such beings cared for a single soul like him—if, of course, he still had one after everything he’d done. All the pain he’d caused…if he was a God, he wouldn’t have bothered with someone like him. He’d be doing greater things. Important things.

Like never inflicting winter upon his lands again, for example.

Did the Gods even have such power? He’d only heard myths, stories—as a child, from none other than the village Elder, huddled with the other younglings around the crackling fire. Wide-eyed and still curious enough to listen to the tales of the world around them.

The Elder had told them stories of divine creatures, ones of unlimited power and unimaginable beauty, who’d fallen from a rip in the skies above to bless the lands beneath. Who’d taken one look at the misery of their empty world and decided to grace it with their gifts—fertile soil, and humans to harvest its bearings. The Elder said the Gods created them—all of them—that they were their children, blessed to have the Gods as their protectors for all eternity.

Fine, then. He was a child of the Gods—a child whose name they’d never bothered to learn. He never learned their names, either. Had never even asked. What good would that have done? He might’ve had someone to be disappointed in—someone other than himself.

His head fell back to the wooden wall of the hut. Its owner, no doubt, would be returning soon—and curse him out for ever daring to lean against his property. A sudden wave of tiredness washed over him, his limbs heavier somehow, as if the cold had finally managed to freeze them in place.

Maybe, if he closed his eyes for a moment…it would go away. Just for a few seconds—so that he could rest before returning home empty-handed. Again. It had been…almost three days since he had eaten. Two, since his mother had.

Tomorrow, he would steal, promises be damned. If he survived.

A veil of darkness began to wrap itself around his sight as he blinked again. The next time he closed his eyes, he would not open them again.

Something landed in the small pile of hay warming his feet. Something heavy.

He forced his body off the wall as he looked down. And then, his heart stopped.

A bone.

A raw bone, yes—but large, and with scraps of meat, still hanging over the glistening, white centre that had unmistakably once been some animal’s thigh.

His hands shook as he reached for it—his salvation. Only when it was safe and locked tightly in his grasp did he look up.

On the other end of the narrow street stood a girl, peering from the doorway of the shop that always reeked of blood and decay. The butcher’s girl, he realised, the same one the folk said was taken by illness so grave it confined her to the small room above her father’s shop. He’d never seen her before—he doubted anyone ever had. And yet…and yet, there she was, her face twisted in an emotion he’d only ever seen on his mother’s face before.

Worry.

His breathing fell flat as she stepped out—a half-step, really, in his direction, into the dimming sunlight as it made way for the chill darkness of the night. And he stopped breathing entirely as her gaze locked on his.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He could make out the exact shade of her eyes despite the street separating them—despite the curtain of greyish light draped over it. They gleamed with a light of their own—a blue so deep they seemed almost violet, like the sky being lulled to sleep by the waning hours of dusk. Dark, silken hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, just barely brushing her waist, small—and thin. Too thin.

He opened his mouth when a tall, broad figure appeared in the doorway behind her.

“Inside,” the butcher barked, but she didn’t move. She only stood there—looking at him, that beautiful face still contorted in what seemed to be—pain.

For…him?

“Astra,” her father barked, and the girl flinched.

She disappeared into the house before he even managed to thank her, the door slamming shut behind her.

***

The night had fallen entirely as he made his way back home, the bone still gripped tight in his hand. Silence enveloped the streets, his steps quieter now as the cobblestone road narrowed into a dirty path. The snow melted into mud here, thick and grey and stained with yellow, its stench filling the air and stirring the guts of those misfortunate enough to reside in the area. Thankfully, though, no red tainted the filthy road tonight—no blood had been spilled over scraps of food or water. It was cold enough, it seemed, to keep his neighbours inside.

His own house—it felt ridiculous to call it that even as it stood a few feet before him—was a pathetic imitation of the sturdy, wooden structures over at the village square. It must’ve been on the verge of collapse, ready to fall apart at any stronger blow of wind, the wood here splintered, wet.

Still, it was a roof over his head. And he wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

He’d been certain he’d never see it again. And yet…

The girl—Astra—had saved his life today. His mother’s life, too.

He was forever in her debt.

Tomorrow, he would go back—he would knock on the butcher’s door the moment his shop closed and hope for the best. Hope that she would answer.

A fly flitted past him as he approached the door, the light buzz unpleasant against his ear. And then, another.

Something heavy fell down to the pit of his stomach as he realised where they came from.

There was no latrine in their home—it was only big enough for the two of them to lay on the cots inside. If they opened their arms as they laid beside each other, they could touch the opposite sides of the room, feel the splintered wood dig into the skin of their fingers. There wasn’t enough space for anything else—so any needs other than sleep must’ve been fulfilled outside.

It was no surprise that she fell ill in a weather like this. He’d kept her wrapped up in blankets—had given her all of his own as she slept, unable to stop him—but the warmth wasn’t enough. For the past two weeks, she could do nothing but writhe in pain. Every hour of every day.

Perhaps if he’d paid more attention—if he stopped caring about a Gods-damned promise—he could’ve saved her. He could’ve stolen enough blankets to keep her warm, or enough food to strengthen her body. He could’ve stolen money, enough gold marks to pay for a healer, and one willing to venture this far out of the village.

But he’d done none of that. And now, it was too late.

The fire, the bone—they could wait. An hour, maybe two, before his stomach demanded to be filled in a final cry for help. But before then…

He entered the hut silently and laid down on the unoccupied cot, letting his body, his mind, fade into nothingness.

***

When the moon rose over the village the next day, he knocked on the butcher’s door.

No one answered. Not even a sound reached him—not even as he pressed his ear to the hard wood. He knocked again—nothing.

And when it seemed like the house was too lost in sleep to hear his plea, he heard it.

A thud—muffled by the walls, the roof above. And then—another, heavy, like something that’d lost its balance before dropping to the floor.

Silence fell again, so empty he almost thought he’d imagined ever hearing anything at all.

He was going to step back—to turn around and try again the next day—when he heard it.

A scream.

A suppressed one, and brief—as if cut short abruptly before making way for that hollow silence again. But it did happen—rip itself free, even for only a heartbeat.

He scowled at it, the wheels of his mind turning and turning—

Another scream.

Something clicked in his head.

And he barged in.

“How dare you.” A voice, one he’d heard before, seething from upstairs. “How dare you disobey me. Again.”

How dare you take what’s mine, a memory, old yet painful all the same, scratched at the wall of his mind. Street filth.

The butcher.

“I didn’t mean to—” another voice sounded, small and quiet, as if trying to shrink further into itself. He stepped forward—towards the stairs in the back.

“Silence,” the butcher snapped.“You will take your punishment.” He moved closer, the first step groaning under his weight. “You will learn to listen. Or I shall have those filthy ears cut off.”

The man came into his sight at last, his back turned to him as hovered over someone’s form.

He felt his fists close at his sides. “Stop.”

The butcher whirled to him, his roughened face a picture of shock. Of recognition.

“You.”

“Step away from her,” he spat, but the butcher made no move. “I said step away.”

“You dare show your face here again, street trash?” he challenged, baring his teeth, yellow even in the dimming light. “You dare give me orders?” He barked a laugh. “Get out of my establishment.”

“No.”

Another, hideous laugh. “I see you haven’t learned your lesson,” he mused, and pain splintered through his back—old scars waking to the sound of the butcher’s familiar voice. “I will have your head for this, you rat.”

He gritted his teeth. “Step away from her.”

The man’s eyes flashed. And then, strong and heavy, he lunged for him.

Too bad. He was a lot faster.

An elbow in his gut, a foot to the back of his knee. The butcher fell to the floor in time for his punch to land on his head.

When it hit the wooden plank of the floor, unconscious, he smiled.

A stifled gasp escaped someone’s lips.

He whipped toward the sound.

A sea of dark hair shielded her face from view, but even now, he could make out the silver lining her eyes, wide and gleaming.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

“I…” the butcher’s daughter looked to the body, still as it laid beside him. “You…killed him?”

“No.” He angled his head. “Would you like me to?” He would.

“No!” She shot to her feet. “Please, don’t.”

“Alright,” he nodded. “Are you okay, though?”

Her gaze dipped. “I’ll be alright. Thank you.”

He frowned. There was nothing to thank him for—he got there too late, when her tears were no longer fresh, and yet…yes, that was gratitude in her eyes.

“I was looking for you, you know,” he found himself saying. “I’m the one who should be thankful, you—you saved me. The other day. You probably don’t remember,” he added quickly, and his cheeks flushed as he cursed himself for his rambling. 

She seemed to take no notice, though. “The bone.” She swallowed hard. “I remember.”

“I owe you a debt.”

Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head hastily. “There is no debt.”

If only. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” he pointed out. When she seemed to have no answer, he jerked his chin to the man on the floor. “Does he do this often?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened. “Sometimes.”

He knew what sometimes meant. Too well.

“If he ever tries again—” he started, “—scream. I’ll be there—to stop him again.”

“You…” An incredulous look. “I don’t understand.”

Go—just go. She’s fine.

“Let me do this for you,” he blurted. “To clear my debt. Let me keep you safe.”

She seemed to go still at the words. “Safe?”

“If you’d like me to,” he only said, a familiar rush of exhaustion threatening to crash into him again. The old pain in his back still thrummed there quietly, and his fists bled quietly from where the skin had burst open against the butcher’s head. He’d come here to erase his debts—and he found himself in the middle of something that never should have taken place at all—something that stirred a deep, angry place within his soul.

“Do you ever sleep?”

He blinked.

The daughter’s eyes surveyed him watchfully, scanning over his face, his hands—as though somehow, she had heard the words swirling through his thoughts.

“Not anymore,” he admitted. There was no point in lying, not when he’d probably looked halfway through death’s threshold anyway. He had not slept since he found his mother in the hut—and though it had only been a little over a day, he doubted he’d ever be able to sleep again. “So you’d be giving me something to do, really.” If she accepted his offer.

But then she asked, “What’s your name?”

He almost stumbled back a step.

“I…what?”

“Your name,” her brows knotted. “What is it?”

No one had ever asked him that before—not a single person in his long, miserable life.

“Osten,” he choked out.

“Osten,” she repeated, as if weighing the sound on her tongue. He suddenly became very aware of his hands, hanging pathetically at his sides. “My name is Astra.”

Astra.

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I heard him call for you yesterday.”

A shy smile. “I’ll make you a bargain, Osten,” she offered. “Your…debt will be clear if you promise that after watching me every night—as soon as dawn breaks—you’ll go home and get some sleep yourself.”

Her eyes shone as she waited for his answer. And, before he could even think about it, Osten said, “Deal.”

Something tingled in his chest in response—something he couldn’t quite discern, but there was no time, not as Astra smiled again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Behind her long, arched ear.

Not sick, then. It was not an illness that made the butcher confine her to the small room above his shop.

Who are you?

But Astra only nodded. “It’s a bargain.”

The words echoed through his step until he reached the dirty, familiar path home. Until, so consumed by the image of the strangest woman he’d ever seen, he tripped over a rogue root of a tree, peering above ground, and his knees landed in a melting puddle of snow.

His reflection fluttered through the surface, the image of his face scattered—though he could still make out the brown, messy hair, the hollow cheeks, the dark eyes. The worn-out blouse, too loose on his shoulders. The…black lines underneath?

He blinked, leaning in closer. There was a marking on his chest—one that had definitely not been there before, and…tingling. 

The dark shape seemed to form a mountain—tall and proud, with three speckles hanging above it—stars.

He rubbed the marking with his hand. Nothing.

Then, he dipped his fingers into the water, this time to rub it with more fervour. The marking did not budge—had only continued to tingle, like a gentle, warm light caressing cold, roughened skin.

Osten did not try to remove it the third time. For some reason…he found that it didn’t bother him.

***

The first beams of dawn peered over the horizon, and he nearly sagged with relief. His worries faded away with the night, which, mercifully, had passed by quietly. Undisturbed.

Astra’s father, the bastard, would come down to set up shop soon—and remain occupied for the rest of the day. Osten had hours to spend before it was time for him to stand watch again.

The time had come for him to fulfil his end of the bargain, it seemed.

Their bargain was ridiculous, really, he thought as he rose to stretch his back, sore from an entire night of leaning against the hardened wood. Astra would let him watch over her, would let him pay off his debt to her, in exchange for…sleep. She’d probably requested it as a courtesy—what else did he have to offer her? He must’ve looked like a half-corpse the night they met—if he slept, he’d at least be a lot nicer to look at.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. Why did he insist on staying when, in her eyes, there was no debt to begin with? He could’ve nodded his thanks and call it a day. Could have left and never think about her again.

Instead, he devoted his nights to her, pledging to keep her safe.

Perhaps there was a shred of humanity left in him, instilled somewhere deep in his soul by his mother, propelling him to carry out his final promise to her even after her death. Perhaps he thought that, by doing something good, he would balance out the transgressions he’d committed—and was sure to commit again.

After all, he still had to eat.

Osten sighed as his eyelids drooped, heavy after days of restlessness. He doubted she remembered, but…he would keep his word and sleep—if only to stop the stinging in his eyes, begging them to shut and not open for at least a few hours.

And so, he moved to make his way home.

“Wait!” a voice, small and quiet in the paling night, called after him. “Thank you.”

At that, he turned. Slowly.

Her left cheek was still flushed, blood racing under the aching skin. The rage he felt two nights ago—frozen and rippling like a cracking sheet of ice over a lake—stirred in him at the sight, begging to be let out again. He fought the urge to press his palm to her face, knowing the touch—cold, the way it always had been—was able to provide her relief, even if just for a breath.

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “It’s nothing.”

Dark brows furrowed over those eyes, their blue so deep they nearly mirrored the sky above them. “It’s not nothing. I…” she hesitated, and met his gaze—held it until she found whatever she was searching for, whatever allowed her to continue, “I slept better knowing you were out there.”

Everything inside him went quiet at that. “Yeah?”

Her answer was merely a whisper. “Yes.”

He’d never experienced silence like this before—it was nothing like the frigid, hollow kind that rang in his ears the night he’d found his mother. No, this was different. Peaceful. Warm. 

And it all radiated from her.

“My father left,” she told him, her gentle voice filling the air between them. “You no longer have to stand watch.”

He said nothing.

“Will you get some sleep now?” Astra asked.

Osten stilled.

So she did remember.

“That is our bargain,” he agreed, unsure why his throat felt tight.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming at the answer—as if she actually, truly cared—and he could have sworn stars flecked in them brightly as she said, “Yes. It is.”

***

The snow had begun to melt off the streets at last—though the chill of the final weeks of winter remained. He felt it now more than ever as he sat in the shadows, resting against the back wall of Astra’s house. Listening.

Every night of the past week had mercifully been hollow with silence, filled only by his shallow breathing in the cold, and sometimes, the faint chittering of whatever lurked in the forest ahead. He’d spent them in the company of his thoughts—thoughts that drifted to the woman sleeping above far more often than he cared to admit. Was she safe? Did she eat enough today?

He would stay until dawn broke across the sky, until it lit up with a gentle light that sent her father out for his freshly slain delivery. Day after day, the butcher would leave the house and return after an hour or so, covered in blood—and not his own, unfortunately.

Astra hadn’t dared to come out once in her father’s absence. Not that he’d expected her to, of course—after all, he was nothing but her guard. They were bound by a debt and a bargain—nothing more.

“Are you cold?”

Osten jerked off the wall. “Shit!”

She’d appeared out of nowhere—as if stepping out from the shadows themselves. He should’ve heard her in this silence—but Astra hadn’t even made a breath of a sound as she emerged. He tried not to shudder at the thought.

“Forgive me,” she said, the apology genuine in her tone. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

He rose to his feet. “You didn’t frighten me, I just…” he sighed. “I thought you were asleep.” Why wasn’t she?

She shook her head, that raven hair gleaming under the pale moonlight. “I couldn’t.”

He frowned. “Why?” Had the butcher said something to her? Had he harmed her in any way?

But Astra said nothing, her violet eyes surveying him instead. Then, she asked, “Are you, then? Cold?”

“It’s nothing new to me. I’ll survive.”

She was having none of that. “I brought you blankets,” she said, moving to hand him the small pile she’d been holding.

He almost stumbled back a step. “You…what?”

She angled her head, her nose scrunching a little—as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Blankets,” Astra repeated. “To keep warm in the night.”

He knew what blankets were for, obviously, but…

“Why?”

Her lips thinned. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re freezing out here.”

He sighed again. “I told you, it’s nothing serious.”

“Well, it is to me,” Astra said, pressing the blankets into his hands. “Keep them. Please.”

Soft—they were so soft. He wasn’t sure he’d ever touched anything like that before. Fighting the urge to bury his face in the material, he shook his head slowly. “You need them more than I do,” he told her.

Her dark brows knitted. “What makes you think that?”

Alright, then. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”

Astra blew out a breath, and he braced himself for the answer—for the lie he’d already heard on the streets of the village. “I am ill,” she started, “but not in the way the folk claims.”

His mouth opened—then closed. No more lies, then—only the truth. “I thought as much.” That, apart from her thin features, there were no signs of illness about Astra—only an air of something…foreign. Something different.

Something he wasn’t sure was entirely human.

Astra asked, “Why offer me the blankets, then?”

Osten shrugged. “I wanted to see if you’d confirm it.”

Her head cocked to the side again. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“No?”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “You are my only friend.”

Silence fell again, and Astra went still—an unnatural kind of stillness, an almost unsettling one. Like her body could not physically move until he said something—anything. But he couldn’t even pay attention as he mulled over her words.

A friend.

He’d…never had one before.

Something tightened in his throat, blocking the cool air from flowing into his lungs. He could not utter a single word as he beheld her. Astra. His friend.

And then, her gaze fell, and she moved again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she admitted, as if she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the wave of emotion that had crashed into the man before her. “I don’t know why I look like…this. When I was born, I—my mother, she left. My father…he says she was like me—a monster. A creature forsaken by the gods, he called her.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “He says she tricked him—seduced him, and when she got what she wanted, she left him with a babe and not a word of goodbye.”

Osten swallowed hard. “And you believe him?” The question came out hoarse.

“I don’t want to,” Astra said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. He tried not to gape at it as she added, “I don’t want to believe my mother was what he makes her out to be. But…there are days…”

She shook her head, a shadow passing over her beautiful features.

So Osten said quietly, “You can tell me.”

There was nothing but pain in her eyes as she met his gaze. “There are days that I think only a monster could’ve left me with a man like him.”

And then, she looked to the ground again. As if she couldn’t bear to face him.

He’d be damned—damned—to let her think he could ever shy away from her.

“There is nothing wrong with you, you know,” he began, and her face whipped to his again. “You are good—kind.” He smiled tentatively. “You helped a stranger dying on the streets when he had nothing to offer you in return. You made sure he survived—and you gave him a purpose.” Daring a step toward her, he took one of the blankets and, slowly, draped it over her shoulders, their gazes not breaking for a moment as he added, “You may not look like me, like everyone else here, but—I want you to know that I’m honoured, Astra. I’m honoured to be your friend.”

Light—pure, unrestrained light, brighter than the stars above them, shone in her face as she smiled at his words.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Osten.”

***

Osten was in agony.

The slashes in his back ran deep, fresh blood coating old scars and tingling the netted skin that had never had the chance to heal. The open cuts felt as though they’d been set on fire, white-hot and throbbing with his every step. He’d been whipped six times, as if they wanted to relish in his screams, his suffering. As if they thought one would not have been enough for him to learn his lesson.

Obviously, they were right.

He was planning to steal again, as soon as he could walk without crying out in pain. Such noise was unwelcome if he wanted to be successful this time.

Winter had fallen again, colder and angrier than the year before—and even more relentless. These days, Osten missed the summertime more than ever—how quiet and peaceful his life had been then. He’d taken to hunting in the warm weather, encouraged more by his desire to outdo the butcher’s distributors than his own need to eat. How delightful it had been to watch their faces in the forest—the perfect mixture of shame and disbelief as they realised they’d been bested by a common street thief. He could only imagine the butcher’s face whenever his hunters delivered him the news.

His bow, of course, had been stolen, too. He’d found it resting against an oak tree, probably waiting as its owner ventured deeper into the bushes, urged by the pressing call of his bladder. Too bad. It might’ve been flimsy and splintered, but the bow belonged to Osten now. Though, unfortunately, he made little use of it now that the forest had become a sea of snow and ice, even the most hardened of animals hiding in its wake.

And so, Osten returned to stealing. Astra didn’t know—and if she did, she had not once said a word about it.

For a while, it was enough for him to get by. Steal in the chaos of day, watch over Astra in the dead of the night. Over the months, she seemed to sleep less and less—choosing to sneak out the moment her father drifted into unconsciousness, and to keep Osten company instead.

He…wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Still, Osten was hardly one to give her orders—he was merely a warden, a friend. And, if he had to admit, he enjoyed her quiet presence. He found it soothing of sorts—her eyes, wide and shining and seemingly drinking every word that fell from his lips. Her mouth, parted in a small, curious smile as she listened to his adventures from the hunt. Her voice, calm and yet so full of joy as they talked about the future ahead.

He’d once asked her if she ever thought of leaving—of running away from her father’s cruel grasp and into the night, never to look back again.

And where would I go? she had asked him.

Somewhere safe, he’d told her. And, if he hadn’t been such a fucking coward, panicking at the sight of her eyes gleaming with hope so beautifully, he would’ve added: With me.

That was the first time she’d ever left his side before daybreak. The next day, she’d acted as though their conversation had never even taken place.

He hadn’t stopped dreaming since then—dreaming of the life the two of them could lead if he only dared. Traitorous, traitorous dreams—ones that were sure never to become reality. Yes, they could escape somewhere, far away from the cold, grey village the Gods had thrust them into—but then, what? Where would they go? Where could he ever take her, with nothing no his name but the scars on his back?

The reality, the truth, was simple. Astra deserved a good life—a better life. Without him.

It was with that thought that he made way to her house, wrapped in the blankets she’d given him all those months ago. He’d tried to return them time and time again—to no effect. So he’d kept them, his mind arguing that, at the very least, the blankets would keep him safe enough from frostbite to continue watching her for as long as she needed him.

Their weight on his shoulders was especially painful tonight, though. He wondered how long it would take for his blood to soak into their softness, to turn the murky brown fabric red.

When he turned the corner to the back of the house—right beneath Astra’s small window—he found the space already occupied.

Osten stumbled back in surprise, a small hiss escaping him as the blankets brushed against a particularly nasty cut running along his spine. Astra’s brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he muttered, his gaze falling to the small plate in her hands. “What is this?”

Her lips were a thin line. “I heard what happened.”

Ah.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said anyway.

“Osten,” she pressed, taking another step forward. “Let me help you.”

The muscle in his jaw shifted. “How did you find out?”

Astra sighed, the sound slightly shaky on her breath. “I…hear things. I hear them well.” Her gaze dropped to the plate—as if she couldn’t dare to meet his eyes as she added, “Even when they are happening far outside, I can hear them. My father’s knife, cutting through the flesh downstairs. People talking in the streets. Horses neighing in the stables out back. Your heart,” she said, something strained in her voice now, “I hear it, too. How loudly it beats whenever we speak.”

There was such silence in his head.

Astra shook the dark hair from her face. “Take it,” she said, handing him the plate. The meat, freshly cooked by the potatoes, still hot and steaming and smelling so painfully good that his stomach churned at the barest glance. “Please.” 

His eyes widened. “I…” he stepped back. “I can’t accept this.”

I’m supposed to keep you safe.

“Why not?” she pushed. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Please, don’t make me say it.

“I don’t want it,” he said, another desperate step back.

“Lies,” she hissed. “Tell me.”

Such fierce, unflinching determination in her face. She knew what he’d done—knew exactly what kind of person he was—and still, she’d cooked this meal for him. Refused to yield until he took the hand she’d reached out to him.

Osten swallowed hard, something wet burning his eyes restlessly.

“I don’t deserve it,” he finally whispered.

Astra went still.

“I promised her, you know—my mother,” he continued, unable to look into her eyes, to see the disappointment no doubt twisting her face, “I promised her I would never steal again. She hated it.”  He huffed a bitter laugh, one that scratched at his throat like fingernails. “She hated that I wasn’t trying to live an honest life. So, for a while, I did. I tried.” He choked out, “And it wasn’t enough to keep her from dying.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up as he finished, “I shouldn’t have eaten that bone you gave me a year ago. I should’ve left it in the snow. I should’ve gone home, and I should’ve died with her.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, thrumming in his head, his heart.

And then—

“Osten.”

He shook his head.

“Look at me.”

Her hand cupped his face, so gentle and soft that he shivered beneath the touch. His own hands were coarse, dirty—so different from hers that he almost recoiled from the touch, like a shadow burned by the first beams of the morning sunlight.

Step away, everything screamed inside of him as his gaze lifted to those immaculate hands. Step away before you stain them with your filth.

Her hold on him grew solid, harder than any steel. As if in answer.

As if somehow, she’d heard the words his mind spat at him.

He swallowed them down, forced them to the darkest pits of his soul, and looked up.

“Beautiful,” she breathed as he met her gaze.

His chest tightened. “They’re just black,” he said a shade pathetically, but she shook her head, her own eyes gleaming.

“I feel like I can see the whole world in them.”

He could’ve died in that moment—and he would’ve died a happy man.

“Astra,” he whispered.

But Astra said, “What happened to your mother was not your fault. You did everything you could—you protected her despite everything the world has thrown at you.” Her thumb brushed the hollow of his cheek. “And now, you protect me. You keep me safe.” She smiled, so beautiful his heart braced to leap out of his chest. “You matter, Osten. You matter to me.”

You are my friend.

Let me help you.

You matter to me.

“Eat with me.”

So Osten said, “Okay.”

***

The butcher was out tonight.

Osten had trailed him to the brothel on the far outskirts of the village—a place cursed by the Elder, hidden far from his watchful eye. Osten had never dared to venture in himself—had never had the money for it, anyway—but hearing the sounds from within left little to the imagination, anyway.

He figured Astra’s father was unlikely to return before dawn.

Still, he found himself on the familiar path to her house anyway.

She wasn’t there when he’d arrived—she must’ve been well asleep despite the night only having just begun. Something like disappointment sank in his chest—he’d grown used to seeing her greet him as he approached, those violet eyes bright. Happy. Even his wounds had seemed to heal faster over the past week, stinging less and less with each smile she’d offered him.

Tonight, he was only greeted by the darkness.

And then, a scream.

Astra’s scream—a desperate, bloodcurdling plea for help.

Osten didn’t think twice.

His heart pounded, faster and faster as he rushed into the shop and up the stairs out back—some of the steps stained by old, rusty blood. He swallowed, silently praying it had come from some turkey, some pig, anything but—

Astra screamed again.

He yanked the door open.

Darkness swirled in the room, thick and heavy and wrapped around her—around Astra’s sleeping form, the shadows tighter and tighter—

No, Osten realised as he stepped in closer. The darkness was not trying to kill her.

It…came from her.

The shadows caressed her skin, their curled ends brushing her arms, her cheeks, her arched ears—as if… nursing her back into peace.

“Astra?” Osten whispered.

Astra shot upright with another scream.

Her chest heaved with rough, uneven breaths, and she looked around—to the bed she was lying in, to the shadows hugging her body, to Osten, standing above her, pale as death.

And then, she broke into tears.

He was at her side in an instant, and the shadows vanished out of sight, as though content to let him take over. Silver lined her face as she wept—still tormented by the nightmare despite being freed from its grasp.

“It’s okay,” he said thickly, wrapping the blankets tighter around her. Her shoulders wobbled beneath them as she wept. “You’re okay.”

But she shook her head, silent tears dripping onto the mattress. He’d never seen anyone cry so quietly—as if her pain was a secret she needed to keep from the rest of the world.

Through a crack in the window, the chill wind whistled into the room, and it took everything in him not to leave her side and close it. Whatever happened—whatever horrors ripped her from her sleep…he would not let her endure them alone.

He could no longer tell if it was the cold that made his jaw tremble, or the sight of her, utterly broken in a pile of patched-up blankets she’d probably sewn up herself. Even the Gods themselves knew her father cared too little to have done it for her.

He gently draped another layer over her form. She’d shrunk so deep into herself that it made his heart ache.

“Tell me what happened.”

She didn’t look to meet his pleading gaze. “It was just a nightmare,” she said, and damn him, even her voice sounded small. As if the scream she’d let out had cost her all her strength.

“Tell me anyway.”

A shaky breath. “You don’t want to know," she said, and he could've sworn shadows gathered around her again at the words—a confirmation of the darkness her dreams beheld.

But Osten only said, “You’re my friend.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. “I saw fire. Fire and blood—so much blood, Osten. I…I couldn’t stop it.” Her voice trembled again. “And then, there was nothing. Nothing. It was cold, and it was dark, and—”

“It was a dream,” he insisted, his hand still resting atop her shoulder. He dared to brush his thumb over it as he added, “It’s not going to happen.”

Astra met his gaze, her own eyes beseeching. “Someone talks to me in my sleep,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“A woman.” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I don’t…know what to do.”

Osten had never felt more powerless in his life.

But then, Astra covered his hand with hers, guiding him from her shoulder to lace her fingers with his. “Thank you for coming here,” she said quietly.

He wasn’t sure he was breathing as he asked, “Would you like me to stay?”

A heartbeat of silence.

“Yes.”

***

“Osten.”

Shit. Had he fallen asleep again?

“You’re awake.” He rose to his feet, facing the woman watching him from the shadows. “Did you have another nightmare?” It had almost been a week since the last time she’d woken up screaming.

Since she’d fallen asleep inches beside him.

“No,” Astra said, then hesitated. “Well, yes. A dream. I think.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is…everything okay?”

“I’m…not sure. I…” She loosed a slow breath. “Osten, I think I know. I know what I am—what these dreams have been trying to show me all this time.”

She’d tied her hair up tonight, for the very first time since they’d met, perhaps—those dark curls swept back, a few silken strands framing her face. Her long, arched ears.

She was so beautiful he struggled to level a breath.

“And…” he gulped. “What have you learned?”

Astra surveyed him. Then, she said, “She tells me there are others.”

“Who?”

“My Mother.”

His eyes widened. “You found her?” The mother who’d abandoned her the moment she was born, the one she’d refused to speak about when he’d asked her months ago. She’d been…searching for her?

But Astra shook her head, her lips parting in a gentle smile. “She found me.”

Osten lifted his brows. But Astra continued, “She sings of others of my kind, creatures of all shapes and sizes, but with the same, ancient magic, thrumming through their veins.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. “They live far away from here—on a land far larger than ours, across the Great Sea. Fae, she calls them. That’s what I am.” She smiled, a peaceful smile—as though finally, everything in the world had fallen into place.

Osten could all but stare.

Astra’s smile faltered. “You’re frightened.”

“No, I…” His throat felt dry. “Magic?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“What of the Gods, then? Are they…” he swallowed hard. “Are they Fae as well?”

“No. I—I don’t know. The Mother, she…” Astra chewed on her bottom lip. “She calls them beings of death. Unmatched in their raw power, and…undying.” She shivered. “I…no. They aren’t like me.”

Osten released a long, long breath.

“There’s more,” she added carefully, as if she could fell the weight of her news on him. “My Mother—she has gifted me with a mission. A power different from the others. Osten, I…I can do things.”

“What kind of things?”

She hesitated.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, even as his head started spinning.

Astra stepped in closer and opened her palm.

Light, a warm silver that seemed to glitter much like the stars above them, beamed from her skin, illuminating the alley. Soft, gentle—just like her, and bright as it warmed his face. He could’ve sworn he heard it calling out to his very soul.

“Incredible,” he breathed. “It’s like starlight.”

A small smile. “It is.”

“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice clear with awe.

“I look deep into my soul,” she said quietly, looking from beneath dark lashes to meet his gaze. “And I think of you.”

Osten, a gentle voice—her voice—sounded in his mind, and he staggered back a step. Don’t be afraid.

“Was that you?” he managed to say. She nodded. “It felt…warm.” Like a breeze on a summer night.

Astra breathed out, her shoulders nearly sagging with relief. Had she worried she’d scared him away? She was magnificent—beautiful inside and out, the only light he’d ever come close to in his entire life.

He was never going to let her go.

“I wish I could do that, too,” he admitted. “So that I could talk to you when everyone else is watching.”

Sadness twisted her face, and guilt washed over him like a crashing wave. “I’m sorry,” he amended quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m fine the way things are.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “Osten.” Gods, the way she spoke his name. Like it was the only thing that mattered. “I want to be able to see you, talk to you. Touch you.” He shivered, and she took his hand. “I want to be able to do all those things—somewhere safe, where people will watch and not care one bit.” Her eyes glowed brightly as she added, “And one day, I will.”

His fingers curled tighter around her own.

“I promise,” she said.

***

Even in the darkness, he could make out the shadows on Astra’s face as he approached her home. She watched him, absently fiddling with her fingers, those violet eyes glazed and somewhere far away—lost in thought. 

His steps picked up. He could practically taste her worry on her shaky breath, on the small clouds of  frost that formed on the cold, midnight air. Had he touched her again? Was she in pain?

He would kill him. He would stride into the house, just like he had all those months ago, and beat him until his eyes swelled enough for him to never lay them on his daughter again. Until his jaw shattered to the point of no repair, so he could never spew his filthy insults to her face again. He would fucking relish in his pain, he would—

“Osten?”

He blinked.

Astra’s thin hand gripped his with surprising strength. “You seemed to daze off a little.”

He forced a swallow down his throat and smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

Her brows knitted, her worry creased even deeper into her beautiful features. She shouldn’t have worried for him—never for him. Not when the world had thrown so much at her already.

So Osten cleared his throat, unusual lightness in his tone as he amended, “Forgive me. I got distracted.” He reached out a hand, daring to brush his knuckles against her cheek. The faintest of touches, but she flushed nonetheless. “What bothers you?” Osten asked quietly.

“I…” her voice trembled again, and his heart strained in his chest. His fingers brushed her cheek once more, encouraging, and he must’ve stopped breathing entirely as her hand wrapped around them—brought his own, rough hand to cup her face gently. As if it steadied her. “Father is ill,” she finally told him. 

Perhaps the Gods had decided to do the job for him, then.

“The medics said it’s a matter of days,” she added, the words barely above a whisper.

Good fucking riddance. The bastard deserved it—the world would be a better place without him.

Still, Astra seemed rattled, her grip on his hand tighter. “When he’s gone…” she started, clearly aware of his indifference to her father’s fate, “they will come for me. He was the only protection I’ve ever had from them.”

He pretended the words hadn’t stung some place deep in his soul, the same one that bellowed to defend her, to shield her body with his own, to lay down his life for hers if necessary. But—she had to know. So he said, “You have me.”

Her eyes softened. “I know—I know. But my father was—is—very well known in this village, and for the folk, no matter how curious about me, it’s always been enough to keep away.”

No matter how big of a bastard he was, her father was respected. Unlike him—unlike the street trash whose hand she now held to her face.

She stepped forward, her body so close to his now that he couldn’t help but meet her gaze. It would be so easy, so painfully easy to take her into his arms when her warmth practically sang for him to do it. The kind of warmth that should’ve been at odds with the cold heart of his—and yet they danced together in harmony, like shadows between the stars.

“You’re strong,” she said, placing that slender hand atop his chest. Right above his heart, pounding under the intensity of her stare. “The strongest person I know, Osten. I wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for you. But, these people…” she shook her head, her dark hair shimmering under the moonlight. “These people—they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me—even if it means killing you,” she finished, and something silver sparkled in those eyes. 

The Gods would damn him for this—for thinking he was worthy of it—but he wrapped his arms around her, unable to keep away at the sight of her tears. “I won’t let that happen,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly as she pressed her body into his. “As long as I live, I will keep you safe.” His lips brushed over her temple, over the silken hair above in a whisper of a kiss. “Perhaps even after that.”

Astra shuddered against him, but she nodded. “I’ll keep you safe, too. No matter what it takes.”

***

The evening had slowly began to dim into the night. It was still too early for him to begin his watch—the butcher’s shop would’ve been running for another hour or so had Astra’s father not been confined to his bed for the past week. Even so, Osten found himself on his usual route to her house, something thrumming quietly in his chest with each step, urging him forward. He couldn’t tell why, but…he listened.

He’d been restless all day, wandering around the village without aim. It took everything in his power to keep himself from running to the main square and simply knocking on the butcher’s door. Only Astra’s stories of his deteriorating health kept him somewhat at ease—her father could not possibly harm her in his current state, not when a mere lift of a finger would cause him immense pain.

Osten tried not to delight in that. He wondered what happened to the man—if, perhaps, the Gods had learned of his cruelty and chosen the illness as punishment.

After all, they could not allow a common human to be more heartless than them.

Still, even with Astra’s reassurance that she was safe, he could not stop himself from coming over every night. She hadn’t come out as often as she used to—not with her father constantly demanding her attention. He could not understand why she did it—but he kept quiet. Waited.

A matter of days, he’d been told.

Hurry up, his mind urged.

Perhaps tonight would bring more optimistic news. He simply couldn’t wait any longer.

He…missed her. Missed the sound of her voice, the sparkle in her eyes, the feel of her skin on his. Maybe that was what his quickening heartbeat had been trying to tell him all day—to touch her, smell her. Taste her.

He was in such deep shit.

Careful not to be spotted by anyone who’d have recognised him as the village thief, he continued on his way forward—but, strangely enough, the village seemed…deserted. Empty. As if all of its residents have decided to go to sleep earlier tonight. Some, Osten even noticed, have barricaded themselves in.

Something was wrong.

His steps picked up, that thrumming in his chest louder and louder, echoing through the tightening space. What was going on? Why wasn’t anyone there?

He turned the corner and froze into place.

The butcher’s shop was engulfed in flames.

No.

No, no, no.

These people, Astra’s voice whispered into his mind, they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me.

His blood stilled in his veins.

The butcher was dead.

I won’t let that happen, his own answer came. As long as I live, I will keep you safe.

His legs started moving again.

“Astra?” Osten called. “Astra!”

She was in the house, struggling to breathe through the smoke—

Oh, Gods, what if she was—

And then, he heard it.

Chanting.

He whipped to his right, to where, at the far end of the street, a dark mass of people gathered, torches in hand.

And in the middle of it all…

“ASTRA!”

His roar echoed through the stone.

He lunged forward, running faster than he’d ever had, because these people, these monsters, they took her, they took her from him—

“Osten!” her voice reached him through the crowd, trembling.

“Move!” he yelled, elbowing someone deep in the gut, pushing through the sea of bodies, “Fucking move right now!”

All the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs, and Osten fell to his knees.

Someone kicked him in the back—in the scars, still half-open and healing.

A loud gasp—Astra’s.

“No one wants you here, trash,” some old man spat at him.

Another kick, pinning his body to the ground.

“Leave her alone,” he managed breathlessly.

The crowd laughed, an ugly, biting sound.

“She is a witch, boy. Too dangerous to be kept alive,” a woman beside him said, torch in hand.

“Do you not see her?” the other man questioned, a smirk on his face. “Filthy—just like you.” He motioned somewhere behind him—somewhere where Astra was kneeling on the stones, held down by the shoulders by two men.

And beside her…

A tall, wooden stake.

A white-hot flash of pain shot up Osten’s spine as he thrashed under his boot. “She is nothing like me.” She was good, and kind, and—

“Perhaps we have you both burned.” He jerked his chin to one of the large men. “Take him.”

“NO!” Astra screamed, desperately trying to yank her body from the men’s grip. “KEEP AWAY FROM HIM!”

He failed. He failed her, and now they were both going to die. “Astra!” he bellowed, still moving, still trying to reach her through the agony, when—

Another boot on his back—and a scream, ripped free from his throat.

Pain, pain and absolute, unrestrained terror filled Astra’s face—as if somehow, she, too, could feel his pain.

And then she began to scream.

The ground shook beneath his body, beneath all of them, people hauling each other away as Astra roared, roared and sobbed, shredding the world to pieces with her pure, unfiltered fury.

And when her voice was nothing but a high pitch on the cold, evening air, it started to rain.

No—not rain.

Blood.

It was everywhere—on him, under him, everywhere in between. The weight on his back vanished, something seeping into the torn fabric of his clothes, thick and hot and wet.

Osten rose to his knees, the world suddenly silent.

He looked around him—to the torches, scattered all over the ground, blood dripping onto their heads to slowly put out the fire. To the woman kneeling in the middle of it all, soaked in red.

“What have you done?” he asked, shock lacing every word.

Pale as death, her entire body shook. “I don’t know,” she said, the words no more than a choked sob. “I…” her gaze fell to her hands. To the blood splattered all over them. “I killed them,” she whispered, the sound no more than a rasp.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t so much as turn to look at the massacre around them—to the dozens of bodies that, under a mere lift of her finger, had become a red, wet mist. He only stared at her—at the woman before him, still trembling under the weight of what she’d done.

What she’d done to protect them. Protect him.

“I…” Osten began, but didn’t manage to say anything else. Words failed him.

Her violet eyes were lined with silver as she looked at him once more—then closed them. Squeezed them shut as she kept trembling. A shaky breath loosed from her chest—as if she braced herself for whatever he was going to say next. As if she expected him to cringe away. 

As if she thought he was going to leave her.

As if she thought he could ever live without her.

He took her bloodied hands in his, his thumb smearing red as he brushed her skin gently. “We need to go.” Those eyes shot open in surprise. “Now.”

***

Hand in hand, they ran—ran until the village long left their sight, until the smoke no longer swirled around them. The only thing that remained was blood—a reminder never to return again.

Hours must’ve passed since the massacre, but they did not stop until a light came into view. Then, a house—no, an inn.

Thank the Gods.

A few loose gold marks, pulled deep from within Astra’s skirts, paid for a night in one of the rooms. The innkeeper averted her eyes as she handed them the key—no doubt eyeing the red staining their clothes, stumbling back at their tangy smell.

It did not matter. They were safe.

Astra disappeared in the small space behind one of the walls the moment they stepped into the room. She only mumbled something about “a bath,” her hands still trembling slightly under the coat of blood.

He wondered if she’d noticed the lone bed in the middle, if she, too, heard the countless pillows and blankets call out her name.

No matter how loudly they called, he was planning to take the floor. She needed the bed more than he did—especially after everything that had gone on tonight. He was used to the questionable comfort of the ground, anyway.

And so, when he’d emerged from the bathroom minutes after it had been freed by Astra, his hair still dripping warm water, he marched straight for the space at the foot of the bed.

“What…are you doing?” Astra’s voice reached him, confused.

He turned to her, frowning. “I…do you need me?” Did she need help? He couldn’t imagine with what, but—

“What? No,” Astra chuckled lightly. “Were really planning to sleep on the floor?”

“I…” Osten look to the ground again, to where he’d already laid a single blanket. “Yes?”

She chuckled again, as if she couldn’t help herself, the sound like a birdsong carried by the summer wind. “Just…come here, Osten.”

Words fell dry in his throat as he approached the bed. As, slowly, he slid under the duvet, inches from her side.

Astra sighed deeply. “It’s warm.”

Osten swallowed hard. “Astra.” Her eyes shot open. “Are you…alright?”

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “I…don’t know.” Her face was grave again, and for a moment, he wish he could hear that soft laugh from her again. “There is so much to do, Osten,” she said quietly.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he told her, his voice tight.

Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “You don’t have to. The task I was given—the one I’d told you about—it’s dangerous. I—I don’t know how, but…” she shook her head, the drying strands of hair shifting with the movement. “You don’t have to,” she repeated.

“I want to,” Osten whispered.

At that, Astra said nothing. She only stared—her eyes burning, glowing as bright as his soul as he swore to remain by her side.

“What is the task?” he asked her, breaking the silence.

“Do you remember when I told you of the others?” Osten nodded, but she said anyway, “The Fae across the Great Sea. They were banished—banished by the Death Gods who wished to roam these lands themselves. This place…” she sighed, as if she shared the weight of those Fae’s pain, “It used to be their home.”

Osten blinked. “You wish to bring them back—bring them home.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll—” his head spun. “You’ll challenge the Gods for this?”

Astra’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’d rather not think about that right now. But…” Another sigh. “I was given this power for a reason, Osten. I can’t simply let it go to waste.”

He wasn’t sure what to say—what was there to be said? Astra was powerful, powerful enough to face the same Gods humans like him had been praying to since the beginning of time, and Osten…

Osten was unable to stop her. Could only follow her and keep on praying. To whom, he was no longer sure.

Perhaps he’d pray to her, he thought as he looked upon her face again. He’d never believed in anything more.

And so, underneath the heavy duvet, Osten reached for her hand.

He felt it, then—the warmth of her skin as his fingers brushed it. Astra shifted—shifted closer, encouraging, and he realised—realised it wasn’t her hand that he found, but her thigh, bare under the nightgown they’d found in the ancient wardrobe of the room.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

If it wasn’t the Gods that held her in their graces, she had to have been blessed by stars themselves. The silky veil of her hair spilled onto her pillow, shielding her face from view, but he knew—knew just how devastating she was. Knew the way her eyes twinkled from beneath long, dark lashes as she looked at him; the way they saw him, saw all of him, and lit up at the sight. That’s what she was—light, as if every inch of her had been crafted from the stars themselves.

He tucked the thought deep into his soul, let it shine there quietly as his knuckles continued to trace the golden-brown skin of her thigh. Slowly, he savoured the feel of her softness, her quickening breaths like a melody calling out to him, urging him to move, move, move.

She wanted this—wanted him, even when he had nothing, was nothing. She could’ve told him to spend the night on the floor at her feet, and he would’ve obliged her happily. She could’ve chosen the comfort of the blankets on her side of the bed, and yet it was his body she’d turned to for warmth. His heart nearly stumbled in answer.

His name was a strain on her lips as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, and everything inside of him tightened. His own aching body pressed in closer, and he let his lips fall to her neck—to nuzzle it gently, to worship the heartbeat thumping underneath. The pulse that assured him this was real, that they’d made it out alive.

Her body shivered against him, as if her thoughts mirrored his own.

“Osten,” she whispered his name again as his thumb circled that spot that made her breath falter. The same spot that now coated his fingers with a slick warmth, guiding him lower, deeper—

His lips closed on her neck again, right beneath her ear, and Astra shuddered.

“Osten,” she said again. “I need you.”

He hummed against her, relishing in the scent of her, like jasmine and a summer breeze, his thumb circling that spot closer, brushing up against it—

Two of his fingers slid into that wetness the moment he asked, “And how do you need me, Astra?”

Her low moan reverberated through his chest as she buried her face in him. “All of you,” she begged. “Give me all of you.”

“I’m yours,” Osten promised. “Every last shred of what I am belongs to you.”

Astra loosed a shuddering breath and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re mine.”

And with that, she pulled his body on top of her own.

Osten swore at the sudden movement, at the strength behind it, but then Astra reached for the lace of his trousers, slender fingers tangling into the thread—and all thoughts vanished from his head.

And when he finally sprang free, when all of him was laid bare to her, when she wrapped her hand around the velvety base—

“You’re mine,” Astra repeated, voice straining, guiding him closer.

Osten could not breathe as he felt it—felt her very core, felt its heat welcome him in.

“You’re mine.”

His groan was a swallowed sound as he crashed his lips into hers.

He rocked into her slowly at first, a gentle, teasing pace that let her adjust to his fullness as he kissed her—kissed her the same way he’d dreamt of all this time, savouring every inch, every bit of warmth she offered.

Astra panted, breaking away only for a moment as she held him tightly, urging him closer, deeper before her mouth found his again in an endless need to taste, taste, taste.

He understood that need all too well.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he sunk his length into her, brushing against a spot that made her tighten so deliciously around him that he couldn’t help but groan her name again.

“Astra.” His hand tightened on her hip as he pulled out, then thrust back in, completely and utterly breathless. “My beautiful Astra.”

She moved her hips, her hands on his neck now, pulling his face to hers again—as if she wanted to share her every breath with his.

“Yours,” her promise echoed his own. “I’m yours.”

Starlight erupted around them as he drove home for the final time. Bright, iridescent—glowing, from her, from him, from the joining of their souls as they found their pleasure together. This—she was everything he’d ever wanted, the warmth he’d been holding out for in a raging cold, the hope he’d been searching for in a life that seemed forever lost to it.

Astra.

They rested like this, tangled together, her body wrapped up in his arms, his face held in her loving hands.

When he pulled away to admire her kiss-bitten lips, Astra said,  “I wish we could stay like this. Forever.”

He placed a kiss to her brow. “One day, we will.”

“There are dangerous days ahead of us.”

“I will keep you safe.” Another kiss. “I’ll fight death itself to keep it away from you.”

“From both of us,” Astra amended.

“From both of us,” he agreed.

***

Osten.

Osten, the voice urged again. Wake up.

His body shifted to the side.

Osten!

He jolted awake, blinded by the sudden light.

Astra’s face stared back at him, her eyes wide as she pressed a finger to his lips. Do not make a sound, she warned, something trembling in that silent voice. They’re here.

Who? he whispered into nothingness, hoping that somehow, she could hear him.

Something glimmered in that darkness—deep within his mind. A light—soft yet bright, shining a silver so warm it was almost gold. It reminded him of the starlight Astra had once shown him.

When Astra spoke again, it was through that light, her voice steady, grounding him in the chaos of this world. The village hunters. They’re here—and they came for us.

So quickly—they’d found them so quickly—

His stomach turned.

We need to go, Astra urged.

Okay, Osten blinked, forcing the remnants of his sleep away. Okay.

There’s a window in the bathroom facing out back, she told him hurriedly, We jump, and we run for the forest ahead.

Osten nodded.

Let’s go.

He was on his feet in an instant, running for the room hidden behind their bed—Gods, their bed.

What they did last night…

Focus, Astra’s stern tone crept into his mind again—but there was a softness to it, a flush—one that made his own face burn.

Not now.

Astra jumped first, the ground beneath low enough to steady her fall. Osten followed quickly, knees buckling as he landed, and his cheeks heated again—somehow, Astra had managed to do this with a lot more grace.

He heard their bedroom door burst open the second they lunged for the forest.

“Quickly," Astra panted, “Don’t stop.”

Don’t stop, he heard her again, her voice huskier this time—a memory simmering to life again. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—

He shook his head and kept on running.

They didn’t stop until the woods deepened—until there was nothing but the barren trees ahead, lone bushes standing their ground here and there amidst the cold weather. Until a wooden hut came into sight—hidden atop a small clearing.

“It’s not safe—” he started, but Astra had already made her way towards the door.

It was hopeless—in his experience, people had rarely been inclined to reach out a hand, no matter how desperate he’d been. But Astra…the hope never died with her.

Her knock was soft on the door.

A moment later, it opened with a soft creak, and a wrinkled face emerged. “Yes?”

“I…” Astra swallowed hard. “I…”

It hit him, then. How isolated she had been. Her entire life—sheltered from everyone but the man who Osten was willing to bet had hardly spoken to her at all—and, when he did, he had little kindness to offer.

He was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand steady on her shoulder.

Osten smiled to the lady. “My wife and I are simple travellers. We beg for your sanctuary in this difficult conditions.”

The woman was old, possibly older than the Elder himself, but her eyes were still sharp as ever as she took them in. “Travellers?” she questioned. “Or outlaws?”

His kind expression did not waver for so much as a breath. “We come from the West in search of a better life.” Everyone knew the lands bordering the Great Sea were less than hospitable. So many deaths there, disappearances—cursed by the Gods, the village folk had always used to say. “Please,” Osten said again. “My wife is pregnant.”

Beside him, Astra stilled.

He could only pray her face betrayed nothing as the woman assessed her—dropped down to her belly, narrowing slightly.

Finally, she looked to him again, and Osten did not realise he’d been holding his breath. “Come in,” she told them.

“Thank you,” Astra breathed. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded.

Only when they laid beside each other a few hours later, huddled on a small bed in the darkness of the night, did Astra dare to whisper, “I felt bad lying to her.”

Underneath the thin covers, Osten brushed his fingers over her waist. “I’d lie to the Gods themselves to keep you safe,” he said. “Besides, it…it doesn’t have to be a lie.”

Astra fell silent.

He opened his mouth, ready to take it back, to apologise—

But then, Astra asked, “It doesn’t?”

He swallowed. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“What about you, Osten?” she pressed. “What do you want?”

She could’ve asked him if the sun was hot, or the grass green, or the night sky the same shade as her eyes. The answer was that simple.

“You,” he rasped. “I want you.”

Astra shifted closer, the heat of their bodies united once more.

“Then take me,” she told him. “Take all of me.”

***

When he woke up, Astra was gone.

His breath came hard and fast, dread curling in his stomach as all his fears crashed into him one by one.

They found us.

They took her.

They’d burn her.

And you could not protect her.

He shot to his feet and lunged out of the room, everything inside him bellowing to find her, find her, find her—

A clank of metal somewhere to his right. The kitchen.

He was there in an instant, gripping the wooden beam rising from the low ceiling, his hand white as death.

“My wife,” he panted. “Where is she?”

The old lady whipped back, a wrinkled palm to her chest. “Gods!”

“Where is she?” he repeated. If she’d let them take her—

“Take a deep breath, boy. She’s in the forest—picking up berries for breakfast.” A scolding glare of those ancient eyes. “I was planning to go myself, but she insisted on helping.”

Of course she had.

He’d merely grunted a response before running out.

What was she thinking? Even now, in broad daylight, there wasn’t a single place in the world where they could be safe, not with all the Gods against them, not with the village men on the hunt and—and the Fae she had to unite—

His head hurt. But he kept on running.

What if they’d already gotten to her? What if, by some miserable chance, a lone hunter stumbled upon her wandering the woods—saw her arched ears and assumed what everyone else had? A monster, a witch. A prey to hunt, to rid the world of.

He was going to kill every last one of them.

“Osten?”

He turned to the sound—

There she was. Safe.

He took her in his arms before she managed to say another word. “You’re okay,” he breathed. “You’re okay.”

Her hands slid around his neck carefully. “Of course I am.” There was a hint of question to her voice—as if she couldn’t understand the frantic look in his eyes, the panic in his face.

“I was so worried,” he told her, then leaned back an inch to meet her gaze. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t go that far,” she protested. “The cottage is only a few minutes away—”

“There are people hunting us, Astra.” He loosed a breath. “We need to be more careful,” he added, his eyes searching. A shadow passed through her face—there and gone, but enough for his heart to ache. “I’m sorry,” Osten said, his voice more gentle now as he reached for her palm. “I wish things were easier.”

Astra sighed. “Me, too.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go.”

“When we reach the North,” he began as they made their way back through the woods, “What will you do?”

She chewed on her lip. “The Mother guides me. She’ll reveal the face of my enemy once I’m there.”

“How can it be your enemy?” He couldn’t understand. “You don’t even know them”

“The Mother says they are the reason my kind is not welcome in these lands,” she explained. “If I use my powers to banish them, they’ll be able to come back.”

“If she’s so powerful, why can’t she do it herself?” he snapped, then bit his tongue. He didn’t mean for his words to come out so harsh.

But Astra only smiled as she lifted her gaze to his. “Perhaps she knows life is a lot easier when you have someone by your side.”

And Osten found himself smiling back.

“I’ll do what I can, you know,” he told her. “To help.”

Astra only shook her head. “You left your home for me, Osten. You have no idea what it means to me.”

He stopped in his tracks, and she turned back, confusion written on her features. So he took her hand in his and said, “I’d leave that place a thousand times over. You are my true home, Astra.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she opened her mouth—

But then, her smile faltered.

He’d seen that look before—yesterday morning, at the inn.

“What?” he asked, panic building in his chest all over again. “What is it?”

Astra swallowed hard. “Death.”

They both did not stop running until the cottage came into sight, so awfully quiet that even the wind had ceased to sing.

“Stay behind me,” he instructed as they walked in.

The kitchen was painted in blood. And their host, the old, innocent woman…

Her body draped over the floor.

Astra vomited.

They would never be safe.

***

Right now, Osten knew two things.

One, by some miracle, the hunters set after them had not been smart enough to return to the bloodied cottage again. Not yet, anyway.

Two, Astra was very, very sick.

He watched her from the corner of the kitchen—somewhat clean now, after two weeks of endless scrubbing—watched as her shoulders ceased to heave, as she eased from the hollow in the wooden seat of the latrine. At first, he’d thought it was the sight of the kind, elderly woman, lifeless and bloodied in her own home, that rattled Astra to the point of cold sweat coating her face as she emptied her stomach, over and over again.

After a week, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

And now that another week had passed…

Osten was getting worried. Scared.

It was by pure luck that no one had lurked into the cottage over the time they stayed there— it seemed that there had been no one in the old lady’s life that cared enough to stop by and check in on her. Even in life, she was simply…forgotten.

Just as he would’ve been if it weren’t for Astra.

She blew out a breath, slowly rising to her feet.

“Let me bring you some water,” he offered softly, even as his chest clenched at the sight of her, pale and weak and so…resigned. She, too, could not understand what was happening to her.

Astra waved a hand, waddling to the kitchen, any air of strength, of light, gone from her face. “It’s alright. I can…”

“Astra,” he pleaded. “Please, just sit.” He motioned to the wobbly chair beside the counter.

She did—grimaced as her body adjusted to the new position.

Osten handed her the cup. “Do you think you can try to eat something?” She had not eaten in two days. “I made breakfast.”

She pressed her lips together, dry and flaky, their usual rosy glow nowhere to be seen. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I feel like breakfast would only make things worse.”

Something lit up in his head.

“What is it?” Astra asked, noting his stillness.

Osten angled his head. “What if it was the berries?”

Astra scrunched her nose. “You ate them, too,” she pointed out. “And you’re perfectly healthy.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering. “Maybe…maybe they have a different effect on the Fae?”

She shook her head. “No, I—it wouldn’t make sense. I recognised them, and I’m almost certain I’ve had them before—years ago, back home.” She sighed. “I don’t ever recall feeling like this after eating anything. And besides, the last time I had those berries was two weeks ago, the day after we—”

She paused.

Osten’s brows rose. “What?”

Astra’s nostrils flared. Then again—as if she couldn’t believe what she’d scented. “Impossible,” she breathed.

“What?” Osten repeated. “What is?”

Shakily, she rose from her seat, a slender palm cradling her stomach.

“Astra.”

Her throat bobbed. “I think…” she looked to meet his gaze. “Osten, I think I am with child.”

There was only silence in his head.

“Osten.”

Could it be?

A child.

A family.

“What are we going to do?” Astra whispered, her eyes still searching his.

For the first time in a raging winter, Osten felt warm.

He took her hand and smiled through his tears. “Live.”

***

Astra’s rhythmic breathing filled the silence as she slept.

Pregnant.

There was a child—his child—growing in her belly, inches away from him. He could only stare in disbelief—disbelief that, despite everything he was, everything he’d done…someone deemed him worthy of this. Of happiness.

He would hold onto it for as long as he lived. Would not let anyone stand in his way.

But even now, his unborn child was in danger. Had not yet even entered this world, and there were already people threatening it.

Osten gritted his teeth, the sound sharp in the darkness.

His family would not live the way he had his entire life. Would not be tossed aside, belittled, despised. Hunted.

Never again.

Osten made the decision then.

Gently, he laid a hand on Astra’s belly. Pressed his lips to her temple.

And then, he went out into the night.

***

The moon still hung over the sky when he approached the forest’s edge. Its pale light had guided him smoothly through the trees, through the melting snow—the first sign of winter handing their lands over to spring at last. Soon, the cold would subside, and with it, the uncertainty that accompanied him every frigid night. He didn’t dare tell Astra—especially not now, with the babe on its way into the world—that there had been times he feared his arms would not be enough to keep her warm.

They’d decided to begin their journey up north soon—to begin whatever Astra’s Mother had instructed her to do. He worried about that, too, and more than he dared to admit out loud. Worried about how easily his beloved had taken to trust the same woman who’d abandoned her the moment she was born. Astra had accepted her destiny without so much as questioning it, and it…irked him that he had no say in the matter. He wasn’t like Astra, or her mysterious Mother. He was only…human.

How could he ever protect her from the rough, dangerous north? How could he protect their child? Osten had no power.

The only thing he did have was the frozen rage in his chest, begging to be unleashed upon the world. And the knife, gripped firmly in his hand.

This was the only way.

He’d attack them from the shadows—take them by surprise, the same way Astra had done so many times as she waited for him to arrive at her house. Some of them were strong men, but inexperienced—their sheer weight and size half no advantage over his stealth, acquired after all those months in the forest. He could take them. He could kill them.

And finally, his family would be safe.

He could see them gathering at the main square, torches in hand—no doubt readying for another hunt. A hunt for their witch.

He would die before he let them get to her.

***

The boot on his neck was heavy, its rough heel digging into the hollow of his throat.

An ambush, an ambush, an ambush. The thought thrummed in his head along with his blood. They’d known he would come back, had remembered his stubbornness from the forest, and they’d prepared accordingly.

Osten never stood a chance.

Blood gushed in his mouth, though he could hardly feel it anymore—his jaw had been shattered in so many places he wasn’t entirely sure how it still clung to the rest of his face. Another kick to his scarred back—someone cried out in agony. Perhaps it was him.

“Where’s your whore, thief,” someone seethed.

A twisted bone—his leg?

He thought he screamed again.

“Filth,” another spat.

Something hot and wet spilled down his face. Blood, tears, both. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Please, his mind cried out to nothingness. Please, help me save her.

The boot forced his face deeper into the cobblestone, and a loud crack snapped in his ears. Then, more blood—this time, flooding his lips, into his mouth. His nose had given in at last.

Please, he begged again. Give me power. Give me strength.

A flash of fire in his face. Torches lowered down to his ragged clothes.

Let me kill them. One last desperate plea. I’ll do anything.

And then, everything went dark.

“Anything?”

A voice, as ancient as it was young, as smooth as it was hoarse. Powerful, thrumming with something he’d only ever felt from one being before.

Magic.

“Yes,” he rasped.

It narrowed its eyes at him, assessing.

“Will you sacrifice everything that you are for the power we offer you?”

His heart stopped beating.

“Would that power be able to save her?”

Silence. And then, “It would.”

“Then yes.”

A feline smile in the darkness.

“Let us begin.”

***

When he opened his eyes, he was someone else. He was a breath floating with the wind. He was a shadow fading into darkness. He was the smoke rising from the dying fire, the blood flowing through the cracks in the stone. But, above all, he was the urge to kill.

So kill he did.

Every scream of anguish, every drop of blood spilled by his power crafted him—built him up piece by piece, until he was satiated enough to see, to feel, to speak.

He rose from the pool of bodies, torn apart and scattered like the sky ripped by a raging storm. Only then did he see two figures emerge from the darkness.

“Brother,” the female greeted, her voice low and smooth and the ugliest thing he’d ever heard. “You have done well.”

He blinked. Looked down to his hands—to the blood sure to be staining them—and found nothing.

Nothing.

Not a limb, not a shred of skin, not a gleaming bit of bone. He closed his fist—he could feel it, feel the nails digging into flesh, but—

Who was he?

What was he?

Why…why did he not remember?

“There is nothing to remember,” the male said, his dark eyes flashing. “You live in the present. Nothing else matters.”

He’d…heard him. His thoughts…?

The female nodded. “Nothing else shall ever matter.”

He could feel blood dripping from his mouth as he asked, “What is my name?” His voice wasn’t the same as theirs. There was no depth, no pitch to it, no melody. Only a breath.

The male sighed deeply, and looked to the female, who shook her head.

His…sister?

“You don’t have a name,” she only told him. “Come. There is much to do.”

He couldn’t understand why his chest ached—why it felt deprived of something too important to have forgotten. Something warm, and bright, gleaming a soft, golden light deep where his soul should’ve been. His only memory—or, perhaps, just a dream.

And so, he followed his family into the darkness.

***

ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

His siblings were gone, thank the Cauldron. Captured. Trapped, the earth croaked beneath his feet.

Dead? he asked it.

Not dead, it answered. Never really dead. It was wishful thinking, anyway.

Stryga, he heard, had been bound to this island. Somewhere deep in the woods, banished from her fortress forever. Or, at the very least, for as long as the Fae remained in this world, their magic alive and powerful enough to keep his sister from escaping. His brother, another captive. That made him smile a little bit. From the two of his siblings, Koschei had never been his favourite.

A strong, strong magic now held him beneath a lake across the Great Sea. Impressive. Koschei had always been the strongest of them all. Still, there was no doubt left in his mind that his brother’s confinement would only incite his revenge, and he would nurture it under the surface for as long as necessary—and, when the time was right and the Warrior was gone, he would strike.

Even shackled, his siblings were dangerous. More dangerous than when they roamed these lands freely, perhaps. He could feel their magic simmering beneath the earth, hot and angry and threatening to burn the world when it finally spilled.

He would not be there when it finally happened. He needed to be somewhere safe.

Fortunately, salvation was closing in on him, on the cave he’d opted to wait in. For some strange reason, the darkness buried within brought him comfort—settled something restless inside of him. When the Warrior arrived, he’d finally know true peace.

He heard it then—heard the world folding in on itself, like two ends of a sheet of parchment being brought together. Then, it opened again, revealing a cloud of shadows made restless by a dark wind.

It was nothing like the darkness that welcomed him that day, threatening and all-consuming. This darkness flowed, like it belonged anywhere its owner went, a veil of serenity, a shield from the scorching sun.

When she emerged, that darkness trailed behind her. Even the earth, tormented by his siblings’ ire, seemed to sag with relief where the shadows caressed it.

How strange, that magic. How different.

His siblings had warned him—had told him of the power the Warrior’s master held, traitorous and unnerving. He’d have to keep his guard up.

She stopped close enough to the cave’s hollow opening for him to make out the midnight blue of her eyes, so deep that, as the shadows curled over her shoulder, they shone a brilliant violet.

“Are you going to make this difficult?” she asked, her voice quiet yet clear.

He chuckled, the sound echoing off the stone. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

Her hear cocked to the sight, dark hair shifting with the movement. “Are you…afraid?”

“I’d be a fool not to be afraid of you.” He hummed, soaking in the magic that seemed to sing from deep within her soul. “You are her proudest creation, after all.”

That was what Koschei had claimed, at least. And, when it came to the Fae, still so young and learning, he was smart enough to take him for his word.

“You are talking about the Mother,” the Warrior said, something puzzled in her tone.

He hummed again. “That is what she calls herself, yes.” Stryga had always thought it laughable. “A powerful Death God. The most powerful of us all, perhaps.”

She sucked in a breath. He smiled. So Koschei was right—she didn’t know.

“My Mother is not a Death God,” she seethed, those violet eyes flaring bright. 

He sighed theatrically. “Of course she is. Just because she never told you doesn’t make it any less of a truth.” He angled his head. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

The Warrior gritted her teeth. “They warned me about you.”

He stroked the wall of rock beside him, rough against invisible flesh. “I’m glad I lived up to expectations.”

She straightened, as though composing herself—perhaps she’d at last remembered what she’d come for and realised he enjoyed wasting her time far too much. “I thought you weren’t going to make this difficult.”

“And I told you, I have no intention to resist.” A beat of silence. Then, he added, “You have done well, trapping my siblings. Binding their magic.” Perhaps she’d failed to kill them in the end, but…containing beings like Stryga and Koschei was no easy task. Impossible, he’d once thought, though what a delight it had been to be proven wrong. There were no others like her. Other Fae—the ones that came before her, the ones the Mother created after her—were merely a kernel of what this female was. Of the potential she held. “You are quite powerful indeed.”

But his words seemed to flow past her unacknowledged, because her brows furrowed as she asked, “Your siblings?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“Where…” He waited. Waited as she tried to piece the meaning of his words together. “Where did you all come from?”

Another world, his siblings had told him that day. Now no more than dust drifting across a plain. But, the being that unleashed them all upon it…

His lip curled—and she couldn’t see it, not when he still hid in the depths of the cave, but—

“No,” she whispered.

His smile grew wider. “Oh, yes.”

Still—her body was so still.

“She never told me,” so small, so quiet, the Warrior nowhere in sight.

He shrugged. “What parents like to talk of children they consider a failure? You’ve met my siblings. I’m sure you can understand.” They hated her—the Mother. Despised them with all their might—so he despised her, too. The Mother he could not remember.

“Step outside,” she ordered, the words still trembling on her breath. “I wish to speak with you, face to face.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Believe me, I’m staying hidden for your benefit, warrior-heart.”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

So he said, “As you wish.”

When he stepped into the sunlight, into her sight, his phantom body tingled—tingled as he became someone else.

His eyes locked on hers.

And the Warrior feared by the Gods staggered back—away from him.

Darkness flickered around her, wrapped itself around her legs, her arms, as if holding her in place. Her entire body trembled—actually trembled as she took him in, her eyes wide with shock—shock and something else.

Grief.

He couldn’t help but ask. “What do you see?”

But she only stared and stared, silver threatening to spill from her gleaming eyes.

“What are you?” she managed to ask, the question weighted with pain.

“A reflection,” he answered. “Your deepest fears, hopes, desires. People see many things when they look at me. But, I must admit, I have never received a reaction as strong as yours.”

And he was curious—curious to learn why.

She shook her head, and he thought she might finish it then—unleash her power and be done with it. With him. But then…

“I was going to have a child,” she said quietly, and he froze. “Once. You…you look like what I imagined he would one day. He…” Her gaze broke from his, fell to the ground along with two, lone tears. “He has his eyes.”

He wasn’t breathing—perhaps he never had at all. “His father?”

She had a family—no one ever told him, no one had ever said that the Goddess’s monster had once been so…human.

“He died.” The world slowed. Even the shadows around her stilled. “Died to protect us both.” Her lip wobbled—she made no attempt to hide it. “I may be powerful,” she said, lifting her eyes back to his, dark lashes heavy and wet. “But I’d give it all away to get them back.” She did not blink the tears away as she told him, “All of it.”

For the first time in his immortal life, he had no idea what to do. Words were foreign—not nearly enough to express the sorrow that crashed into him with her confession. He’d never been immune to feeling—but this…was this one of her abilities? Making him share this pain with her?

No—he caused this. What she saw in him—the life she could’ve had…bearing some of her grief was the least he could do.

“I’m afraid even I don’t hold such power,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re…apologising?”

He nodded. “There is great sadness about you. I’m sorry to have caused that.”

She looked—truly looked at him, trying to see past the face, the eyes her soul urged to show her. Searching for his own soul beneath.

He’d never regretted giving it up more.

“Don’t be,” she finally said. “What happened is not your fault.”

He could not explain it. Could not understand why, after learning of all that she had lost, his chest tightened with guilt.

So when she asked, “Will you come with me now?”

He could only answer, “Yes.”

***

The earth whispered of her arrival, but he’d already known—had felt her the moment her choice was made.

Now, he waited, listening to her steps, light over the ancient stone as she entered the Prison. She’d been debating it for a long time—had resisted seeing him again for almost a decade, much longer than he’d expected. The look upon her face when they first met had told him enough.

She was stronger than he thought, it seemed.

Still, even the strongest of the Fae had fallen to curiosity. To questions.

And he was ready to answer them all as the door to his cell swung open.

Veiled in shadows, he offered her a deep bow—even if she couldn’t see it. See him. “My Queen.”

He could see her well, though—well enough to see a glimmer of confusion light up her face. “I am not a Queen yet.” She angled her head. “You’ve been…expecting me?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It isn’t marriage that decides such things. Your betrothed might be a Prince in title, but he stands to gain a lot more from this union than you do.” He bit out a laugh. “Congratulations, of course.”

“I didn’t come here to ask your advice,” she said. A lie so obvious he couldn’t help but smile in the darkness.

“Forgive me,” he purred. “I so rarely get company these days. Which brings me to my question,” he added. “Why are you here?”

He wanted to hear her say it, for some strange reason. I wanted to see you. Talk to you. Understand you.

“Are you comfortable here?” she asked.

He couldn’t help but laugh. He wondered what his voice sounded like to her. To him, it was all but a whisper carried by the wind. “Such a gracious host, my lady.”

“Only the best for my most obedient prisoners.”

Oh, she was delightful.

“Prisoners,” he mused. “You say that as if my being here was involuntary.”

Those violet eyes simply watched him, two stars pondering over his fate. “Are you hungry?” she finally asked.

That, he did not expect.

“Hungry?”

She nodded. “I… brought you something.”

Something landed at his feet with a quiet thud.

He scrunched his nose. “Bones?”

Her mouth tightened. “They’re from back home. Not the Palace, but—where I came from.” She loosed a breath, heavy on the stench of raw meat that now filled his cell. “Seeing you last time, it…brought back memories I’ve been too afraid to revisit.”

Slowly, he reached to pick up the bone closest to him. “They hold value to you, then.” Not entirely a question.

Another shaky breath. “Yes.”

That mighty, Fae warrior…gone. A shell of a female stood before him now, her gaze pleading. So he told her gently, “You have my thanks.”

Ask me. Ask me what you came here to ask, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

“Why are you hiding in the shadows?”

She wasn’t ready, then. He forced a smile. “Tell me a secret no one knows, Majesty, and perhaps I’ll tell you mine.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

He thought she might leave in that moment. Turn around and vanish without a final goodbye.

But then, she said, her voice barely above a whisper,  “I don’t want to marry him. I can’t…” She swallowed hard. “My purpose is complete. I wish for nothing but to fade into the night sky—to be reunited with the ones I lost, the ones waiting for me in the stars.” She looked up—as if she could see their faint glimmer through the miles of stone above. “I know this…marriage…is meant to bring hope to my kind. To give them a world they’ve never had. But I can’t help but feel…” Her lips wobbled, and she pressed them together. “I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him. That, if I go through with this, it will…It will be as if he was never really there.”

The hollow quiet returned.

“Your heart breaks for the dead, Your Majesty, when it should be healing for the living,” he said softly. “Those who have become stars now shine their light upon you. I…don’t imagine your beloved would want to watch you waste it.”

He found her eyes on him again. Shining.

He said nothing more.

“A secret for a secret,” she told him, breaking the silence again.

So clever, his instincts wanted to purr. But something else—perhaps the heart he used to have—spoke out instead. “I am hiding in the shadows because the sight of me brings you pain. I don’t wish to bring any more of it into your life.”

Her body froze into stillness. She watched him and watched, her pretty face contorted in something he couldn’t understand. And then, she said, “Come into the light.”

So he did.

“The son I see when I look at you,” she finally started, her voice strained. “How do you know what he would have looked like?”

There it was.

“I don’t,” he said quietly, the emptiness in his chest like an echoing cave. “I see nothing. Am nothing.”

Her next breath died on her lips.

“I’m sorry this isn’t the answer you were hoping for,” he apologised.

But her face was softer than he’d ever seen it as she told him, “I’m sorry, too.” She took a half-step towards him. “I…”

She shook her head.

“You can ask me,” he said. “Anything you want. Your Majesty,” he quickly added.

Her throat bobbed slightly. “I won’t see you again, will I?”

He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have too much to deal with to think of me again.”

“I won’t ever forget you,” she vowed.

How he wished it was true.

***

“No escort this time?”

Her eyes levelled on him, practically dripping with disdain. He bounced off the wall, moving to return her gaze, the mouth of her firstborn curving into a smirk—

He stilled.

For in those blue-grey eyes, he saw something else. A female who had seen her soul and faced all the darkness buried within. A female changed.

“You retrieved it,” he whispered.

But it was impossible—impossible, and yet…

And yet, the Ouroboros appeared, still encrusted by the frost of Hewn City’s deepest, most wicked labyrinths.

“How.”

She must’ve tricked it. His sister’s mighty, ancient magic—

“I looked.” Words were dry on her tongue, worn out by endless screaming. Endless pain.

She spoke the truth.

He shot to his feet. “What did you see?” he demanded.

A shadow of a smile—as if she could sense the desperation in his tone. He almost hissed in reprimand at his fervour. “That,” she started, “is none of your concern.”

The Bone Carver had no heart, and he’d never been more grateful—if he did, the High Lady of the Night Court would’ve been sure to hear its nervous thrumming, to scent the heat it blasted into his withered veins.

He could all but stare as she pointed to the door of his cell. “You have your mirror. Now uphold your end,” she ordered, then added, voice cold with authority, “Battle awaits.”

Indeed.

And after the battle…salvation.

“It would be my pleasure,” he told her with a smile.

Her brows knitted, confusion creasing her face—had she somehow read the words his mind had whispered? Cursed daemati—

“What do you mean?” she asked.

So he smiled again, another mask to fool the young female. “I have little need for that thing,” he lied, gesturing to the artefact. “But you did.”

She only blinked.

“I wanted to see if you were worth helping,” A half-lie, perhaps. He’d known it without the Ouroboros—the wind had whispered it to him the moment she was reborn, deep under that wretched mountain. “It is rare—to face who you truly are and not run from it, to be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch.” Truth. He’d spent centuries studying the mirror, the curse his twin had placed upon it. Had devoted himself to finding it the second he learned she’d lost it, confined to a strip of land far away from her fortress. And now…

Now it was finally here, in his cell. Waiting.

He continued, “Some gaze upon it and don’t even realise that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad.” She blinked again. “Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you…” he met her gaze again. “Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.”

It was a delight to see the flash of rage on her freckled face. “You wanted to see if I was worthy?” she seethed.

He nodded. “I did. And you are. And now I shall help you.” She didn’t need to know he would’ve helped her nonetheless.

So Feyre Archeron said, her voice quiet as death, “You will wait for my signal.”

The Bone Carver smiled. “That is our bargain.”

The High Lady did not so much as grace him with a look as she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with the Ouroboros.

Leaving him alone with the truth.

Slowly, he turned to the mirror, its awful magic calling out to him like a pet to its master. Like it had been waiting for him.

Good. He’d been waiting for it his entire life.

The Bone Carver. A being of no name, no form, no soul. For as long as he could remember, ever since the day he’d woken up to flames dancing in the darkness, mocking.

No longer.

He knew he was despicable, he knew that deep down, the small, sorry creature he’d told the High Lady about was likely to appear in his own reflection, too. But it would be a reflection of him, not the dreams, fears or desires of those he encountered. Only him.

At last.

The Bone Carver looked into the mirror.

And Osten fell to his knees.

A thin hand—his hand—wrapped around his throat, his knuckles white and bruised. Bruised from the fight—from the jaws of the village men he’d hit as they pushed him to the ground, as they beat him until blood splattered from his ears, his mouth, his nose.

Two tears slid down his cheeks.

I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him, a voice, soft and gentle and so full of pain, whispered into his mind. A familiar voice—more than, in his immortal life, he ever imagined. That, if I go through with this, it will…it will be as if he was never really there.

The black eyes staring back at him were desolate.

“Astra,” he choked out. “Astra.”

But Astra was gone—had been gone for a very, very long time. Had become one with the night sky, hoping to be greeted by him among the stars, only to be met by endless darkness.

“Astra,” Osten cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His body, the same body he died in all those centuries ago, shook with a sob.

I wish we could stay like this. Forever.

One day, we will.

The frost began to melt off the silver frame, cold water dripping on the stones.

He would help them win this war. Pay for what he’d done to this world. And, when it was all over, he would tell her that this whole time, it was her keeping him safe. That he was so scared of losing her that he’d lost himself in the process. And then…and then perhaps she would forgive him. 

Either way, he’d be free.

Taglist: @headcanonheadcase @melting-houses-of-gold @kingofsummer93 @asnowfern @panicatthenightcourt @reverie-tales @s-uppertime @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @starfall-spirit @vulpes-fennec @fieldofdaisiies @isterofimias

Side note: While both the Bone Carver and the Female Warrior are characters from the ACOTAR series, their names, backstory and appearance were created by me. Please do not use them in your own work without my explicit permission, I worked very hard on this :)

[gkbask]

What's the relationship of Nova and Star Dream? Relatives or something else?

(Because Star Dream was created so late, it and NOVA hadn't had the chance to interact much. Although, Star Dream generally thinks of NOVA as an inferiour Clockwork Star. Not that NOVA minds or cares.)

[lefresne]

hello, do you know anything about "avalon revisited" 1963 by margaret atwood?

NO??? It looks like a series of poems Atwood wrote and published while she was still at uni? Interesting! Can’t find anything abt it…….

[dathen]

We’re so used to the sexual reading of the entire book of Dracula, which takes the sensuality of the early chapters and jams everything that follows it into the same metaphor no matter how poorly it fits, but I feel the segment we’re approaching works much better with a lens of chronic illness and disease.

Vampire legends are inextricably intertwined with disease. Many of them are said to have been birthed by burying victims of disease too soon, who later seem to rise from the dead. But what’s more is that Stoker and his family have deep-seated trauma over disease: his mother had to flee her hometown at the age of 14 because of a horrific cholera epidemic, and Stoker himself was bedridden as a child from an illness that no one could identify.

Found this quote from Irish Historian Mary McGarry:

Bram as an adult asked his mother to write down her memories of the epidemic for him, and he supplemented this using his own historic research of Sligo’s epidemic. Scratching beneath the surface (of this essay), I found parallels with Dracula. [For instance,] Charlotte says cholera enters port towns having traveled by ship, and can travel overland as a mist—just like Dracula, who infects people with his unknown contagion.

I bring this up because a lot of academic analysis insists that Lucy sleepwalking is proof of her being the Slutty Woman archetype that needs to be punished. This suggested symbolism is hilarious when put next to the text saying she inherited it from her father, but I’d like to suggest a different angle from the lens of disease suggested earlier:

Lucy’s sleepwalking is a condition that predates Dracula but makes her an easy target for him to prey on. Through the lens of disease symbolism, she now is someone with chronic illness or disability who is especially vulnerable to infectious disease. This becomes a cross-section of Stoker’s trauma regarding disease: his own mystery illness and his mother fleeing a plague.

To wind down my rambles with a bit of a soapbox, I feel this adds a very poignant layer to the struggle to keep Lucy alive. The COVID pandemic showed a horrifying level of casual ableism vs disabled and immunodeficient individuals, shrugging off their vulnerability and even their deaths with “well COVID only kills them.�� There’s something deeply gratifying at seeing the way everyone around Lucy fights to the bitter end to protect her and refuses to just give her up to Dracula, whether it’s Mina physically chasing him away or the suitor squad pouring their blood into her veins or Van Helsing desperately searching for cures. The vulnerable deserve no less than this. They’re not acceptable casualties.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS

PAIRING: Merman!John Price x F!Artist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s something in the water - you're going to figure out what it is, and why it chose to save you.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, murder, death/near death, assault, injury, gore, mystery, mentions of suicide, angst, protective!John, pining, sickness, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The little boat rocks as it slips through the expansive water, a thin hanging of mist in the air. The curtain-like film it leaves makes it nearly impossible to see the dark rocks of the shore a far distance away, and the dip and push of the oars through the chilled waves leaves splashing droplets connecting to your cheeks. You touch the flesh delicately, brushing away the spray as your eyes slide over dark, lapping water—deeper than anything. 

In your lap, sitting below the high waist of your skirt, was your sketchbook; the tweed material was all the rage these days, though you never focused much on that. The thick item kept out the chill of the, very, early morning, and that was all you cared about, though, it seemed you lacked the foresight to pack a proper coat. A large woolen shawl sat over your shoulders, hiding the plain white blouse but not its cuffs; not the slight poof of the bottom part of the sleeves. 

Your numb fingers fiddle with the pencil in your hands, your open sketchbook filled with page after page of images ranging from the common sea-bird to great ships and shorelines. 

“I still have to ask why you feel the need to tag along,” is the voice that breaks the silence, and you blink away from the cloud of condensation from your exhalation. Your ear twitches, but only a small flick of a smile pulls your lips at the older man’s garbled words. “So cold my damn hands are going to fall off. Why am I always the one bloody working the oars?”

Otto Whitworth was a man far into his later years—one who entertained your fascination with the raging waters and the need to immortalize them on paper; that draw to the sights and sounds. Graying, covered now in a large coat and his boots, with the long fishing rod knocking around by your feet, he grumbles more than he speaks sentences, content with only the pipe in his breast pocket and the promise of fresh fish for breakfast. 

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” you chuckle, glancing over at his wrinkled face—the glare of dark eyes set into a deep browline that’s more for show of annoyance than genuine emotion. “Gets the blood pumping harder, Mr. Whitworth.” Your vision slides to the shadows of the black rocks, and your pencil finds your palm before the sound of it meeting parchment echoes over the nothingness. “Isn’t it lovely? Listen to the Gannets.”

“Don’t need my blood pumpin’ harder,” the old man grinds out, scoffing. “Gonna make my fuckin’ heart stop, Girl…” Otto sighs, shaking his head as you chuckle. He growls under his breath. “And, no, I’m not listening to the birds—they’ll be trying to steal my fish soon enough. Greedy bastards.”

Your eyes roll in their sockets, pencil shading in the rough shapes of misty rocks, your face cold but still eager for something. There was a type of magic to this place—to Southern England and the small coast town you had settled in nearly a year ago: Redthorpe. 

It seemed your talent for the arts was appreciated here, you had a shop to your name and friendly compliments from the locals every time the door was pulled open. People here liked the attention to detail in a place where they had most likely lived for a good ninety percent of their lives.

You tilt your head at the paper as Otto lets the oars drop back into the water, grasping for his fishing rod that you kindly move closer with your foot. 

The man takes up the item and sets the line, whipping back the pole and snapping it forward with a wizz and a grunt—a cracking of old bones. 

“Now hush,” Otto sighs, settling back. 

You send a silent look upward, and at the same time as he does, you say out loud in a soft voice.

“You’ll scare away the fish with all that blabber.”

A heavy glare is leveled at you, but you raise a hand innocently and laugh under your breath. 

“I’m as silent as the fish, Mr. Whitworth.”

“Cheeky Bird,” Otto sighs loudly, shifting in his seat until he faces the water, eyes glinting. “You’re too wild for this place, then, eh?”

“For most places,” you breathe, smiling as you study the rocks again before going back to your work. It’s only after there were the wiggling bodies of three fish set into a fisher’s basket that the oars are taken back up and the silent water is again forced back by ripples. 

Pencil finding the middle of the spine, you close your sketchbook, the routine is as simple as it always is. Otto will complain about having you at his dock, he’ll begrudgingly invite you in and cook three fish: one for him, the second for his cat, Harriet—older than England itself and missing most teeth; as blind as a bat—and then, finally, you. After that you’re back in your shop finishing up your piece of the misty shoreline, working until the candle burns through both ends and the oil paints are swirling colors as your eyes bug. Bed, and finally, repeat. 

A splash of water makes you blink quickly, your head jerking over at the slide of movement from the corner of your vision. Eyes wide, you swear a fin had cut the surface of the water like a knife through butter. 

Your body moves closer to the side of the boat immediately, leaning over eagerly. 

“Hey!” Otto barks, steadying himself as the vessel shakes back and forth. Your eyes shimmer, a smile overtaking your lips. “Watch yourself—you’ll send me overboard!”

“Did you see that?” Your eyes dart over the water. “I think I saw a fin.” 

“You got excited over a fish?” The older man’s voice is unimpressed, hissing in the crackling of age. “Hell, I got three in the basket if you’re that bloody impressed.”

“Shh,” you wave one of your hands, unblinking. “It was bigger than a fish, Otto!” 

Your ears twitch to his scoff, his hands grasping the oars harder before he shoves the boat forward. Body looming, the intense pull of adventure dims the longer nothing happens, and after a minute or two of dead mist and water, you hum under your breath like a fool and sit back.

“Lost it,” your numb lips murmur, breath puffing out softly. “Damn.” You shake your head as the wooden dock gets closer, more boats tied and shifting with the waves. “It was strange,” you admit. “Like a deep navy color—with specs of silver along the spine.”

Otto pauses, his hands tight over the oars. He blinks over at you, face for the first time showing an emotion other than annoyance. You barely notice before the sheen of crafted blankness is back. 

You smile down the length of the boat, curiosity plain to see. “Do you know of any animal like that around here?”

“No,” Otto grunts out quickly, and your excitement dims sharply, blinking through shock. 

Your brows furrow after the silence falls stiffly—the boat had never been uncomfortable to you, the atmosphere quiet, of course, but always easy to charter. Now the air was…muddy. Something had changed as fast as a fish being yanked out of water. 

Fingers twitching, you sit back slowly onto the plank, pulling your sketchbook the tiniest bit closer to your abdomen. Face open, Otto continues to row and the entire ride is silent until the boat is docked and tied to the pole by calloused hands. Your digits grasp your shawl and wrap the fabric harder, shifting down to hide your chin into the wool as you shiver. 

“...Need help?” You ask, eyes still shifting back to the water like always. 

There’s something now that makes your attention drift like the waves themselves—and it wasn’t only the shadows of the rise and fall, it was Otto’s strange behavior. The man wasn’t one to just say one word and nothing more. He could bounce off you like it was a game; you often thought he enjoyed your company just so he could insult someone. Jokingly, of course. It was the companionship he craved, it was why he always let you on his boat in the mornings. 

Otto lived alone. You never asked about it. 

“Don’t need any help,” he grumbles out, tying off the last knot to the pole and stepping back with a smirk of satisfaction. “M’not in the grave yet, Girl. Been working the boats since I was out my mum’s womb.”

“Feel sorry for her.” Your mutter meets the air as light streaks through the mist. Breathing hot air into your free hand, you rub it over your arm repeatedly and sigh, fingers of the other limb tightening over your book. Absentmindedly, your head turns back to the open water one last time, for one last glimpse of anything you want to commit to memory while you paint—

The fin is back. 

“Otto!” Feet swiftly dart to the end of the dock, you stop only an inch away as your skirt whips over. “It’s back! Look!” 

A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away. 

Gasping sharply, you stumble until the harsh bark of, “Get back!” echoes across the dock just as it does through your ears. 

“Whoa!” You’re quickly let go of, a shadow shielding you from the view of the water as you scramble to make sure your sketchbook won’t slip from your hold. Head jerking to stare in shock at the middle of Otto’s curved spine, your heart stutters in confusion and a bit of hesitation befitting one who was just manhandled. Standing up straight again, your tight face pulls in, the pound of your heart telling you something is wrong. 

Glancing past a still frozen Otto, the water is utterly devoid of life again—only ripples to show there had ever really been something there at all. 

“You go back to the ocean,” Otto yells, spittle flying from his mouth, fishing boots stomping against the wood as he moves forward a step, pointing. “Go back to the bloody hole you swam out of! There’s nothing for you here! Nothing!” 

You watch, struck dumb. 

“...Mr. Whitworth?” Your lips mutter out, eyebrows shifting from the waves to the man—utterly confused down to your chilled bones. Who was he talking to?

Perhaps time had caught up to him—was he mistakenly taking the rocks for people? The waves for whispers? All you had seen was a fish’s fin, nothing more, nothing less.

“Otto,” you call again, concerned. You should get the man inside; get him warm and let him cook his breakfast. “Let’s just go.” Your eyes blink lightly, fingers twitching over your book. “Alright…? My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, it’s nothing important.”

His form waddles past you, more in tune to his sea legs than the ones on land, and under his breath, you hear him snarl out a low, “You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.” 

Withered hand connecting with your shawl’s edge, you’re dragged back with more force than you’d anticipate Otto still having, but you go with him nonetheless. 

Looking at the water, there’s nothing to see beyond the stretch of nothingness.

—

You dare to ask when you’re pushing the fish bones over to the side of your plate, slipping some mashed-up scraps to Harriet who lays in your lap purring. The rough scrape of a tongue licks your fingers, and deep gray fur caresses your palm.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Your voice carries over the small hut that Otto calls his own, the sounds of the water meeting the rocks plainly heard seeing as his property was as close to the cliffs as you could get without going over them. “I never took you for someone to believe in spirits.” The joke was a small jab, but even your own amusement was dim in the situation. Your hand puts down the fork and moves to rest along Harriet’s back, lightly petting the old cat as her half-missing tail flicks in satisfaction.

The man’s back over at the sink tightens. 

“You watch yourself near the waters, Girl,” Otto grunts, dark eyes glancing over his shoulder. “By God, you watch yourself. There’s things out there—terrible things.” 

“What kinds of ‘terrible things,’ Otto?” Your head tilts, sketchbook resting still on the table, your gaze flickering to it. Terrible had a nice ring to it. But something else was swirling in your gut now, a hesitation of a special sort that only comes out with the unknown paths of life. 

What could make a man born and bred on the waters so reserved when speaking about them? Your interest had been piqued—your curiosity unsated until you were given a clear answer. You’d only been here a year, that wasn’t enough time to know the secrets of Redthorpe; to be let into those deeper circles. 

Otto licks his cracked lips, the wrinkles of his face leaving behind something akin to a scrunched dog’s visage—worn by time and improper care from the damage of the sun. He’d been at work on his boat for decades, and while you took his advice with a grain of salt usually,  this time he carried himself differently: you wanted to know why. 

He glares with no venom, taking out the scrubbed pan from the soapy water and barking, “What’s it with the younger generation and their bloody pushing? Listen to what I’m telling you and take it as it is, Girl. You don’t go on the water,” he blinks, face grim, “unless I’m the one ferryin’ you through it, eh? That’s the end of it. I’ll say no more.” 

Frowning heavily, you sigh under your breath and shake your head. Letting your eyes slip down to Harriet, you scratch under her chin and stare into her milky eyes as she lets out a little chirp.

“So much for answers,” your lips mutter. 

But a fire had been lit in your breast now—a low simmering pull like a rope had been tied to your wrist, drawing you closer and closer to the rocky shore, to a boat tied on the dock which you knew was steadily rocking to the deep, dark waves of this isolated place. 

To a navy-colored fin in the water, and a shape far larger than any you’d seen before. 

Blinking to look out the window of Otto’s home, your eyes find the ocean, and the longing that you’d always had for it grows ten times larger as your sketchbook begs to be filled.

—

It was only fate, you guessed, that you had come to Redthorpe—a tiny, unimportant dot on the map—when the way of life you’d chosen had led you astray. This place was a way to start over. Fix yourself. You’d picked the least-known town in all of Europe, and that was exactly what you wanted.

One trait, though, that could never be squashed from your psyche was the lust for the unknown. It was an obsessive lover; a toxic hand on the back of your neck that dragged you back over and over, until there was only yourself to blame for the repetition of disappointment. 

It was the reason you found yourself on the shore two days after you sighted the dark fin that cut the water. 

Your lace-up boots were atop a large boulder, shifting as your body turned from left to right, eyes patiently dragging the expanse of nothing. Waves lap only inches below, spraying up to get absorbed into your skirt, shawl whipping with the wind. The breeze is stuck with the sounds of birds, the very beings darting above your head, playing their games with varying cries that sound like throaty groaning. 

Bending, your arms wrap your waist, lips flickering. You were cold, limb-numbingly so, but even if you saw nothing today, or tomorrow, the push and pull of the ocean was enough—the call of the birds, the hypnotic sway of water. Calling to you, even if it had no lips to do so. 

Taking down a lung-shaking inhale, you chuckle, sketchbook sitting in the small purse around your shoulder. 

“What am I doing?” You ask yourself, shaking your head. “It was just a big fish—that old man was just being paranoid, anyways.” Eyes caressing the line where water meets the sky, your smile pulls your chilled cheeks. “There’s nothing out here worth my time. I need to finish my work.” 

Leaning back, you rub your hands up and down your biceps, nonetheless enjoying your time despite the burning of something in the back of your head. A knowledge that the fin was nothing documented before? A hope of discovery? A need for adventure? Oh, who can really say—what can be known are only three things: 

One, the weather was getting worse, two, the water was getting wilder, and, three, you had forgotten the way the rock you were standing on had shifted when you stepped up to it. Shuffling, your boots connect to the right corner, and your hands extend to keep your balance as you hiss a low breath, purse beginning to slip. 

There’s a gruff call from the water.

“Careful, then.”

Your head snaps up to the sound of a man’s voice, and you startle sharply, gasping as your foot slips. A quick cry is all you get out before you’re suddenly plummeting downwards headfirst into the frigid water. 

The feeling of liquid is all-consuming as it seeps into your nostrils and ears, all sound muffled entirely beyond the roar of it leaving you so stupendously—a flare, and then nothing. Eyes bugging, limbs slashing through the waves, the chill hits you in the chest with the force of a stone, smashing through your ribs to weigh you down with concrete stuck in your lungs. It was entirely a bodily reaction to gasp. 

Through the blue and the bubbles, you start to drown. 

Fingers twitching, you claw at nothing as the darkness settles its hands over your panicked eyes, not for a moment thinking about who had called to you in the first place—or who was poking a head out of the water before you’d gone over. Obviously, it was a trick of your senses; no one could survive being out in water like this.

You certainly weren’t going to. 

Legs slashing, something is darting in the corner of your eye before your vision fails, but the rapid fear in your heart masks the hand gripping at your shirt’s collar. It hides even the feeling of strong arms until the point where you’re yanked upwards with little effort as one curls your waist. It doesn't hide, however, the way you vomit up water as you’re heaved to the rocky shore moments later.

Choking, you hack up salt that burns your esophagus until your lunch quickly follows—all spilled with little care for your hands caught in the crossfire. Spine arching as if a cat, air can’t come sweeter as it is drawn in rapidly; nearly hyperventilating on the ocean-smooth stones as your clothes are utterly ruined. 

Panting, gasping, shivering violently, your head pulls itself weakly upward. It doesn’t take long for your mind to scream at you, and your head snaps behind you in a panic.

But there’s nothing but the raging water and the splash of a large navy-colored tail as big as your entire body disappearing back into the depths. 

Your fear can only stay for so long before the threat of a frigid death becomes more and more probable. In your race back up the cliff face to your shop, your purse is completely forgotten, trapped on the top of that shaky rock where it had fallen from your shoulder before the great plunge. 

Your shawl is seen floating out to the open water before it’s grasped from below and suddenly plucked—vanishing without a single trace.

—

The fire rages with the inferno of a million suns, and it’s not nearly hot enough. Wrapped in every blanket, sheet, and warm item available, you still can’t stop shivering hours later. A teacup was stuck in your hands, the liquid sloshing over the edges to slip over your quivering fingers and absorb into the cocoon of heat. 

Breathing through your shaky lungs, you keep the rim of the cup to your lips, eyes wide and horrified. In the still moments after you’d stripped and tried to stop the onset of sickness that you could already feel coming, there was a flash of realization from your strange and fantastical ordeal. 

There had been a man. 

The sensation of hands around your waist—the gruff voice that had spooked you so violently. A man. In the water. Every time you blink, you see a shadowed image, a tiny glimpse as you’d turned to the sound of human speech above the shriek of birds. 

Short brown hair and narrowed blue eyes set into sockets of pale skin. A bearded face, mustache…square jaw…

“What in God’s name?” You stutter in question over your tea, shaking your head. “That isn’t possible.” 

Outside your shop, the wind screams, pushing against your exterior shutters as night sets in. A storm was coming; there’d be no other adventures for you. Sipping your drink, you shiver again, curling in tighter to yourself as wood crackles. The light dances over your easels and side tables, piled high with jars of brushes and pallets—bottles of linseed oil and liquin, labeled with little pieces of hanging paper at the necks. 

There are paintings in the tens—in the twenties—hanging on the walls and set to the corners, all blue and gray; misty and clear. The water is a staple in all of them, and the cliffs as well. Perfect imitations of this place, as if you could reach a hand through the canvas and enter a mirrored world. Great ships are in some of them, or little fishing boats, with the birds overhead. Sometimes, it’s only the water itself, and to you, those were perhaps the best of your work. 

There was a beauty in the nothingness. A mystery. Who knows what’s under that thin surface? Well…apparently, it wasn’t human. 

You swallow down saliva and your lips thin. 

The thing in the water wasn’t… unattractive, you had to admit. Beyond the waterlogged hair and dripping beard, a large nose sat—full cheeks with an odd mole over them. The more you thought about the brief flash of a visage, the more you grew to hang onto it, strangely. And that navy tail? It had been incredibly unique. 

Spiney, nearly—four thin bones going down on both sides, branching out from the tail starting with the shortest that was perhaps only as long as your hand until the final was as lengthy as your entire arm. There was webbing between each spine to help the thing through the water quickly, it spread to the end of the barb until it sunk back in a ‘U’ movement, before once more arching out again to connect with the next spine. Small gasps in the caudal fin calling to either battles or a natural state of being—for show in it…his?...species. 

Could you even assign it a human gender? 

You close your eyes tightly in your shop, trying to will the image away from yourself. “What in the hell is going on?” Your voice is scratchy and low. 

Yet, the undeniable truth was that the fish-man had saved you. It couldn’t be overlooked. Not by you, who now can sit in front of this very fire because of it. Like a moth to the flame, the surge of cautious confusion is burning your wings. 

Deep blue eyes like the ocean. A navy tail. A gruff, hard voice.

You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace. 

“What has this place been hiding in the water? And why did it bloody save my life right after it nearly ended it?” 

More importantly…you had to think of a way to get your sketchbook back without getting on its bad side.

With a heavy chest, and more than a little fear in your heart, it was resolved to do something about all of this tomorrow. There was no use leaving the shop now. Glancing at the shaking window, you could hear the ocean rampaging over the cliffs; hear the slam of the rain hitting the roof like pounding feet. 

But that voice played in your ears like a gramophone's bleated chorus. 

You shiver again, not from the cold.

Careful, then. 

—

There was no question if you’d gotten sick because of your impromptu bath in the ocean—the evidence was in your salt-covered shirt and the stockings that were still drying on the hearth. 

Pressing a handkerchief to your mouth as you cough haggardly. You’re bundled in a nice fur dress coat, walking along the street with a skipping heart, a simple cloche hat over your head to protect you from the elements; dark blue in color.

The irony was not lost this morning when the hue had a striking familiarity to a fish-like tail, but it hadn’t stayed in your hand. A small drizzle slapped the fabric, and you were thankful you had brought the hat and coat along with you on the move from the big city. 

You weakly smile and nod to the locals you consider friends—at the very least acquaintances. But before long, you’re at the place you feel you need to be to gain answers, too nervous to go back to the shore immediately.

The library.

Something Otto had said came back to you last night, in the throws of insomnia. The two sentences he’d called out on the docks that day—You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.

Eleanor? Who was that and how did it correlate to the beast in the water that wears a man's face? Maybe, the local records would tell you the answer—there had to be something about this person, ‘Eleanor,’ in them, right?

If not, there was only one option left, and that was going down to the shore and getting the results first hand…you’d rather exhaust all of your resources on solid land first. 

Slipping into the library with a deep breath and a cough in your throat, you sigh and nod slightly. Time to get to work.

“Oh,” the librarian looks up from her desk, standing as you shuffle over. “Hello, Dear,” she breathes through a chuckle, eyebrows pulling in softly. “My, you look a bit under the weather, don’t you? Would you like me to get some tea going…?”

“No, thank you,” you wave an easy hand. “I’m here on a bit of an errand, actually, and I was wondering if you could help me with something? I need to ask about your records.”

“Records?” The woman’s face shifts to confusion, her body slipping out to stand next to yours, you bring back up your handkerchief and sneeze into it, groaning. “What kind were you thinking, then?”

After you can push away the sheen of sickness to your eyes you take a breath and clear your throat of the stuffiness. “Births and work records? Addresses?” You make a small noise in the back of your mouth. “I guess I don’t know…anything that might help me?”

The librarian chuckles a bit, amused. “How about you tell me what it is you’re looking into, and I’ll try and grab any public knowledge that I can find. We’ll work together, then.” 

Weight is loosened from your shoulders and you nod appreciatively. “Deal.”

“Go on then,” she walks over to a shelf on the far side of the room, standing as her fingers run the spines. “Occupation I can start with, Dear?”

“Well…” you pause, shuffling after as your head looks from one sizable book to another. “No, unfortunately. Only a first name.”

“You’re lucky Redthorpe is small,” the woman laughs. “Otherwise I would have told you you’re lacking your senses with only something like that to go off of.” 

“Eleanor,” you comment, licking your lips and staring at a spine labeled ‘1890-1900 financial records - Redthorpe’. “E-L-E-A-N-O-R, or at least that’s the common spelling, I believe.” 

The librarian’s body is stone-still. Comparable to the immovable rocks of the shore as the waves bash against them; the raging of the wind. When you glance over, confused at the silence that infects the building, you’re reduced to a meek hesitation at the blank eyes that dig into your face. 

“...Or…maybe it’s N-O-R-E?” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” is the hurried answer, and then the woman moves past with fast feet, heels clicking over the hardwood rapidly. “There hasn’t been an Eleanor in Redthrope. You’re mistaken.” 

“Wait,” you follow, stuttering. “I don’t understand, there has to have been—Otto was talking about her not days ago!”

“You’re mistaken,” is the repeated, firm answer, the librarian’s body swirling to face you again, pointing a finger at you. “Go back to your shop. Mr. Whitworth is old, he sees things that aren’t there. Don’t take what he says to heart—”

“I saw it!” You bark, fed up. Your mind was sick of these games being played, left out of the loop like you hadn’t formed a relationship with the people of this town. 

The woman’s mouth locked shut with a clack of teeth, something darting over her expression…fear?

She backs up slowly. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dear.”

Your lips twist, a threatening sneeze in the back of your nose. “I’m done with the word games! It dragged me out of the water like a sack of flour and tossed me to shore! It saved me!” Her hands are held in front of her as you stalk closer, trying to brush what you’re telling her aside as she struggles to string words. 

“It…it wouldn’t do that—that’s not how it acts. You’re just imagining things; you’re under the weather!”

“Who’s Eleanor?” You huff, stubborn as you cross your arms in front of you. “And what in the hell is a man with the tail of a fish doing living just below these cliffs?”

Wide eyes meet glaring ones, and the librarian’s lips move up and down in a panic. 

“I…” she begins, feet tapping the floor nervously as the rafters creak above the both of you. “I can’t talk about it. It’s not something to be said out loud—especially so close to the water.” 

You bark incredulously, “There’s a bloody monster that lives down in—!”

A hand is snapped over your mouth and you startle, blinking through the twitch of your body. 

“Shh!” The librarian panics, shaking her head, with flaring eyes. “Stop it or you’ll end up being dragged down to the ocean floor like Eleanor was!” You tense behind the hold, shoulders pulled in. It’s a quick spit of whispered words like a fast breeze. “Do you want your body showing up on the rocks?! Stay away from it!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, vision darting back and forth before she finally lets you go in a quick jerk of her body. The woman backs up, quivering as her eyes go to the window, nearly panting from fear. 

She looks back at you, blinks, and mutters out a quiet, “If you’ve already seen it, it wants you. Don’t go back to the water,” before she rushes into the back room and slams the door shut with the slipping of the lock. 

Left standing in the open library, the shelves sit stationary as if sentinels to your raw distress—this had only left you with more questions and a handful of jumbled answers. 

“Careful, then.”

You shake your head harshly and pivot to leave the library in a stupor, shoving your chin back down into your coat’s collar as the wind slaps your face once more. The call of the ocean is like a knife to the back of your neck.

—

Call you whatever name in the book, but you wanted your sketchbook back.

No one in town was giving you anything that was of use, and Otto was tighter-lipped than a lockbox. There was only so much you could do—could speculate—before the need for your belongings was too strong to ignore. It took two more days of pacing your shop before it was decided. 

Taking up the heavy cast-iron pan above your fireplace, you slip the thing into your coat, shove on your hat with a defiant grunt, and force the front door open. It’s a ten-minute walk to the shore, and all the way there, dread fills you up like soup until you’re bloated with it by the time your boots hit black rocks. Yet, there’s a point where a woman’s courage outweighs the sense of caution, and today was currently that day. 

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you grab your skirt and hike it up, placing your boot carefully on the first of the larger stones leading out to where you’d been previously. 

“Don’t look at the water,” you mutter quietly as you move, not shuffling forward until you know the rock isn’t going to topple this way or that. “Don’t even think about it.”

But that tail…that face…

With a growl under your breath, you grind your teeth and continue on. 

The weather today was much more agreeable, but cold. It was always chilled in Redthorpe—dreary as if the clouds never left far above. You didn’t mind, and in your coat pocket, the reassuring weight of your pan left you much warmer than you’d like to admit. 

The heat of protection, so to speak.

“Even a fish-man can die, I’d wager,” you utter, grunting as you ascend a larger rock, palm slapping the wet stone before you heavy upwards, slamming your boot to the top much like a schoolboy as your skirt bunches. “If I hit him hard enough in the skull. I wonder though,” you sneeze, shuddering, “if he even bleeds? If I crack his head open…will blood seep out, or salt water?” 

You shiver, and it’s not from the cold. “Fucking hell, you do like making it harder on yourself, don’t you.”

Lightly panting, you brush down your coat on the top of the rock and turn to look at the boulder where you’d fallen previously, blinking. Pausing, your eyes find not only your sketchbook sitting there…but also your shawl. 

Struggling for a moment to try and justify your actions, you swiftly look over the surface of the water, seeing the gentle push and pull of waves. No fin. No tail. 

You aren’t sure if the feeling in your chest is joy or disappointment.

Licking your lips, you take a large breath before your face turns grim.

“Grab it and run,” your voice echoes in your own head, heart pounding with adrenaline the more steps you take to the boulder, water sloshing at the sides. You had thought perhaps that the rain—the storm—would render all of your lost belongings null, but as you bent and snatched your items to you, shawl hanging from your arm, you were pleasantly surprised. It was all dry; impossibly so. 

Amid your shock, your slack jaw, and the weight of your pan in your coat, your shaky fingers open your book with bated breath. 

Everything was in pristine condition, if not only slightly curled at the corners due to…your eyebrows pull in, expression struggling to take on the emotion of anything other than pure awe.

“Fingerprints?” 

Eyes slipping from one page to the next, flipping them only to see the press and pull of a long gone thumb, shiting the paper to gaze at the back, where a forefinger would have been. A hand laced in water had been turning the pages, just as you do now—and, yet, there wasn’t an inch that was damaged; nothing smeared. 

Shoulders loosening from their tensed position, your wide stare is utterly transfixed as your digits rub the material softly, feet shifting. 

Lowering your sketchbook, your small huff of amazed laughter, mind running. 

He’d been going through your drawings—he’d somehow protected these items from the rain and salt. How? Why? But another question wrapped its hands in your skull.

Did he like them?

Shuffling the book into the crook of your arm, you carefully wrap your shawl over the material to further keep it safe, not able to find your purse, though the only thing it ever held was your sketchbook in the first place; it wasn’t too important. 

Rising your head again, you gaze openly outward, lips opening and closing in a small stutter. Was he out there, this strange creature with a strong face and those deep eyes? That navy tail, looking like a beautiful imitation of kelp…was it just under where you now study the waves?

So many questions, so few answers. 

You clear your throat, holding your items tighter. There’s magnetism in your blood, and it sits on your tongue like salt.

“Thank you!” Your voice calls high, joining the chorus of birds far above on the cliffs. Eyes skating the rocks, the shore, the ocean, everything. Call you prideful, but perhaps the best way to gain your favor is to know that someone, whatever bit strange and fantastical, had enjoyed your work to the smallest degree. 

The way your eyes spark is still embarrassing, though, but it comes naturally after the heat that simmers over your face. 

“Truly,” you shout to the wind. “You have no idea how much this means! If you’re listening, I’d like to extend my gratitude…” Your face is beaming, and you can convince yourself that all of your fear over this is gone, even if that would just plainly be untrue. “My artwork is everything to me, I do hope you enjoyed it!” 

A creature so easily curious about your skills wouldn’t drag you to the bottom of the ocean…right? 

Hell, he’d already had a chance to do that—a perfect one—and yet, here you are. What the Librarian had said had to be false, it made no sense otherwise.

Seeing nothing, and knowing that you were needed back at your shop, you chuckle under your breath and back up swiftly, walking the distance back to the surrounding rocks and slipping off softly. Grunting under your breath, your boots hit the stone, and you carefully begin back-tracking. 

“You’re good at it,” you halt in a fraction of a second. “The images. Where’d you learn to do that?”

It’s a long moment before you turn with a cautious tilt to your head, and find the very same visage as you had a glimpse of days ago. You fight a fast inhale, but your straightening spine tells all the story it needs to. Like a fool, you lose the words in your mouth, as if trying to catch a bird of prey with a butterfly net.

A strong face is poking out of the water only a mere five feet away.

Your eyes slip to the soaked beard, the peak of bare shoulders—broad, of course—and the prying orbs that you feel will never leave; he wades there, arms under the dark water only a flash of pale skin before they’re gone again. 

“I…” you lick your lips, blinking through the moment of animalistic panic. You were on land, there was nothing to fear. The sight was still something to be remembered, though. “I was self-taught, Sir.” 

Blue eyes blink, serious face only made more so by the twitching of his large nose, which water drips from periodically. Droplets stay stuck to his dark lashes, and you’re near bursting with questions. 

But silence persists long after your sentence filters out to nothing.

“You pulled me from the water,” you state slowly. “And I don’t even know your name.”

The man looks you up and down, not arrogant, no, but in a way that is comparable to how you did the same to him. Studying you as if your body was strange to him. The realization almost made you laugh—perhaps it was strange to him.

You want to see that tail of his again. Your fingers itch to sketch its likeness and commit it to muscle memory. 

“I scared you,” he grumbles, sighing. “It wasn’t my intention to send you over.” Eyes still stay stuck. “My own fault.”

“I won’t deny you there,” you huff, gaze shifting away for a moment before filtering back. A slash of amusement curls in the thing’s eyes, and he hums. “Forgive me,” your breath wafts out over the air, face going what you can assume to be sheepish. It astounds you, though, that the conversation comes easily. “But I haven’t the faintest bloody clue as to what to call you.”

“John,” is the reply. Accent like gravel. He doesn’t waste his breath, seems. 

“John?” You lick your lips, legs shuffling over the stone. The name leaves you holding back a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose I could have guessed that, then. I’ve met more than enough ‘Johns’ so far.”

“Funny, are you?” The response, however dry, is tinged with something you can’t name. 

“I try,” you nod jokingly, motioning with a hand. “Just didn’t expect a man with a fishtail to act so….human. Certainly not be named like one, either.”

“Hm,” John grunts, blinking slowly. A hand slips above the water, and you watch it flex and drag to itch at the back of his neck, hair over the arm slick to the flesh. Your face heats, and your eyes dip to see the small shadow under the water almost graze the surface, rippling the waves intimately, as if tail and liquid were of the same sound mind. 

It wasn’t out of the question to say you longed for a glimpse. 

What would it feel like to touch it?

“You live here?” Your voice is hoarse before you clear it quickly. “Right below the cliffs?” 

“You’re the woman that goes out in the boat,” John firmly interjects, and you blink, taken aback. 

“Yes, that’s me.” You explain, pulling at the lip of your hat to force it down further over your head. “Otto goes fishing in the mornings—I like to sketch the shore. He isn’t the worst company, of course. He’s kind enough to let me along with him.”

But you won’t be kept down. There’s magical curiosity in your chest now.

“Your tail,” you take a step forward, boots being licked by icy water. John’s eyes widen a smidge, not expecting you to actively move closer. His head tilts as if a bird, confusion brimming though he hides it expertly. You imagined he considered you a bit mad. “Forgive me, Sir, but I must know,” your uttered rambles make his hidden lip twitch, a little twist to your expression that shows wonder. “Is it attached to you, or do you slip out of it like a pair of pants? O-or even like wearing a stage costume? Oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

John can’t find the words for a moment, only able to watch and assess as he always did in times like these. You were…different, he supposed. But he knew that the moment you had shifted your body over the side of that old man’s boat—looking for a glimpse of something unknown. He could see it in your eyes. 

The water calls to you. It lives in your veins already, waiting. More salt and seaweed than earth and grass. Sand, rock, gulls, they all cry in the back of your mind, and your fingers itch to catalog them into immortality in a way that John was fascinated over—the skill of parchment and memorization. Mastery over detail.

He doesn't know why he’s speaking to you, truly. He’d done his penance; saved your life. But he knows he doesn’t dislike it, and that in and of itself needed to be understood. John couldn’t leave his analytical brain lacking an answer to a question as big as that—a woman of all things? A human one? 

Blue eyes can’t seem to slip from yours, as you await a gruff reply.

“No.” You blink, pulling back a smidge when John’s voice is low and graited. “Go back to your home. It’s late.”

“Hey, wait—!”

But he’s already gone under the waves, and you’re left with a waterlogged boot, a cast iron pan, and the two items that had survived because of a grizzly creature's compassion. Your lungs heave, and the cloud of condensation rises into a gray sky.

You stay there far longer than you’d like to admit.

—

You struggled, slipped, and climbed your way back to that point on the rocks every other day, and yet, there was nothing more to be seen of the man with the tail. You knew he was out there, felt it in your bones, and still…you were left here staring out at far-off boats and half-hopes. Wondering. Waiting. 

In the days that passed, you would explore the shore further, going in nooks and deep bends that extended into the cliffs during low tide, cringing away from the slippery fingers of kelp stuck to the walls. Dead fish, mucus-lined snails—you had made the important decision of leaving your sketchbook at home, the pages already filled with the perfect reflection of a man’s face peeking above the water. 

Taking off your hat, you huff on a similar day to those others, this time slipping inside a cave with a direct connection to the ocean. There wasn’t any wind in here—and you sigh in relief as your breeze-bitten cheeks can finally get a rest. You didn’t know what you expected to find doing all this fruitless searching, but it didn’t erase the fact that you enjoyed it; looking for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. 

Brushing your hat of sand and other such items, your head swivels softly, a delicate smile on your face as water drips from the rock ceiling, stalactites like broken fingers reaching for the ground. A pool of sorts takes up most of this place, the thing extending to the ocean through a medium-sized opening in the stone.

You turn in a half-circle. 

“Beautiful,” your lips murmur, voice echoing. 

Walking forward, every so often your body stoops to carefully grasp shells and smoothed shards of colored glass, beaten down by waves and reduced to harmless trinkets. Continuing, you care little about your boots or your coat, only for the pull in your chest that tells you to keep going until your legs are weak and weary—shaking from a day long spent in selfish adventure.

When you find the pile of rings, sitting in soft kelp, you nearly walk right past them until the glint of metal takes you by surprise. Pausing, your pulse warms as your eyes slash to the side, getting sucked in as easily as cookies to a child. 

Only hesitating a second, you slowly walk until you’re inches away, seeing different styles and gems like starlight sitting as if unaware of their raw beauty. 

“What are you doing in here…?” You ask yourself, your own voice responding from the walls as it bounces. 

Picking up one of pure gold, you shift the band to stare openly at an emerald nearly the size of your knuckle set into it. Lips parting, it’s as if your breath is stolen by a quiet thief. But the sudden arrival of splashing snaps you out of your stupor quite quickly.

Dropping the ring immediately back into the pile, your hand jerks to your chest as an increasingly common face shows itself once more from the water. 

You clear your throat, face burning as John raises a slow brow, glancing at the stash of rings silently. 

“One day you’re going to make me keel over,” your voice berates, pointedly avoiding his blues. So the items were his. 

“A thief as well as an artist?” John asks after a moment, tilting his skull as his body drifts closer to the rocky side of the pool. The next sentence is no question, only a statement. “You’ve been looking for me.”

You take a long breath, sighing, before you shove your hat into your coat’s pocket, glaring lightly. “You left so abruptly, I never got to ask my questions. Quite rude of you to keep a lady waiting, John.”

As you say his name, he glances over, but not before his sizable hands slap to the side of the rock and he hoists himself up with a single push of his forearms. The man grunts, lips pulling, before you’re left breathless. 

Eyes stuck on the upper half of his body, the water dripping down the hair-layered bulge of visible muscle, your wide vision skates from one point to another, flesh on fire the more you stay mute. But the tail—that was something you could never describe. 

The beginning was all you could see; scales of dark navy and a spread of muddled silver-like dots, nearly impossible to make out except at this distance. They began at the top of where hips should be, the scales, smaller and blending into the skin easily, only becoming larger the more the tail extended down; the appendage was far larger than legs would be, that you can tell easily. You can’t see all of it, as perhaps a little less than half still sits swaying in the water…but even this was enough for now.

This moment would be stuck in your sketchbook for all of eternity. 

It’s only after your jaw is slackened that you realize John has been watching you the entire time.

Forcing it shut with a tiny clack of teeth, you try to regain any composure you can. The being’s beard curls in a smirk, cheek pushing to show the lines near his eyes. 

“If someone’s avoiding you, Sunshine,” he grunts out, voice low. From the corner of his eye, he watches as his hand rises to itch at his beard. “They usually don’t want to have a conversation.”

“I think it’s fair,” you huff. “You can’t just disappear when I have so many unanswered questions.”

John blinks, attention not moving for even a second. Your own is less than firm, fighting to not dart down to openly study every dip and bend of his bones. He was so…stoic. Gruff. But there were moments of amusement—even annoyed interest. 

“I don’t have time to fuckin’ entertain others,” he thins his lips. 

Your arms crossed, face dripping into seriousness. “And what else is so much more important, then?” You raise a brow. “Scaring other women into the water?”

He huffs under his breath. “It was an accident—wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so jumpy, eh?” 

“It’s not like I expect to see fishmen pop out of the water,” you defend. 

“Mer-man, Love,” he licks his lips, sighing, as his eyes shift to glance at the opening of the cave. Your face bleeds into a slight expression of satisfaction, arms over your chest tightening as your feet rock back on their heels.

“Well,” you chuckle. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” 

An emotionless glare is all you receive. 

It was no surprise that you ended up blurting out inquiry after inquiry—what does having a tail feel like? How do you breathe underwater, or do you only hold your breath like a human? Do you have gills somewhere, or lungs? What other creatures are out there like you?

You have no idea what time it ends up being, and you have no intention of stopping soon. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, that John answers all of your quick words with full answers; giving slow, but not condescending explanations. 

A few times there had been tiny chuckles, and the little conversations amounted to you sitting on a rock right near the water, only feet away from where the tail drifts in the waves; John’s hands keeping his upper half straight as his palms meet slippery stone. 

“And the rings?” You breathlessly wonder, attention darting to the pile. “Do you find them out there? Keep them?”

John tilts his head in an affirmation. “Shipwrecks. There’ll be hundreds of them—I’m not one to keep many belongings, but the bloody things were nicely made.” He sighs. “Seemed a waste to leave them down there.”

You huff a sound of amusement. “I see. Fascinating.”

In the small pause, your eyes once more study the cave, seeing little breaks in the walls where cubby-like indents are. In them, your focus drifts from one glimmering object to another, all previously missed by you when you’d first entered. 

You blink. “You live here?”

“Affirmative,” John stares. His body shifts, tail flickering as your focus snaps back to it, almost lost in the way the ends so nimbly slice the water. Like wispy fabric. Your eyes soften like molten metal. You look back at him and find his eyes already locked to yours. 

Breath caught in your throat, you chuckle meekly to dispel your embarrassment. John’s face minutely relaxes, stern brow loosening.

“And…” you lick your lips, knowing it was time to leave. The sun no longer shines through the crack in the rock. “If I were to come back, would I be able to find you here?” 

There’s a flash of that same indecipherable emotion as before over his bushy face. 

The man was anything but small—everything to the swell of his tail; body hair for, what you assume, is to keep out the constant chill of the water. You’d never imagined that you’d find it all so attractive down to the navy scales that shimmered above the push of his side. That healthy layer of meat was eliciting far more of a physical reaction than you’d care to admit to anyone, let alone a priest of any religion during a confession.

Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.

“I’ll be here,” John responds lowly, gravel in his throat.

Swallowing down saliva, you push back the ravenous smile that threatens you.

“...Okay.”

—

And this affair became such a constant, that most of the people in town had begun asking about you as you snuck to the waters. Otto was largely concerned, but would not say anything more for some unseen fear—nor the Librarian, who avoided your eyes any chance she got. 

Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks. 

The sheen of discovery could be a powerful vice, and for those first two months, you never asked John about the woman named Eleanor or who she might be—what correlation she had to beasts of the water. Then again, you didn’t have to ask. He managed to get around to it himself. 

Your eyes blankly stare at the page of your sketchbook, the merman’s rough shape chicken-scratched with small lines into the parchment, and your pencil stays still to it, immobile. From across the cave, John’s face tightens as his eyelids narrow. You’d been quiet today, he had noticed. Usually so bright with your words, the walls had barely echoed with the symphony of your speech, and, more importantly, John’s ears hadn’t twitched to it. 

He had become fond of your company, he admitted to himself. A strange human woman with her fur coat and hat, the little sketchbook that held such wonderful imitations of life. John was anything but dull—he knew you drew him, and he entertained the activity. In fact, the thought at one point or another may have made the brute of a man blush a bit. So, when you were as still as the stone you sat on, he had concerns. 

He liked it when you spoke, even if it was only a tease. And the tightness of his chest when you don’t look his way is enough to leave his tail twitching in confusion as it sits in the water.

“You’re quiet today,” he starts, frowning. 

Your fingers jerk, sending a line over your paper as you blink, looking up as your heart skips a beat. Glancing at John’s face, the thoughts inside of your head slip until you can understand what he said. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, and the man’s face pulls. “You can speak if you want. I'm just a little distracted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Love, yeah?” John grunts, hands shifting over the stone. He looks you up and down, tail sitting still below him. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” your lips mumble, and you shake your head. “It’s one of my questions again.” You pause, closing your book. “A difficult one.”

John’s lips flicker. “Well, we’ve been at this for ages. Can’t see how this one is more difficult than the others.” He nods softly, voice a low and somewhat smooth mutter. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you huff, standing and placing your sketchbook in the driest part of the cave before walking closer. Bending right in front of John, your face is tight. The man likes it like this—having you closer. He can feel the heat roll off you, and his eyes flutter even when nothing on his face gives away the pull he senses in his chest. 

John hums and swallows stiffly.

“Why not?” His head tilts, and he clears his throat to get rid of the raspy scrape of his vocals. “Something going on up there?”

Up there. 

The Merman had asked about Redthorpe, as well as the rest of the people who lived there. The atmosphere, the way of life. Your meetings were more of an exchange of information and stolen glances than anything else, the other none the wiser to this magnetic attraction. It was a delicate thing, knowing that there was something more and yet unable to fully express the way it makes you feel. Neither of you knows what to call it.

“More so in here,” you smile tinily, pointing at your head as your cheeks grow hot. 

“Then speak to me,” John frowns, trying a low smirk. “Think we both know I’m a good listener then, Love. There’s time,” he glances at the entrance. “Won’t be near dark for a few more hours—don’t want you climbing at night.”

“Awe,” you breathe, beaming suddenly with that glint back in your eyes. John hides the sagging of his shoulders, only offering a hum under his breath as he looks over at you. His kelp-like fins twitch, and he wonders what it would feel like to have you touch them. It was obvious you wanted to.

Not yet. 

“Hurry up, Sunshine,” John grinds out, that accent all the more sandy. 

There’s a small grunt and a shuffle, and, soon, a warm body is plotting itself next to his own, arm touching his, and a pair of bare feet slipping into the pool. Blue eyes widen in surprise, head darting to where your form rests so simply—so near the crook of his shoulder that he could reach over and draw you to him if he so wanted. 

Your feet shift as the hem of your skirt gets soggy with water, and John barks out a firm, “You’re going to get cold.” 

“It’s not as cold here as it is out there,” you shrug to him, smiling with a side-eye. “Besides, I’m right next to you—you’ll keep me warm, won’t you, John?”

“Fucking hell,” he puffs out, shaking his head as he rips it forward once more, clenching his jaw. Your scent seeps into his nose, and when your leg slips along the side of his scales under the water, he all but goes a blank-faced scarlet. 

You hide a chuckle, shivering at the chill but more so at the unimaginably smooth sensation of John’s tail over your flesh. Your legs move through the water to cross at the ankles, your right hand resting to directly touch John’s left. With every pump of your blood, his own mirrors.

Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks. 

“There’s a woman that no one speaks about in Redthrope,” you begin, and John settles to listen, brows furrowing in concentration as your skin sits so well next to his own. “Eleanor.” 

The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.

“And for some reason,” you sigh out a low breath, turning to look at John and his still face; emotionless. “Everyone seems to blame you for whatever happened to her. I don’t know if she’s missing, or…”

Your words trail off, insinuation clear.

Not noticing any chance on John’s face, you lightly bump him with your elbow, expression going concerned. “Hey, are you alright?” Your opposite hand raises, moving out between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, I would just really appreciate anything you might know about it.” Eyes imploring, your heart pours itself. “I don’t think you’d do something like that.”

John blinks slowly, finally opening his mouth. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were some murderous creature,” you shrug, “I don’t think you would have tried to pull me out of the ocean in the first place.” Lashes caressing your cheeks, you smile. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” the man huffs, quirking a brow. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Knew it,” you whisper, eyes crinkling as you side-eye him.

John chuckles, half rolling his eyes as he leans to your ear as he grumbles. “Gettin’ cheeky, are you?” 

If you were a bird, you’d be preening your feathers, eyelids narrowed. “Perhaps, John.” 

It is a wonder, then, that the two of you don’t lock lips that very instant—long fins curling around legs and shoulders stuck together, pinkies unconsciously sitting atop the others as if pieces of parchment. Blue eyes shift smoothly to your lips, but before you can register that they have, John’s head is already moving back and his spine is straight. 

The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull. 

“I knew of a woman named Eleanor—she would come down with her husband, Noah, and they would walk along the shore. Got close to this place a few times.” Dark brows tighten. “Found her body in the water after a storm about two years ago; brought it back to the rocks so someone could retrieve it.” Your face loosens as the information settles in. John makes a noise in his chest. “Interesting that I’d be roped into it, but it’s understandable. Always someone to blame, eh?” 

“I don’t blame you,” you whisper. “That must have been horrible.”

Blue slips over to you silently, and it’s a long moment before John only hums under his breath, blinking away softly. 

“Scared me when you fell in.” Listening, your heart clenches in your ribs. To think about what must have been going through his head at that instant was sad to you, and even worse so when you know he would have blamed himself if you might have ended up seriously hurt.

“Well,” you lean into him, face on fire, “it was a good thing you were there to drag me out, then. A little water never hurt anyone, so long as a handsome merman is there to take them back to shore.” 

John huffs out a laugh. “Handsome?”

“Oh, very,” you joke. “The tail is a bonus.” Your expression lightens, eyes glinting. “Since when did you know that navy is my favorite color?”

The feeling of the cold water is only a back-drop to the way John’s fins twitch against your bare legs intimately, and you chuckle as the beard can only hide so much red skin. 

“Bugger off,” he grunts. 

You’ve never heard a smile so clearly before in your life.

—

Your paintings were selling far better than they ever had, and you had to thank the new muse of them for that fact. 

John’s appearance in your work had started small—a glimpse of a fin, the presence of a shadow in the water—and had steadily grown. Now, hidden like a present, there was the image of some fishtailed man somewhere in all of them, a steady injection of magic into the veins of cerulean blue and ivory black. It showed you that fewer people knew about John than you had previously thought. 

Initially, you had imagined that everyone knew and the reason you didn’t was because you were relatively new here, but no. Most had been enamored by your work when they found the ‘strange fish-man’ in one, pointing and chucking to themselves, talking about how adorable it was. No one was shocked, no one sent looks. 

By the end of the week, you had been convinced that it had been narrowed down to Otto and the Librarian—

The bell of your shop dings.

Looking up from your easel, you smile and stand automatically, thinking about closing soon so you can go and see John. Nowadays, even the thought of him makes your blood pump heavy. 

“How can I help you today, Sir?” Your brushes find the side table you had set up, locking eyes with a tall, thin man in his late thirties. He wears a suit, and in his breast pocket, there’s the gleam of a gold chain attached to a pocket watch. 

“I’m here to ask about a detail in your paintings, Miss.” He’s well-spoken as well, and you’re shocked to know you haven't met him yet if he lived in Redthorpe—he doesn’t seem familiar at all.

“Of course,” you nod, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I think I missed your name.”

“Noah Moore,” is the even response. Noah is already walking around, bending to look into some of your work which hangs on the wall. “My neighbor brought home one of your pieces; I found I liked it very much. Had even considered commissioning.”

Noah? You blink slowly, watching. Wasn’t that Eleanor’s husband?

“Thank you,” your lips move, thinning. “That’s very high praise, Mr. Moore.” 

“This creature,” Noah stands, and dark eyes set on you. For some reason, the hair along your arms stands on end. “The man with a fish tail. Have you seen him?”

Your instant reaction is to lie, and that in and of itself is a telltale sign that something is wrong. Noah makes the alarm in the back of your head go off for no reason other than the way he’s trying to pry with that unblinking gaze of his. The rich apparel; the attitude. He isn’t right.

“Seen him?” Chuckles echo off the walls. “Who? The beast? No, Sir, that…thing…is just something I made up.” You wave a hand, but back up a step, trying to create distance. Your hip lightly bumps the side table, and your materials jerk. Gasping under your breath, your head snaps down, catching your brush before it can fall. “Oh my, clumsy me.” you laugh stiffly. “Apologies, Sir, but that’s the truth. I wanted to create something that all of Redthrope might enjoy; a local legend of sorts, see.”

Your eyes had siphoned back with a dread in your heart. The man mutely stares, a deep frown pulling his lips. As if the conversation had never happened, after a long stretch of tension, Noah smiles widely. 

“Ah,” he huffs, “of course. It was silly of me to ask.” Dark eyes are emotionless, and the pull of his eyelids is not there. Spine so tight it could snap in half, and your fingers curl around the brush before you place it down stiffly. “Though,” Mr. Moore clicks his tongue, taking one step closer. 

Your eyes widen, but you say nothing. Your mind flashes to John, and there’s a longing for the ocean so strong, it seems a good idea to you, to rush out the door right now and sprint for it; hurl yourself to the waves, if need be. He’d find you—you know he would.

“Though,” Noah continues, tilting his head. “There is a striking resemblance to a creature I recall seeing from the cliffs, the day my wife’s body was found at the rocks.” 

Backing up another step, your muscles ache with how you hold them like a shield to your organs. 

“As far as I know, only two others were searching at my side that day. And in it I am certain,” he hums, “you weren’t even here.”

Otto and the librarian, you think quickly, mind a mess of information and fear. It’s why they’re so spooked. They think John actually killed Eleanor and left her—they saw him bring her body to shore.

It’s a lack of foresight on your part, that the next bark is more of a reaction to the panic than proper knowledge, cracking under pressure. 

“John would never kill an innocent woman!” 

It’s as if a switch goes off, and, suddenly, there’s a ruthless hand grabbing at your throat. Yelping, you stagger back and snap your fingers to Noah’s wrist, clawing until there’s blood under your nails; air is sucked in with a wheeze. In the back of your head, there’s wild screaming, and you can’t tell if it’s the pounding of your blood or the internal sensation of primal fear. 

Raging eyes shove themselves right in front of yours, faces so close you can feel Noah’s hot breath moving over your burning face. You try to cough but find you can’t as one of your hands struggles to slap to the side table—searching fruitlessly. 

“John?” Noah sneers, holding tighter. “The thing has a name?”

Your easel clatters to the ground, back being shoved right into it. Mouth opening and closing, the cut of oxygen reduces your mind to acting purely off instinct—breaking down like glass to fracture to only one thing: survival.

“It was perfect,” Mr. Moore growls, eyes ablaze. “I had it all planned out, only to be ruined by a freak of nature at the last moment!” 

Your nails gouge the wood, dragging, searching, slapping. Anything—anything at all to help as your boots scrape from under you. You can’t even comprehend the words being said; all of it is a blur as blackness peels the side of your vision. 

Tears splatter down your cheeks.

“Two years, and then you had to come along and fucking speak to it! What did it tell you? Eh? What did it see that night?”

Your hand curls the glass bottle where you store your brushes and without another thought, you slam the side of it to Noah’s head. 

Shouting, the man releases you in an instant, glass leaving long lines of blood splattering out to sprinkle your face as it shatters, collapsing into itself. Connecting to the ground, your hacking can only take place for under two seconds before your boots scramble for purchase, stumbling and flailing at least once; lungs gasping. 

Shoulder connecting with the side of the door frame as you bang it open, an enraged scream follows you into the rainy afternoon, the rumble of deadly thunder far overhead. 

Running, you don’t know how to stop, and it’s even harder to catch your breath by the time you’re down to the rocks, looking over your shoulder as if Noah would be right behind you. He wasn’t—but the fear was enough to keep you going until you were bathed in sweat and barely strong enough to fall into the entrance of John’s cave, fingers cut up and raw from grappling over stone.

There’s a quick call of your name from across the enclosed space, but your ears are ringing too loud to hear—whipping around to stare at the entrance as you struggle back on your hands, legs shaking. 

“Love!”

Your eyes slash to the side, and through the quivering of your lashes, through the blur of tears, you lock onto the desperate slash of grayish-blue that’s a near-perfect reflection of the ocean itself. Painting, the realization comes a moment too late, as pale fingers touch your cheek and you flinch back with a deep pain in your neck. 

Pulsing veins echo along your entire body, but there, at the point of where hands had wrapped your flesh, it burned with a horrible fire that made thin noise escape your lips.

“Hey,” John breathes, having dragged himself at a moment’s notice across the floor of the cave. “Hey,” he repeats slower, eyes slashing you up and down for any sign of injury. 

His hand is outstretched, but he doesn’t try to touch you again seeing how you’d jerked away. The man’s heart had stopped at that—his concern shooting up similar to how he felt when you’d raced through the entrance as if a fire was on your heels. A near panic at the fear on your face, leaving his body on high alert; eyes skating the surrounding quickly.

But the splatters of blood on your face were something to reduce him to an enraged beast.

“What is going on,” he tries to keep the rough anger from his tone, attempting to leave it soft and smooth. There’s only so much he can do, though, as you shake and pant. 

Your body gradually slows itself, attention seeping back to allow you to take control of your limbs. The first thing you see clearly is John’s outstretched hand, and, then, the clench of his jaw—the eyes that follow every teardrop down the flesh of your cheek.

Openly gazing, when John sees you’re back, his blues slip to a softened caress. 

“Love,” he mutters, face tight. 

You shove yourself into his arms and let off a sob that echoes louder than any laughter could. Curling into his chest, water seeps into your shirt, but the all-expansive hand that keeps you close is worth every clothesline you would have to hang. 

“Shh,” John breathes, knowing that he’d get an explanation when he calmed you down, even if his mind was breaking itself to try and understand. “I’m right here, Sunshine. Breathe, then…I’m right here, yeah?” 

His nose pushes itself into your scalp as your head hides away, quivering body curled like a cat around a fish—no air between the two of you, chests running across the others. So little space, and yet this breathlessness was one you could welcome time and time again.

John watches, eyes always open as he glares into your hair, grip tightening the longer you cry; a feeling so potent brimming in his chest, he would be a fool to ignore it.

You were more precious to him than any ring, than any trinket he could stash away and forget about. The way his heart bent to yours was stronger than any storm. 

Breathing down your scent, John sighed, kissed the top of your head, and lightly rocked you back and forth. 

He’d wait as long as it took.

—

When it became apparent you couldn’t speak beyond broken little coughs and wheezes, John was quick to bring you to the water of the pool.  

Now, perhaps hours later, you sit with the burn and fatigue of crying eyes, sniffling as you shove away the stain of red on your cheeks. 

“Careful,” John lightly comments, grasping your hand and pulling it away. His own replaces it, wet from the water he now wades in to help. “Let me get it, eh?”

Your eyes stay stuck to his nose as fingers push away the crimson of blood easily, firm but still utterly delicate. 

“I’m not glass,” you croak, one hand near your throat. 

Blue eyes blink at you. “Never said you were,” he grunts, frowning, and you see his Adam’s Apple bob. “Don’t like seeing you with blood on your face, Love.”

Like it had never happened, the fingers return, and a moment later, he grumbles out, “And stop talking—you’ll make it worse.” 

You hadn’t explained, not yet, but by the utter rage you see John trying to hide from you, you know he understands how you might have gotten the swelling now present on your neck. His heart had been visibly pumping the entire time you’d been here; you could hear it when he was holding you, a relentless, thump-thump-bump, thump-thump-bump in your ear.

The brunette had been clenching his jaw more as well, grunting as if a boar after every sentence, a nervous habit, perhaps. He was trying to mask it for you, but you weren’t blind. 

John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat. 

He studies your face after he hums under his breath, having to dart his gaze away for a moment. 

“...Can I?” You pause, swallowing as the burn persists. 

Nodding after a minute of slow contemplation, cold hands shift to press carefully—not tightening, not holding you there—resting to give relief. You only tense a little, but as the seconds draw, John watches you sag forward with a large sigh through your nose. 

He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.

“Easy,” John whispers, blinking. He keeps the chill of his hands at your neck, fins shifting the water to keep him still. “When you’re ready, explain it to me, eh?” His head tilts, voice a low tease. “Glass or not.” 

Your lips twitch, and the way your eyes melt could only be compared to safety. You open your lips, and John mutters lowly as your fingers brush over his own, “Quietly, now. Can hear just fine—don’t push yourself.” 

Blue flickers to your touch, fingertips trailing his knuckles as the man grunts, attention fluttering back. 

All you say is one name. 

“Noah.” 

There’s a moment of confusion on John’s face, skin wrinkling, before the understanding settles swiftly—he wasn’t a fool. From there, his expression changes ten times over; that rage, then fear for you, confusion, and stubbornness. It’s of little surprise to you that a man so loyal was reduced to a dog. 

A dog with scales, that is.

Your body is still running hot—your heart still pumping, though the adrenaline has left with all of its stimulation. You’re tired, yes, that much is obvious. But you want John to hold you again. 

When you shift your body, the man’s eyes widen, and he blinks quickly in shock as your legs then slip into the waves inch by inch.

A noise exits the back of his throat, and John’s mouth moves in serious question. “What are you doing? Fucking hell, would you just stay still and let me have a look at you—”

Arms grapple around his waist, and a warm head burrows into his neck. 

You rest against him, body suspended in the water of the deep pool, a merman’s tail swishing to shove you the tiniest bit closer unconsciously. John’s chest bounces with every emotion, but all he does is stop you from sinking by holding you. Your eyes close at the dig of his hands, and, letting the water move the both of you, the smooth scales along your legs feel as if the finest silk. A thumb caressing up and down your spine; breath at the top of your head.

You both say nothing, and it’s a long while before either of you takes any action to leave.

—

When your words could be strung together and not broken every other sentence, you explained all of it, and the hunch you’d strung together in the meantime.

You fiddle with one of John’s rings—the emerald one—as you glance up and speak softly, voice still delicate. The pain still blossomed, but some things needed to be explained.

“I think he killed his wife.” 

By the way John stops massaging the flesh of your neck, letting you rest your head in the crook of where his tail begins and skin ends, you knew he already pieced that together a while ago. Your clothes were still heavy with water, and a puddle had formed around the both of you on the rocks.

“Hm,” is all John says, fixing the position of his lips as he looks away.

He shakes his head, growling out, “You’re not going back up there. Not while he’s still walking the streets.”

You frown, but John glares without any venom. “It wasn’t a question, Love.”

“What will you do,” you whisper, voice hoarse. A brow quirks. “Run after me, John?”

The man stares, not taking it as lightly as you. “If I have to.”

Your breath hitches, hands resting numbly over the ring as John’s fingers once again continue their touching—as if he can rub away the swelling; the damage of the veins. 

“You don’t have legs,” you utter, having to pause in the middle of the sentence to breathe deeply. 

“I’ll crawl,” he grunts.

“The rocks are sharp.”

His face is immobile. “Then I’ll bleed.”

Your mind memorized the stubbornness of his expression—the pull of the crow’s feet beside his eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of a joke in John’s eyes; no lie. Watching him, your face is loose with wonder, and water drips from your temple to connect with those dark navy scales, glinting with the light from the outside sun growing low. 

The ring in your hands is frozen, stopping its turning as your pulse soars.

John licks the corner of his mouth, glancing at the item of gold and green. 

“Keep it,” he mutters, tilting his head to the ring. “More of a use to you.” 

Larger fingers capture yours, and in one deft motion, the elegant item is slipped onto your digit, sitting comfortably as if made just for you. 

John shrugs. “The rest of ‘em, too, if you want the damn things.” His blues card over the view of your hand, and imagines fingers filled with every bit of gold and silver obtainable to him, brought up from the ocean just to sit pretty atop your flesh. Necklaces, bracelets, belts, and accessories; the things he’d seen from far distant waters. 

Oh, but they’d pale in comparison to how you would wear them. 

A muse to a song. A painter to a portrait. 

A women to the water.

He’d seen your latest sketches—you’d brought them down to him here—and when you were exploring this cave, he had taken a peak. Unlike him, yes, but there was a pull to it, that parchment bound by leather. He’d not seen anything like it, and as he had watched you work on occasion, he was entranced as he’d listened to you explain it. You’d told him that you could even manipulate color, and that had left his eyes widening in awe.

You were incredible, and when he saw his own likeness littering page after page, John had been unable to take his eyes off of you. A silent appreciation—a voiceless devotion. He’d never been…captured like this, so to speak. A mirror image. Details he didn’t even know himself, and yet there they were. 

Beauty marks across his cheeks and nose, the scars that littered his flesh that he’d all but forgotten about, the list was endless. 

But he looks at you now, and he can understand why there’s a draw to immortalize the mortal. 

His fingers stay at yours, and they brush skin as they dip along your hand, falling to your wrist. You stare up into his eyes, he stares down into yours. There’s little air to be taken in between the two of you. 

“John,” you utter, blue gaze stuck to your lips. 

He hums, tilting his head, his body looming over yours like a shadow. By the time his face is so near to yours, you don’t want to fight it, you don’t want to think about the strangeness of this predicament you’ve found yourself in—a creature living in the cliffs, handsome and half-inhuman.

When smooth lips brush over yours, and your eyelashes begin to flutter, the shouts from outside break whatever spell had just started weaving itself. 

Head snapping up, John’s body tenses as you push upward quickly. Attention slashing to the cave entrance, it’s not long before you realize what’s going on with a sharp breath and a leap to your pulse. 

The smash of something connecting to rocks echoes like a feral killing song. Yells. Yowls. 

“John,” you say hurriedly, flinching from the pain in your throat. Your eyes dart to his tension-ridden form, his arms wrapping above your body. “You need to run,” you choke out. “Go! Quickly!”

You only get a glance, and the clench of his jaw is as stubborn as it always is. Your brain already knows it’s fruitless. He won’t leave you here alone.

“They’ll kill you!” Your hands push at his chest, finger grasping at the bristle of hair to try and shove at an iron will. 

“Stay under me,” John mutters, voice low and nothing more than a chilled order. Yet, even he knows there’s little that he’d be able to do. His eyes flashed to every trinket and bauble he had collected, the new ones he’d yet to show to you, but there was few in the way of weapons. A dagger or two from a trench, a sword from under a ship—a spearhead. All too far away and rusted for it to even matter. 

There was a sharp feeling in John’s chest. A need. An oath that he gave to himself the moment he’d seen the way your little stick could breathe his image onto a sheet made of fibers. 

He was to watch over you whenever you were in his sights, and that had extended itself to gliding through the water as he watched you climb and grunt your way to his cave; a careful eye that he had no need to tell you about. That was just how he was. 

“John!” You try to bark again, growing desperate. 

Yet, it was already too late, and the merman hadn’t shifted even an inch before Noah, Otto, and the Librarian burst through the entrance like bats from hell.  They hold all manner of weapons, though the more you blink in a panic, the less afraid of them you seem, at the very least, the older man and the woman.

Otto held a cut-up and dented club, nothing more than something you’d keep for a home invasion beside the bed—the Librarian, a heavy book that seemed to contain every bit of information available to the world, so large it strained in her hands. Noah, though, was a different story. 

He had a sharp, long knife and eyes that could cut flesh by themselves. 

Half of Mr. Moore’s face was sliced up, cuts leaking blood to the ground—skin hanging and an eye completely poked with glass; shards in its gentle makeup. 

You swallow saliva and stutter through a shaking breath, and John’s glare could burn cities as he feels it reverberating against him. 

“There!” Noah shouts, balking closer. “See! I knew it was here—seducing the next woman to take to the ocean!” 

Your wide eyes try to take it all in, hands slapping the ground sending droplets of collected water flying. John’s face hones in, digging in like how the glass from your brush container had into Noah’s visage, and, somehow, you think that dead stare can cause more damage. Grasping the merman’s waist, you attempt and silently urge him to go. 

“Girl!” Otto calls quickly, eyes darting from you to John and back. Even if you could yell, you’re not sure you would. You wouldn’t even know what to say. “Get away from it!”

“I’d put that down,” John grunts to Noah, disregarding the old man and the librarian entirely. He clenches his jaw. “‘Fore you end up hurting yourself. Leave.”

“Otto,” you start, glancing at the woman beside your friend who looked like she was about to pass out when John had started to speak. The man in question’s face pulls, wrinkles thinning. “You have to listen to me, please, it’s not how Mr. Moore told you—”

“It speaks!” Noah barks, pointing his knife harder at John. “Freak of nature, it already has its hold on her.”

“Oh my,” the Librarian gasps. “Noah, it’s horrible—look at the tail.”

Your eyes flare with rage as John doesn’t react.

“Hey!” You shout, but instantly slap your free hand to your throat, coughing raggedly until your spine hunches. The merman brings you closer, but you’re already pushing until you’re on your feet, stumbling for a moment as John gives you a sharp look.

“You watch your bloody mouth,” you grid out, glaring, whipping your hands to get rid of the water droplets. Noah licks his lips as John grabs onto the back of your knee, fingers resting firmly. Sending a look down to him, your shoulders loosen at the expression he levels. You can almost hear the words.

 Steady. Keep your head on.

Though, a slash of silent pride made your heart stutter a small bit.

Your eyes glint. “Drop your weapons,” your sentence is crackling but nonetheless sharp. “Leave. John is innocent—he told me all of it.” You turn to Otto. “Mr. Moore attacked me in my shop, I smashed a glass container into his head so he would release me.” Otto tenses, club getting strangled by his fingers. 

“Noah killed Eleanor,” you breathe, John’s grip pulling a bit tighter as if sensing something you have yet to see. Noah shifts quickly, boots squeaking along the rock as he growls. 

“Absurd—!”

“He pushed her over the rocks and blamed John when he saw him bringing back her body,” you interrupt as fast as you can, pain bouncing off your throat. “You all saw it on the shore, the lie was simple enough for a man like him. Saying she drowned to a creature.”

It didn’t surprise you that John was quiet, that he was studying more the stance of men instead of talking or trying to defend himself. While he could be hard-headed and stiff, he was never dull—he never missed ques. So when Noah launched himself at you, Otto and the Librarian more confused and concerned than anything, there was only a heavy push on the back of your knee that left you buckling with a gasp, and then the explosion of water as John sent you both quickly to the water.

Hands whipping to snare around the merman’s shoulders, you’re only able to get a quick breath in before you’re completely enveloped in water, with John’s hand setting itself over your mouth just in case. The sudden rush is comparable to a heavy wind, yet far more cold and nearly like a slap to the back of your spine. 

You both disappear into the deep with a spray, Noah’s muffled yells of terror seen far above near the surface, arms captured by the Librarian and Otto—held at his sides. There’s a flash of those dark eyes, horrible things, and then John’s fins hide the rest as they slash through the water. 

When you both resurface, retreating far back near the watery entrance of the cave, John keeps you firmly behind him, your arms around his waist as you gasp for air. He keeps his head slightly turned to the side—always having you in the corner of his vision. Above the spread of his shoulders, you peek softly, legs suspended below. 

“Lier!” Noah screams, face contorted. “She’s lying!”

You look at Otto and see the grim way he’s already looking back, struggling to keep the younger individual from breaking free. He was sensical, but stubborn in his ways. Otto had a choice just as the librarian did—believe a woman who’d been here a year or someone they’d known nearly their entire lives.

“Noah,” Otto grunts, gritting his teeth. “Breathe, boy! Stop spitting, let her speak—”

The knife in Noah’s hands slashes the air, and suddenly there’s a yell from the librarian and a spray of blood. 

“Otto!” You scream, fingers flinching. 

The old man stumbles, hoarsely crying out as he grasps at his neck. Your eyes widen, mouth ajar as John pushes his hand into your head, shoving it into the back of his hair as he watches blankly, eyes glinting with a deadly hate. 

“Don’t move,” he utters quickly, sternly, to you as your breath breaks, mouth slack to stare at nothing. Scales skate your legs, great kelp-like fins curling your ankle. “Keep still. Focus on my words, Love.” Under his breath is a tight, “Fuck!”

John speaks above the gargling—the spillage of blood to stone. He mutters through the screams of the Librarian as Noah slips trying to run to the entrance, scrambling with bulging eyes. 

“Don’t look,” John says to you lowly, shifting his body as he keeps your face hidden away and let him hold you like a corpse to the earth. The sounds…oh, the sounds were horrible. 

But the man holding you tries very hard to hide them.

Your body quivers violently as the slam of a body hits the ground, the frantic calling of the woman still here with the both of you; the loud calls from the fleeing murder outside the walls.

“That’s it,” John’s fast lips are on the top of your head, muttering and trying to make his voice as even as possible. “That’s it, then. Doing good, don’t move until I say so, alright?”

When you don’t answer, only shoving your visage deeper into his neck, his spine-breaking-hold squeezes once, and his pounding heart bounces opposite yours. You don’t have to say you know him to understand that he’s only holding onto a thread of good manners, and that was certainly only for our own sake.

Otto was dead.

John leads you out, the gold and emerald of your ring glinting in the moonlight as he holds your body to his, the powerful make of his tail doing the work as it shines in the water. He leaves you outside, where the still running form of Noah is visible, yet the only person noticing is John himself. Your hands are so shaky that it would be impossible to hold your sketchbook, let alone a pencil. 

John takes one of them as Mr. Moore gets too close to the shoreline, slipping and getting his foot caught in between two stones. He panics, yelling loudly, as water is lapping up to his knee.

“Hey, hey, you hear me?” John asks, uncaring to the man, as he sets you down softly on a flat rock shelf. Fingers move to sit at your chin, and, through tight sniffles, you make delicate eye contact. He blinks, trying a tight smile—a flash nothing more. “There she is. Good...I need you to listen one last time, yeah? Just like before; don’t look until I say so.” Your face creases lightly, blinking through a haze of senses and horror. Otto was dead. 

The man that brought you out on his boat—the man that cooked you fish and acted as if a guardian to you. His cat, who would take care of her? It seemed a silly thought given the circumstances, but you can’t stop your mind from running. The house, the boat, the cat. The blood. 

“There’s nothing out here that can hurt you,” John grunts, grasping your hands and holding them, letting calluses and scars speak. “So long as I’m here, I won’t let it.” 

He nearly growls out the words. In one movement, he puts your hand to his heart, and your brain latches onto the rhythm as your own rampages in your ears. 

Noah is still screaming, but now it’s for help.

John’s voice lowers as he utters, “Hey,” the man licks his lips, eyes dancing to the side every once and a while. You stare, swallowing down bile. He says as fluidly as possible, keeping constant locked gazes. 

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

Fingers glide down your neck again, feeling that swelling, and just as you register the kiss that’s leveled to your hand, to that gifted ring, John’s already away; his tail slipping over your flesh, fins gripping, writhing with their film. 

Yet, you have no trouble following his advice. 

The rising screams from Mr. Moore are numb to you, and the following wave of water that swallows him is only accented by the hand that grapples for his neck. 

John always seemed the one for revenge.

—

With the Librarian's newfound cooperation, the story became simple. 

Mr. Moore, distraught over the death of his wife, had finally lost it all when down on the beach with Otto, yourself, and the local Librarian—attacking and killing the old man in response to being so near to where he and his wife always traveled to. Afterward, he’d walked into the sea and had taken his own life. 

The authorities weren’t going to dispute it. 

You sold Otto's house a week after his death, seeing as he’d named you the sole inheritor of his estate and belongings. There was no need for two properties, and sitting in that small place was akin to torture. After all, he’d been doing what he thought was right, and dying for a lie is nothing short of cruel to those left behind who knew the truth. 

Harriet stays in the shop with you, where she’ll probably live out the rest of her nine lives peacefully. She’s quite fond of the fireplace. 

Most days, people find you near the water, and it’s something that wasn’t going to change even after Noah’s body was found in the rocks—freakishly close to where Eleanor’s had been. Some were calling it poetic and you’d have to agree…but for different reasons.

“You shouldn’t be giving me all of these,” you huff months later, sitting on the rock looking out over the water. A large collection of John’s trinkets is piled high in a wrapping of seaweed, shining bright as you mess with your pencil, leaning to stare at him.

John’s lips flicker into a smirk. He hums, content to watch you, from where he rests not an inch away. You lean into him, sighing, as the innumerable glinting rings on your fingers shimmer. 

“Want to,” he grumbles. 

Rolling your eyes, you look back down to your book, three of four replicas of the man’s scale pattern sitting, shaded and duplicated—lifelike. His tail sways with the water, half of it lost below. 

Your hands reach for them now, the scales closest to you, and you lightly poke and prod as John grunts above you, silent but willing in a way that speaks volumes. He’d let no one else touch him like this for the rest of his life—the softness of your fingers and the care on your face more precious than gold. You revered that tail of his; as if it gave over magic like a wishing well. 

Shivering, John’s breath hitches as your exploring moves, pushing lightly at where the top of his hips would be.

Your talent was fascinating to him, just as you were. If you wanted to ‘paint’ him, he’d allow you to do all the studies needed. Not only to give you a distraction….but because he can’t bear to be away from you anymore. It makes him nervous, and that in itself is an incredible feat.

“Where do you come from, John,” your question moves the air, and the man moves to pull your jacket higher up your body to stave off the chill. You glance at him, smiling, before your attention returns to your drawings. Sketching more, John resets his lips and tries not to stare at your face. It was getting harder to deny that pull. 

That near kiss.

“No answer, Love.” You stare as he quirks a lip, voice lowering. “I won’t be going back to distant waters anytime soon.”

John glances down at your sketchbook, seeing every scratch and bend of care. The both of you were strange creatures, perhaps. Unique—made for one another despite the obvious. 

He nods his head to it softly. The water laps at your boots from below, but you care little before John shifts your feet carefully further up with a push from his tail. You chuckle at him breathily, face heating.

“Getting water on you, Love,” he breathes. “New painting soon?” John asks when the silence settles once more, with you shifting your legs to sit under you. He still isn’t sure what painting entails, but you had told him that you would show him soon, so he knows to be patient. But yearning for anything regarding you is ingrained into his mind now—instinct.

“Mhm,” you smile softly, sending a look at your paper and the images. A huff escapes your mouth. “I think I’ll make this one a portrait.”

John blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Portrait? Why’s that?” 

Your lips find his, moving back up in an instant. 

For a second, the man’s surprised eyes pull back; only lowering as he hums moments later, fingers curling up under your chin as he sags. Lids flutter closed, and his tail twitches lightly.

“I have a subject that’s caught my eye.” You mutter into his flesh when you pull back, face burning as deep blues sear your mind, turning it into mush. Your skin tingles as chilled digits trail your chin, dripping water down your healed throat.

John watches, lips parted, as you continue on. 

“And I’d be a fool if I let him swim off.”

The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[impyssadobsessions]

DPxDC Prompt/Idea Sibling Rivalry

OK The Fentons got contracted by a mysterious Mr. J for some "ghost" hunting tech. At first the Fentons buy into it, until Mr. J keeps asking for stranger and stranger edits to the machinery. Before Danny could figure out why- his Parents were in the mist of dropping the contract and heading back to Amity- When Mr. J or more known as the Joker kidnaps Fenton kids to put pressure on the parents to complete their work. Even for more amusement, he's broadcasting the hostage situation to all of Gotham, and Fentons have until the kids end up killing each other to finish his devices and added bonus capture batman. Fentons end up working with the bats while Danny wakes up in a huge sealed cage. His sister tied up behind him. Joker using his gas to fill up the room to cause the two to fight each other. Only thing is.. it doesn't work on Danny or at least all it did was make him dizzy and woozy for a moment. Jazz isn't so lucky. So Now Danny has to fight off his sister, while trying not to reveal his half-ghost status.. ON TOP of trying to think of how to escape and keep his sister from hurting herself. Joker keeps being more and more amuse, dropping the cage down into a cage arena and adding weapons as an audience of his thugs crowd around shouting and chanting.

[gallifreyanhotfive]

What Stories Are About the Academy Era? A Guide

@zombies-sold-cheap

Context:

Stories set in the Academy Era/Otherwise Early Days are sparse to say the least (even Divided Loyalties only shows you the Academy through a dream), but you can actually piece together a pretty decent chunk of the Doctor’s early life (while it still remaining very mysterious) using the Expanded Universe. I've done a lot of infodumping in my time, so I'll do my best here by typing up my personal reference guide to this era. Anyway:

Theta Sigma and his friends would attempt to climb Mount Cadon. At the peak, you could apparently see all of time, but they never got to the top because of hallucinogenic snow. While attempting such a climb, Vansell broke his leg, and Theta Sigma fixed it with a time bubble he made from a sonic wrench and some twine. (Audio: Devil in the Mist)

Theta Sigma and Koschei traveled into the past of Gallifrey in search of Valdemar. Theta was horrified by the power that Valdemar represented, but Koschei was intrigued. (Novel: Tomb of Valdemar)

Theta Sigma time-locked his dorm room so thoroughly that even centuries after he graduated they hadn't managed to undo it. (Audio: Time in Office)

Theta Sigma also once used the food machine to get mercury for his own science projects and in doing so almost caused his professor to regenerate. (Audio: Time in Office)

At some point, Theta Sigma and Koschei traveled to the planet Machasma and used sonic agitation to get them out of trouble. (Audio: Darkness and Light)

Theta Sigma, Koschei, and three others were part of a band called the Gallifrey Academy Hot Five (see: my username). Theta Sigma played the perigosto sticks, and Koschei played the drums. (Novel: Deadly Reunion)

Millennia came from a wealthy family and was gifted in temporal engineering. She and Rallon had a "thing" for each other (wink wink) (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma once made High Tutor Albrecht regenerate in an incident involving a perigosto stick and a temporal feedback loop. He was reprimanded by Borusa for this. (Novel: The Time Lord Letters)

Koschei was obsessed with the Necronomicon. (Short story: The Nameless City)

Runcible was the hall monitor at the Academy and regularly got into conflicts with the Deca because it was his job to make sure students were in bed after dark. They have mutual hatred of each other. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Indeed, the Master would one day stab him in the back and kill him. (Television: The Deadly Assassin)

Drax built a skimmer and would sometimes use it to take Jelpax home because they lived close to each other. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma attended Ushas's 94th birthday party. (Novel: The Death of Art)

Theta Sigma engineered a dangerous bacteria that rendered all multicellular life that came in contact with it comatose. This was a huge scandal on Gallifrey, and the Academy thoroughly hushed it up and had all samples destroyed. However, Ushas kept a sample and would one day use it in a scheme as the Rani. (Audio: Planet of the Rani)

Koschei taught Theta Sigma hypnosis. He'd also hypnotize others a lot because he thought it was amusing. (Novel: The Dark Path)

Mortimus once asked Ushas out but was so thoroughly rejected that he thought she wasn't interested in dating at all. Unbeknownst to him, Ushas later had a relationship with Magnus. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma and Koschei were bullied by Torvic. Theta was eventually forced to kill Torvic to save Koschei's life, but when Death came to offer Theta to be their disciple, he had Koschei take his place. He forgot about this deal and lived for centuries under the impression that their places had been swapped and that it had been Koschei to kill Torvic. (Audio: Master)

Despite this, he apparently drew pictures of Torvic in his diary. (Short story: The Three Paths)

Theta Sigma was also bullied by Anzor at the Academy. Anzor would use a galvanizer to make Theta do his navigational homework. He also turned another student named Cheevah into a crystal and threw him off a bell tower. (Audio/Novel: Mission to Magnus)

Koschei was in charge of organizing the end of term parties, but the Eighth Doctor recalled that they weren’t good. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

Theta Sigma and Koschei would sneak out of the Capitol and go drinking with the Shobogans. (Novel: The Eight Doctors)

Theta Sigma was given an avatroid named Badger as a young child to act as his friend, protector, and tutor. He apparently gives bone crushing hugs. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Theta Sigma did not have a good relationship with most of the House of Lungbarrow. Indeed, his first memory is of Satthralope smacking him so hard he could not walk afterwards. (Audio/Novel: Cold Fusion)

Satthralope would also let the drudges attack Theta if he refused to come to dinner. Drudges are basically servants of the Houses, about two and a half meters tall, and strong enough to hold a fully grown Time Lord in one arm. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

One time, those at the House of Lungbarrow wanted Theta Sigma to return home for Otherstide and even sent Badger to collect him. Theta refused, so they contacted his professor Delox, who proceeded to expel him from her classroom after chastising him on his family in front of the entire class. After this, Theta appeared to exhibit many of the signs I associate with a nervous breakdown. Distressed, Theta came up with an idea that would prove he wasn't what they all said he was - he would go after the Toymaker. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Millennia and Rallon were the only two to join him on this trip, the rest of the Deca thinking them mad. They stole a Type 18 TARDIS, and after making it to the Toyroom, Rallon's body was basically immediately taken over by the Toymaker. The Toymaker had Theta play a game of Capture the Flag. He turned Millennia into one of his dolls, and Theta returned to Gallifrey, the only survivor. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Because of these events, Theta was put on trial. The only two to attend this trial to support Theta were Jelpax and Magnus. Vansell showed up but only to reveal that he had been working with the CIA, having been tasked with watching Theta. Koschei and Ushas had been off working on a research project at the time. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

While Theta, Rallon, and Millennia were gone, Mortimus ran away from Gallifrey, which made many think he had gone with them, and eventually also ended up in the Toyroom. (Novel: Divided Loyalties) Other accounts suggest Mortimus left Gallifrey later, so perhaps he returned after this trip.

Theta Sigma was on the same zero-grav hyperball team as Padrac, who he called "Paddy." (Audio: The Eleven)

Theta and Koschei's "kindergarten spat" apparently almost destroyed the planet. During this time, Theta used to call Koschei "Scabby Knees." (Audio: Blood of the Time Lords)

Theta Sigma had no friends in his very early life. Instead of creating imaginary friends, he had an imaginary enemy called Mandrake. Mandrake was actually a dead lizard he pinned to an engine part that Theta would defeat using a stick. (Audio: The Widow's Assassin)

There was a Hermit who lived behind the House of Lungbarrow on the mountain. Theta Sigma once went to him, depressed and full of despair, and the Hermit showed him hope in yellow flowers. (Television: The Time Monster)

Shimmerlings live in the time vortex, but after a storm, they were stranded on Gallifrey and dying. A very young Theta Sigma saw the Hermit throwing them into the Untempered Schism to save them. Theta asked him what was the point because he wouldn't be able to save them all before they died, and the Hermit taught him the value in saving who he could, despite not being able to save everyone. (Audio: Crossed Lines)

Theta Sigma was the Time Tot Hide And Seek Champion for 42 years in a row, which apparently drove Ushas nuts. (Comic: Weapons of Past Destruction)

When Maris - a retired CIA agent - was hired to find out where Theta Sigma, now probably the Doctor, had run off to in the TARDIS, Ushas and Koschei kidnapped her, interrogated her in an attempt to find where the Doctor had gone, and eventually almost killed her when she knew nothing (she was extracted from the situation before she could be murdered). (Short story: Celestial Intervention - A Gallifreyan Noir)

After graduating, Magnus rose quickly in Time Lord society, which Borusa felt threatened by. Borusa had the CIA manufacture evidence implicating Magnus in treason, leading to him fleeing Gallifrey and becoming a renegade. (Novel: Timewyrm: Exodus)

Koschei befriended a professor at the Academy named Salyavin because he wanted access to the restricted libraries. He wanted to find The Worshipful and Ancient Law of Gallifrey, an act which was illegal. Salyavin took the blame for this, was sent to Shada, and stole the book (since he was condemned anyway, he might as well). (Short story: The Legacy of Gallifrey)

Theta Sigma and Ruath, another student at the Academy who was obsessed with vampires, once electrified Borusa's perigosto stick. (Novel: Goth Opera)

After the Academy, Koschei attended a ritual with Theta Sigma and Susan, then likely called Arkytior, in Arcadia. Here, he gave her a toy, which was actually a communication node that he planned to use to find Theta and her if they ever left Gallifrey. (Audio: The Toy)

According to one account, Koschei led students at the Academy in a coup against Lord President Pundat the Third and tried to convince Theta Sigma to join. Pundat died of stress soon after the revolt and was replaced with Chancellor Slann. There was a second coup, but they were overheard by the authorities trying to yet again convince Theta to help. After each coup, there were bloody reprisals against the students, but Theta, who was not involved, had his memory wiped. Koschei assassinated Slann, but the students weren't ready for another go. He ended up fleeing Gallifrey. (Short story: Birth of a Renegade) There are, however, many other accounts of him fleeing Gallifrey.

Koschei and a "friend" were locked in a bathroom of a bar in the Tower by the Time Lords after a prank gone wrong. The two fought, and the friend left Koschei behind in the Tower, where he remained locked in for centuries. (Short story: Rebel Rebel)

Theta called Vansell "Nosebung" and continued to do so for centuries. (Audio: Neverland)

Theta Sigma came in fourth place in the Time Lord Academy Sprint Championship. (Comic: Space in Dimension Relative in Time)

Theta Sigma fed a snapping wart fowl to Valyes's summer project, and Valyes still holds a grudge over this. (Audio: The Next Life)

Flubbles are koala-like animals with six legs. Theta Sigma used to keep one under his bed at the Academy as an illegal pet. He almost got caught when she went into heat and started performing her mating call. (Novel: Island of Death)

Theta Sigma used to chase tafelshrews - a species almost like rodents - through the snow of Mount Cadon. (Short story: The Three Paths)

By some accounts, Theta Sigma was loomed, and by some, he had parents. In a version where he had parents, his father and Mr. Saldaamir were once working in the House and were therefore ignoring Theta. Because of this, Theta, at this point a small child, caught a cobblemouse and set it loose in the House, interrupting their plans. (Novel: Unnatural History)

A cousin of Theta's - Glospin - used to bully him quite a lot. He once claimed to find evidence in the Loom pointing to the fact that Theta did not belong in the House of Lungbarrow. If this was believed, Theta Sigma would have been executed. This caused the two to have a physical altercation. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

During this fight, Glospin got a genetic sample from Theta, allowing him to force a regeneration into a Theta lookalike. Then, Glospin murdered Quences, the Kithriarch of the House of Lungbarrow (basically the head of the family), before regenerating again, thus framing Theta for the murder. This was because Glospin wanted to become the next Kithriarch instead of Theta, but because of this, the House of Lungbarrow buried themself (the Houses are sentient, did I mention that?) for centuries. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Despite doting on Theta (and Theta generally being his favorite), Quences had been convinced by Satthralope to disown him when he announced he didn't want to be a Lord Cardinal. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Some of Theta's cousins include Quences, Satthralope, Glospin, Innocet, Arkhew, Owis, Salpash, Luton, Rynde, Jobiska, Maljamin, Farg, Celesia, Chovor, DeRoosifa, and Almund. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Grandfather Paradox was also of the House of Lungbarrow from the same generation as Theta, but of course, he never actually existed. (Novel: Christmas on a Rational Planet)

Pandad VII issued a Burn Edict on Braxiatel, but Braxiatel killed his would be assassin. As punishment, Braxiatel was forced to take up the mantle of Lord Burner for some time, the personal assassin for Lord President Pandad VII. He was ordered to erase an old man and his granddaughter (wink wink) who were fleeing Gallifrey from history but refused to do so and let them go free. That very same day, Pandad died when a power relay that was in his office overloaded, but an inquiry led by Braxiatel found that this was an accident. Just an accident. Nothing shady going on here. (Audio: Disassembled)

Magnus tried to drain the Artron energy from a giant sphere from the time vortex. Theta Sigma opposed him and used the gun of a member of the Chancellery Guard to stop him from draining the energy because he had learned that the energy was alive. This set the energy free. Magnus never forgave him for this, and their friendship ended. (Comic: Flashback)

Theta Sigma had a great aunt lived in a house high in the mountains. She would sing him lullabies. The Eighth Doctor said she was "terrible." (Audio: Together in Eclectic Dreams)

Anyhow, I'm spent, so I'll post this now. Might add on some more later lmaoooo

Don't forget to check out the next part in the reblogs!

[somehow-a-human]

Whose POV is it anyway?

An Introduction

DO NOT ASK NEIL ABOUT FAN THEORY

Cracking down on the storytelling of Good Omens season 2 through the lens of a changing narrator.

If you haven't read this interview with Good Omens cinematographer Gavin Finney, and you're interested in the fantastic dedication and detail that went into this TV show, definitely give it a read. Not only is it lovely, but Neil also posted the article with a caption mentioning that it's got so many secrets in it. Obviously that made me take a closer look.

I have already gone into a fair bit of detail about the different Lens Filters that Finney mentions in the article in a separate post and I will be referring to them quite a bit so if you aren't familiar with them I would suggest reading that first!

This first post is going to cover the basics of changing narrator/POV's and I'll be writing additional posts for separate episodes/minisodes/scenes since there's obviously way too much to cover in a single go. So shall we take our first look?

It's no secret that something's a *bit weird* with season two, and there are SO many theories about it. I love to read speculation, metas, theories, and opinions, it's definitely fun but my personal ideas align more with the idea that we're simply being shown the events of season 2 through the memories of multiple narrators, different POV's, and it slightly skews the story, sometimes within one continuous scene.

I am also a sucker for a good multiple timeline theory but that isn't this post.

Lens Filters

As I stated above, I wrote a post about each of these individual filters earlier. What I didn't go into in that post was speculation about the filters. While I think they're pretty straightforward, especially the filter for hell (Black Pro-Mist ((BPM)), I think the other two have a bit more room for speculation.

Bronze Glimmer Glass

BGG was described by Finney as being used for 'bookshop scenes', but after S2 back numerous times and paying as much attention as I could to the lighting and colouring of the scenes, I think this is generally true but not always true. There are times when bookshop scenes seem to use a different filter, and other locations also seem to be shot with the BGG filter as well. I think BGG aligns with Aziraphale's POV. Or if Not Aziraphale, an outside-of-Crowley narrator? Based on the scenes (which we'll specifically get into in other posts) which BGG seems to be used, context clues, character behavior, etc, I think BGG clues us in that we're seeing, if you will, through Aziraphale's eyes.

Black Diffusion FX

BDFX was described as being used for 'Crowley's present day storyline' and fuck me, that's not ominous or weirdly phrased at all Mr. Finney! This filter definitely aligns with Crowley. Most of the time he's separate from Aziraphale it seems that this is the filter being used, and certain scenes switch filters mid-scene when he begins to go off on snarky Crowley-centric commentary.

Catch-22 & Herzog

The books on Gabriels bookshelf, great books obviously, but I think books that are also meant to give us context about the story. Pride and Prejudice is a love story about making snap judgements on someone's character, and coming to recognize somebody might be good despite their title or appearance. The Crow Road is a story about life, death, love, morality, mystery, and God. 1984 details the tragedy of Julia and Winston's attempt at falling in love while living under in a police state. You see my point?

That's why I wanted to touch a bit more on Catch-22 and Herzog specifically when talking about the possibility of changing narrators/POV's in Good Omens 2.

Catch-22 frequently switches narrator and the events described are often not necessarily sequential. This way you're getting information about previous scenes as the story continues, so while you're reading the book you're forming a more complete image of the events as the story continues from different characters POV's and iterations of the story. Sound relevant?

Herzog is the other book I wanted to talk about. To be fair I haven't read Herzog in full like I have Catch-22 but I pulled out my copy to reference and flip through a bit to remind myself. Herzog unlike Catch-22 doesn't switch narrators but the narration by the main character, Herzog himself, switches between first and third person throughout. When he is narrating through his letters, you get a deeper look at his thought processes and emotions. It also relies on flashbacks to bring context to the life of Herzog.

While these books touch on other elements that are relevant to the Good Omens story, namely Yossarian's relationship and views of God in Catch-22, the way these stories are told intrigued me for this context.

Crowley's Hair

Yeah I'm gonna mention the hair, because I think the hair is linked. Crowley's shorter sideburns, trimmed mutton chops in the 1827 flashback, and shorter Job wig seem to be clearly aligned with the BDFX filter/Crowley's POV as far as I can tell. I don't know if this means it's just another way to denote POV, but it seems way too consistent not to mention it. The longer sideburns, fuller mutton chops, and longer Job wig all match up with Aziraphale's POV or the BGG filter. My thoughts here are that his hair is another hint of who may be relaying the information to us, AKA is it internal or external. I am making my best guesses though and there are still some situations that I feel less sure about. For example, when Aziraphale takes the Bentley to Edinburgh and Crowley is in the Bookshop with Jim his sideburns are long, is it because he's remembering these scenes unreliably? Is Aziraphale imagining the events? Is it because Jim is present? A brief fluttering thought I toy with from time to time is the fact that in the before-the-beginning scene they are long, and what that means in context of the rest of the season.

S2 Promo Posters

Finally this set of season 2 promo posters showing the characters thoughtfully considering scenes in their heads just gives me a lot of these POV vibes.

I'm planning on doing individual posts for specific scenes, episodes, and minisodes that require detailed breakdowns. I'll update this list with links as the posts are finished!

POV "Your 'Something's Wrong' Voice"

POV a Trip to Hell and a 25 Lazarii Miracle

POV a Companion to Owls

POV The Dirty Donkey & I think I Found a *Clue*!

POV Bodysnatchers & Cosplaying a bookseller

POV 1941

POV The Ball

POV The End?

Whose POV is it Anyway - a Conclusion

[meroif]

A Hundred Years of Sleep

Far, far away from home, you awake to a world changed. Everyone had their time to grief,  with the exception of you. Then I ask, what would you give to fix what is broken?

DEMO ; PATREON

A Hundred Years of Sleep is an interactive fiction novel taking place in a universe of magic and machinery. It aims to guide you through a journey through the stars, one that begins and ends with your very home.

The Story

You come from Vaeravel, a small and peaceful planet orbiting around an even smaller star in a corner of the universe. You live with your aunts in your quaint neighborhood until you're considered a young adult by the standards of your long-lived species.

Then without fanfare, everything ends.

The Collapse is a terrible accident that completely destroys your planet and most of its inhabitants. You manage to survive, taken to one of the few emergency vessels fleeing disaster, but slip away into a deep sleep.

You wake up again, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar galaxy, alone. Everywhere you look, life has gone on without you.

So when you hear rumors of a ship departing for what is now called The Collapsed you can't help but embark on the journey home, so that maybe by the end of it you'd be granted peace, or at least instructed on what to do with all your loss.

Features

Character customization. Choose name, pronouns, appearance, personality and ambitions of your character.

Moral compass. Be bad, play nice, decide how you want to interact with the world at large and see for yourself where your actions take you.

Romance. Meet and fall in love with four different characters, all gender selectable, or don't, if you prefer to the take the romanceless path.

Flirt options with various NPCs, with future extra side-stories to give them the space they deserve.

Multiple endings, good and bad, once you reach the end of your journey.

Romantic Options

Riel Rosenquartz (he/him, or she/her, or they/them), the heir of the Rosen Crown, lost monarchy of Vaeravel. Elegant, kind and diplomatic, they're overjoyed to meet another survivor of the disaster. Although you're not sure why they'd wait for so long before making the journey back home.

Khael (he/him, or she/her), the Captain of the Chrysa, the ship travelling to reach The Collapsed. Highly perceptive and infuriatingly charming, Khael is undoubtedly the person in charge. But what could they possibly stand to gain in embarking on such a dangerous journey?

Nathaniel (he/him, or she/her), allegedly a researcher hailing from afar, they seem to be unfamiliar with how the entire galaxy works. Mysterious, reserved and stubborn to a fault, it's undeniable they're hiding something big. Yet as complete strangers, you have no idea why they'd be so opposed to your presence onboard.

Aelinor (he/him or she/her), your old neighbor and childhood friend, miraculously found again in the mists of the ship's crew. Although they're just as sweet as you remember them, you can't help but wonder...where were they as you slept?

Portraits (1, 2); Aesthetics (1, 2, 3, 4); Playlists ; ROs Introductions (1, 2)

A Hundred Years of Sleep is currently in development and will be released episodically, the current build includes the Prologue and the entirety of Chapter One.

If you've enjoyed the story so far, please consider supporting me on Patreon, it really does make a difference in the time I'm able to dedicate to the project.

Patrons receive access to the alpha demo, which currently adds the first part of Chapter Two to the public build, as well as side and themed stories, polls, and other exclusive benefits.

Thank you for your support, and for playing A Hundred Years of Sleep. 🌙

[mystery--mist]

I wanna ask

You like Metal sonic?

Sure! I really love him! One of my top fav villains and Sonic characters in general! I have had a crush on him in fact since I was a teen haha

[namelessdumbass]

Ultimate Nameless Ghouls guide

Nobody asked for it, but why the hell not?! Warning: looooong text, silly descriptions, shit ton of links and silly collages (sorry, tumblr only allows 30 pictures per post)

Happy reading!

4 Papas, 5 eras, different cool looks. There were a lot of changes, loooooots of Ghouls, but it's not as compicated as it may seem. There are many ways to tell them apart: -by the way they are placed on stage -their alchemic symbols (check out my Meliora guide where i shed more light on this topic) -their height and body types -body language -their instruments -jewellery -date of the photo/video (mhm) Let's start from the very beginning!

Opus Eponymous era (October 23, 2010 - december 15, 2012)

(from left to right: Omega, Earth #1, Lake/Water #2, Alpha/Fire #1 in front and Air #1) There were only 5 Ghouls: Fire/Alpha, Quintessence/Omega, Chain/Water (later Lake), Earth #1 and Air #1. Since 2011, Ghouls were placed in certain areas on stage: Quintessence and Earth on Papa's right, Water in the middle, Air and Fire - on Papa's left.

Alpha aka Fire Ghoul #1

Lead guitar. Had fire sticker on his white-n-black Gibson RD. Skilled motherfucker. Taller than Papas, looked bigger in first 2 eras. Was a bit reserved in era 1, but became quite active and naughty in era 2. Has blue eyes, started to wear a ring in era 2 and got tattoos in era 3. If you see a ghoul who often shows a peace sign - that's Alpha :) Hangs out with Omega, River, Delta, Pebble and Mist on stage. Enjoys attention, quite popular among fans. Can speak Italian, has strong accent. Joined in october 2010, left in november 2016.

Omega aka Ether/Quintessence Ghoul #1

Rhythm guitar, black Gibson RD with Omega sticker. Tall, stompy, was quite confident from the very beginning, graceful hand movements (trust me, you won't confuse him with any other ghoul). Has cutest laugh. The Perfect Ghoul™. Has beautiful eyes, chunky silver rings, is the reason the Ghouls got their alchemic symbols. Papa III's favorite Ghoul, that's why he was always praised and his butt was always touched/smacked during Year Zero solo by Terzo :) Did interviews in era 2 (sometimes together with Alpha or Special Ghoul) and 3. Joined in october 2010, left in july 2016 :(

Chain aka Water Ghoul#1

Bass. Mysterious and metal AF, wore a chain as a belt and painted black bones on his hands, had Grucifix on metal necklace (which was later worn by Omega after Chain left). Was quite active and actually the shortest ghoul of era 1. Joined in october 2010, left in early 2011.

Earth Ghoul #1

Drums. Had no other specific name. Tall (same height as Omega), slim, has blue eyes. Despite being in Ghost for like 4 years, is soooo underrated. There's not much we know about him. The only earth ghoul of Ghost who did an interview (together with Alpha). Was simply amazing! Joined in october 2010, left in 2014.

Air Ghoul #1

Also had no specific name. Synthesizer, keyboard and keytar. The tallest ghoul (a bit taller than Omega), dark eyes. Modest, very calm, didn't move much. Loved showing horns and stared at fans sometimes. Had badass Mummy Dust solo . Joined in 2011, left in november 2016 Lake aka Water Ghoul #2

Bass. Joined in 2011 after Chain left. Middle height, dark eyes. Quite calm. Played two different guitars in era 1. Had cool black lenses in era 2, wore a ring sometimes. Also quite underrated. Fun fact: Remember Year Zero mv when Secondo flashes us? Well, it was this Water in Papa's chasuble, not Tobias :) Joined in 2011, left in 2014.

Infestissumam era (december 15th 2012 - June 3, 2015)

(from left to right: Earth #1, Omega, River, Air #1, Alpha) How are Ghouls placed on stage? Same way as in Opus era. Same Ghouls, different outfits and masks. Their alchemic symbols became more visible and ghouls opened up more on stage. There was only one change of the lineup: Lake left in 2014 and was replaced by River. River aka Water #3

Bass. Middle height, dark blue eyes. Was quite chaotic and weird onstage. Held his bass in a suggestive way, humped it sometimes. Interacted with Alpha a lot, was a bad influence. Definitely had fun on stage, enjoyed attention. See a ghoul with wide-legs-stance? Yeah, that's him! The tallest of the Water Ghouls. Joined in 2014, left in 2015 (before Meliora era began).

Meliora era (june 3, 2015 - september 30, 2017)

(from left to right: Omega, Pebble/Earth #2 behind him, Delta/Water #4, Air #1, Alpha) Placed on stage? Same way as in previous two eras. This is when a lot of changes happened. In 2015, Fire, Quintessence and Air Ghouls were the same, but Earth#1 and River left and Delta and Pebble were introduced.

Delta aka Water#4

Bass. A bit shorter than Papa III, cute, has blue eyes. No visible tattoos or rings. Skilled, filled in for Apha and Omega (and also played his guitar!) couple times for a few rituals and acoustic shows. Loved interacting with Alpha and Pebble on stage. Became Quintessence Ghoul in july 2016 when Omega left, played rhythm guitar. Joined in June 2015, left in november 2016.

Pebble aka Earth#2

Drums. Despite being the shortest and smolest in the band, played the shit out of drums. Was the most active Earth ghoul of Ghost. A show off. Loved interacting with fans. Played a brief solo before Stand by Him. Had a ring, his mask looked a little bit too big for him. Slim, light green eyes. Loved interacting with Alpha and Water. Joined in June 2015, left in november 2016.

In july 2016 Omega left Ghost, Delta took his place and Mist, the first Ghoulette of Ghost, played bass. Mist aka Water #5

Bass. Tiny, has blue eyes, a tattoo and ring on her finger. Cute as hell. Was quite calm and modest. Loved by fans. Her mask looked too big for her. Same could be said about the bass. Joined in september 2016, left a the end of Popestar tour in november 2016.

In 2017 all of the former ghouls and Mist left and the new pack of Ghouls was introduced. All of them (except for Mountain) were +- same heigh as Terzo, so identifying them isn't hard.

Ifrit aka Fire Ghoul #2

Lead guitar. Hyperactive, full of energy, jumps, spins and moves a lot on stage. Papa III's hype man. Loved interacting with fans, gestures a lot. The ghoul that can't stand still. Has blue eyes, no visible tattoos or rings. Ray of sunshine (no really, he's very sweet). Quite popular among fans. Loved interacting with Zephyr, Aether and Dewdrop. Joined in march 2017, left in september 2017

Aether aka Quintessence #3 aka Banana ghoul

Rhythm guitar. A bit taller than Ifrit and Papa III. Loves bananas. Has dark eyes, bracelets and a ring. No QE sticker on his guitar. Beefy, friendly. Also spins, dances and jumps a lot on stage. Was present in Terzo, Cardinal and Papa IV eras. Interacted with all of the Ghouls on stage. Was Cardinal's favorite Ghoul. Was bullied by Sodo, but also annoyed him too sometimes. He and Sodo had pre Cirice guitar battles. Did backing vocals in Prequelle and Impera (in 2022) era. Joined in march 2017, left in may 2023.

Dewdrop aka Sodo aka Water #6 aka Fire #3

Bass and lead guitar. Present in Papa III, Cardinal and Papa VI eras. A bit shorter than Papas and the rest of the ghouls. Slim. Very popular among fans. Stompy, was naughty in era 3, but became muuuuuuch worse later. Horny i would say and even more aggressive. Ghoul equivalent of chihuahua. Shows middle finger, throws picks when he's angry or annoyed by Aether. Was a Water ghoul in 2017, became a Fire Ghoul #3 in 2018 after Ifrit left. This is also a year when his fire Ghoul nature started to come out: Licked his guitar, picks, tried to lick Rain, Aether and bullied Cardinal. HORNY during Mummy Dust. Vapes on stage, interacts with fans, loves choking Rain. Once hurt his finger, didn't give a damn and continued playing guitar smearing blood all over it. Can also be a gentleman. Joined in march 2017 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2024).

Zephyr aka chAir Ghoul #2

Keyboard, synthesizer, keytar. Same height as Papa III, blue eyes. Quite active on stage, but can also be calm. Sits on chair a lot, but starts moving when he's feeling it. Interacts with Ifrit and Aether. Keytar solo - [X]. Cutie. Joined in march 2017, left in september 2017.

Ivy aka Earth #3

Drums. Dark eyes, wears bracelets. Same heigh as Ifrit. Even though he had been in the band only few monhs, he did an amazing job. Joined in march 2017, left in june 2017.

Mountain aka Earth #4

Drums. Tall, slim, has grey eyes and a tattoo on his finger. Hates shoes. Quite popular among fans. Pretty calm, especially comparing to Pebble. Nice fella. Was present in Papa III, Cardinal and Papa IV era. Joined in june 2017 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2024)

Prequelle era (april 6, 2018 - march 3, 2020)

The number of ghouls on stage has increased. Instead of 5 there were 7 ghouls. And this is the year when we got not one, but two Ghoulettes! How are they placed on stage? Like this:

(from left to right: Aether/Quintessence #3, Swiss behing him, Mountain/Earth #4, Rain/Water #7 in front, Cirrus/Multi, Cumulus/Multi, Dewdrop/Sodo/Fire #3) New ghouls of this era:

Rain aka Water #7

Bass. A bit taller than Dewdrop and Cardinal/Papa VI. Has dark eyes, beautiful hands, slim. Quite calm comparing to the others. Opened up a bit more in Impera era. The only adult on stage, beside Ghoulettes and Mountain. Has to step in when Sodo becomes a pain in the ass, also allows him to choke him during Year Zero. Joined in january 2018 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2024)

Swiss aka Multi Ghoul

Baritone and acoustic guitar, tambourine, backing vocals. Tall, slim, has dark eyes and biiiiiiiiiiiiig smile. Dances on his platform, tries to seduce other ghouls, acts possessed. Is in your walls. A manace to society. Vapes on stage. Loves interacting with fans and other ghouls. Known for his powerful shimmies. The horniest Ghoul of Ghost. Annoying the shit out of Sodo aka jerking him off was his main hobby in 2023. Also went to Aurora's (see below) and Cumulus' platforms. The most chaotic ghoul. Popular among Ghesties. Joined in january 2018 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2024).

Cumulus aka Multi Ghoulette

Backing vocals, synthesizer, tamboutine. Short, curvy, has amazing voice. No visible tattoos. Loves interacting with fans and other Ghouls/Ghoulettes. Dances, slays. Joined in january 2018 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2024)

Cirrus aka Multi Ghoulette

Keyboard, synthesizer, tambourine, keytar, backing vocals. Tall, slim. No tattoos. Active on stage. Keytar solo - [X]. Loves sticking out her tongue. Comes to the center of the stage in Impera era. Literal queen. Joined in january 2018 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2014)

Impera era (january 25 th, 2022 - october 7th, 2023)

(Front row from left to right: Aether/Quintessence #3, Rain/Water #7, Sodo/Dewdrop/Fire #3. Behind them from left to right: Swiss, Cirrus, Mountain/Earth #4, Cumulus, Sunshine/Multi)

There were a few changes in this era: new Ghouls and slight changes in the stage setting. In 2022 one more Ghoulette joined the Prequlle pack.

Sunshine aka Multi Ghoulette

Backing vocals and tambourine. A bit taller than Cumulus, but shorter than Cirrus. No tattoos and rings/bracelets. Cutie. Dances and acts funny on her platform. Stood on Papa's left. Joined in 2022, left in may 2023.

2023: Sunshine and Aether left and were replaced by Aurora and Phantom. The rest of the Ghouls/Ghoulettes remained the same.

Phantom aka Quintessence #4

Rhythm guitar. Tall, slim, dark eyes. Loves interacting with fans and loves bats. A show off and a little bit chaotic. Quite confident despite being a newbie. Joins Rain and Sodo for epic into of Square Hammer and outro of Rats. Loves annoying Papa IV during Year Zero outro. almost No visible tattoos, wears a ring. Interacts with every ghoul/ghoulettes on stage. Joined in may 2023 and is still in Ghost (as of may 2024)

Aurora aka Multi Ghoulette

Backing vocals, tambourine. Full of energy. The shortest Ghoulette. Loves dancing next to Rain during Miasma. Cute. Despite being smol, brought Swiss to his knees ;) Joined in may 2023, is still in Ghost (as of may 2024) Honorable mentions: Special Ghoul aka Phil aka Tobias

Showed up for interviews and to grab some awards. Talked about albums, meanings of songs and Papas. Worships cats, loves Abba. Slim, has green eyes. Wore Alpha's uniform. Was present in Primo, Secondo and Terzo eras. Makes a lot of silly sounds. Hasn't been active since 2017. Cowbell Ghoul

Plays cowbell in "Ritual" and "If you have Ghosts". A freaking legend. Tall, has a posture of a shrimp. Always got shooed by Papa III. Only showed at the end of Popestar tour in 2016. Brought many people joy with his presence.

And that was it....for now. The movie and new era are coming soon. I'm excited about what's going to happen next. If there are going to be any changes of the lineup i'll make sure to update this guide :)

Thanks for reading 🖤

[winedarkthoughts]

house of addams (2)

— 🌖 pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

— 🕷️ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut

— 🗝️ word count: 3.3k

— 🍄 summary: you and yoongi tackle your first day of fieldwork, and this town and it's mysteries prove to be stranger than they first appeared.

— ☕ content warnings: private investigator!reader and botanist!yoongi being nerds, mentions of death/missing persons, scientific inaccuracies lol

— 🕸️ a/n: and the mystery continues!

previous chapter ← series m.list → next chapter

chpt. 2: but first, fieldwork

september 22, 2004

You've been having strange dreams. Normally, you don't remember most of your dreams, but these have been oddly vivid and long-lasting, like the lingering stench of a cigarette that sticks to your clothes.

In some, you're wandering through a forest, wading through a thick mist. No, not wandering, because it feels like you're searching for something, you just don't know what.

In others, you're submerged in murky green water. Tendrils of seagrass like twisting trees brush against your ankles. And there's a sound reverberating through the water, something like chittering and groaning at the same time.

When you wake up, the window above your bed is open, though you don't remember unlatching it last night. Just outside the glass is a canopy of green, bright and vigorous from the early dew.

You pull the window shut and dismiss the dreams completely from your mind, because you have things to do. Today is your first day of fieldwork with Yoongi, the botanist.

Yoongi is punctual, which you very much like. He arrives at the meeting spot three minutes early. Luckily, you were there ten minutes early.

"G'morning," he mumbles, his voice still raspy with sleep. His hair is ruffled and his eyes are slightly droopy. He's wearing dark jeans and a flannel, but appears comfortable in the frigid air.

"Morning, thanks for coming," you say, handing him the iced americano and glazed bun you just picked up from the coffee shop.

Cat's Den, it's called. The same barista from your previous visit was working, and he seemed just as cheerful.

"Thank you," Yoongi says with new life in his voice, gratefully sipping from his drink.

You inform him that your first stop will be the residence of Mrs. Bradley. You want him to see the strange fungus in person to get the most accurate identification.

The two of you pile into your Honda CRX. It's a beater car, with scratches on the exterior and ripped seats. You've had it ever since you were a teenager, but the engine has held up throughout the years.

When you ask Yoongi if he's heard of the death of Michael Bradley, he just scrunches his brows.

"I think it was in the paper once," he says. "Something about household cleaners and chemicals. The mayor kept it buttoned up, apparently."

Again, the mention of the mayor. She kept the case under wraps, but clearly she trusts Yoongi to know about it since she recommended him to you.

"Hmm, well Mrs. Bradley won't submit to questioning so far," you say, rattling with the car as it traverses over a ridge in the dirt road.

"So far?" Yoongi prompts, and you can hear the slight amusement in his tone.

The corner of your mouth tugs up in a barely concealed smirk. "I can be very persistent," you add.

You stop the car a block away from their house. Yoongi follows you dutifully when you exit wordlessly and make you way onto their lawn. The ring of mushrooms is still there. In fact, it appears to have gotten wider.

You drop to one knee and begin taking pictures.

"Won't Mrs. Bradley get upset?" Yoongi asks, looking into the dark windows of the house.

"She leaves for work at five a.m." you reply. "We'll be finished long before she gets back."

He doesn't reply, because the mushrooms have snagged almost every ounce of his attention.

"Very peculiar," he mutters to himself.

"Can you identify them?" you ask, trying not to divulge how much you're waiting on his reply.

Yoongi pulls a retractable magnifying glass from his pocket and flips it open, dropping to the damp earth beside you.

"Infundibuliform cap shape," he says, more to himself than to you. But from what you've gathered from the book, it means a "deeply depressed" cap shape. In this case, it makes the cap look like a set of tendrils. Reaching out.

Yoongi takes out a pair of tweezers and turns the mushroom this way and that, examining it.

Something catches your eye.

"Pores and gills?" you say. Typically mushrooms have one or the other, but this one has a membrane covered in small holes as well as an underside full of thin openings.

"False gills, ridges," Yoongi supplements, deep in concentration. "Gills can be detached, but ridges are built into the structure."

"Is that common among mushrooms?" you ask.

"Hmm, not entirely sure. Not a mycologist," he replies, snipping off one of the mushrooms and dropping it into a specimen bag.

A part of you lights up inside. It looks like he's going to help you with this whole thing, judging by his interest in the strange fungi.

You're greatly appreciative, because reading that book on mushrooms was not exactly the most effortless research endeavor. It was plenty interesting, but still chock full of scientific terminology that you aren't familiar with.

"I have a friend back at the university who can take a closer look at this," Yoongi says, rising to a stand.

A flutter in your stomach. This is coming along nicely. The more professional opinions you can get, the better.

"Take a look at this," you say, leading him to the rotted tree trunk.

You watch as his delicate features twist, perplexed. He really is very pretty, but you shouldn't be thinking such things.

"Is this common among trees?" you ask a little hesitantly. It's such a shame to break his concentration when he looks like that.

"Not that I know of," he mutters, taking a tentative step closer.

You did a bit of research on tree rot, but nothing you saw looked quite like this. Wood, even rotted wood, has a splintered appearance. This wood looks almost wet, maybe even flesh-like. It looks, and smells, like an infected wound.

You take plenty of pictures.

"Can I get a copy of those?" Yoongi asks, looking at you with wide, eager eyes. A cat that's caught sight of a treat.

"Yes, of course," you reply with only the slightest bit of difficulty.

"Thank you." He flashes you a gummy smile. Fuck.

"Okay," you blurt out suddenly, pretending to check your watch. "Let's get moving."

Your next location is the sight of Jarvis Laplan's death.

The forest, you've learned thanks to Yoongi's kind direction, has been unofficially divided into sections by the surrounding civilians. There's the "North Star" area, mostly made up of sparse trees and grasses. This is where most of the residential homes are backdropped against, including Bradley's.

Then "Gunman's," an area southwest of North Star. Aptly named, this is the designated hunting grounds, clearly labeled and fenced. A few residences outline Gunman's, including Laplan's. But Laplan wasn't found in Gunman's, he was found in Ulthar's Grove.

"Ulthar's Grove," south of Gunman's and absolutely NOT a hunting area. Apparently, local stray cats and other rodents flock to this area, roaming about freely and building nests in hollow tree stumps. Children and teenagers can sometimes be found playing in this area, because of the several residences tucked into its borders and the relative safety compared to other areas of the forest.

Then, at the center of it all, Lurking Lake. Aptly named, it is not well-inhabited and generally avoided by locals. A naturally formed lake, it is infested with algae, an invasive species of eel-like fish, and characterized by a distinctive musky smell.

You and Yoongi enter into Ulthar's Grove, weaving through gnarled trees and mossy stones.

As if he can't help it, Yoongi points out the names of the local flora as you pass them. The scientific names and the common names, seemingly for your benefit. It's quite amusing, watching his face light up when he recognizes a familiar species.

And you learn a lot, taking as many notes as you can on the local wildlife while navigating the path.

You don't notice, but Yoongi is sneaking glances at you while you scribble feverishly.

"Are my ramblings really that interesting?" he prods playfully.

Your attention is jerked from the page. You glance at him over your shoulder, feeling a burn in your cheeks.

"I try to remember everything I learn," you say, and your voice betrays none of the slight embarrassment you feel at being observed in your "natural habitat." Because you've always been very intent, maybe even obsessed, with collecting knowledge. You suppose that's one of the things that makes you good at your job.

As if he can sense your thoughts, Yoongi says, "So, you're a journalist?"

You never told him exactly what your occupation was, only that the mayor sent you. You hesitate for a moment. For some reason, you have no desire to lie to him.

"Private investigator," you reply.

He hums in acknowledgement. He doesn't ask who you were hired by, but the subtext is clear enough. The mayor recommended him to you for a reason, after all.

The two of you arrive at the site. No longer is it wrapped in police tape, but the same eerie air of caution still lingers.

Aged thirty-five, he was found in the woods. More specifically, in a little clearing among the closely-knit trees, in the center of a ring of dead grass.

Apparently, Laplan was dissatisfied with the control of local wildlife, and took it upon himself to do a bit of "population control." He was found in hunting gear with a .35 Remington, without a single shot fired.

Yoongi says that very little information was in the papers, similar to Bradley. Just a warning to civilians regarding a recent animal attack.

"He wasn't attacked, he was mauled," you can't help but say as you examine the site. The mayor gave you snippets of the police reports, but you still have yet to get your hands on the coroner's report.

"By what?" Yoongi asks, a strange hesitation in his voice.

You look at him.

"Not sure" you reply, turning your attention to the surroundings at hand.

Laplan was found here, among this break in the trees. The ring of dead grass remains, and half of you expects to see a pool of blood in the center of it. But there is nothing but brittle vegetation.

"What kind of animal?" Yoongi asks as he circles around the perimeter.

"A mountain lion, presumably." But for some reason, a reason that you can't name, you doubt it.

A wave of uneasiness ripples through you.

"Let's fan out a bit, try to see if any of the trees around here have the same rot," you call out, eager for a distraction.

The two of you explore the area for a while, noting irregularities in the plant life. Evidently, thanks to Yoongi's commentary, you discover that the surrounding plants appear to be dehydrated, despite the abundant rain. Neither of you find any of the strange mushrooms in this part of the woods.

Yoongi checks his watch at noon on the dot.

"We should get moving. You said there's one more site you wanted to visit, right?"

He's right, the site of Sharon Mason, the final and most recently deceased. You remember now that Yoongi said he had to leave at two p.m., though he didn't mention why.

Lurking Lake, and the surrounding woods which apparently don't have a name, according to Yoongi. They are simply known as "the woods surrounding Lurking Lake."

And you must say, the name lives up to its potential. First of all, it's bigger than you thought it would be. It has a presence, the beating heart of the forest.

Under the gray sky, the water is dark green with a peculiar, abysmal deepness. The perimeter of the lake is outlined by wild grass and moss-robed stones, and the outer edges of the water have a film of algae.

Fog hangs over the landscape like a misty curtain, swirling along the ground.

"She was found by the lake, right?" Yoongi asks, examining some sort of cattail grass by the lakeshore.

"In the lake," you correct, bending over to look closer at the pebbled shore.

"Barely anything in the papers again," Yoongi says before you get the chance to ask. "Mainly because they don't know all that much."

"Hmm," you reply, staring at some sort of microscopic, squirming plankton in the shallow lake water.

Sharon Mason, aged seventeen. Found floating in the lake. Homicide ruled out, apparently.

The third death in under three months, and it certainly left a mark on the community, especially since she was only a teenager. You wonder if this was the catalyst that drove the mayor to hire a private investigator.

"Has the college noticed anything unusual about the lake? In the ecosystem, I mean," you ask.

"Not that I know of," Yoongi immediately responds. A little too quickly.

You straighten up and watch as he paces around the edge of the water, hands in his pockets.

"Nothing?" you ask again, a little more pointed this time. Because you hardly believe that nothing has surfaced at the university. Why else would the mayor include investigative services in "ecological disturbances" in her job description?

"No, ma'am," Yoongi replies, and the politeness in his voice is incriminating.

You'll have to look into it.

"Well, I won't know the finer details until I get the coroner's report," you say.

Yoongi looks up at you.

"The coroner?" he asks, curiosity and something else in his tone.

"Yes, I'll need to speak to him eventually. Do you happen to know where his office is? I've been having trouble getting him on the phone," you say.

You're watching closely for his reply, and you see his eyes flicker to something in the distance.

Following his gaze, you see it. The massive house on the hill, dark and towering over the valley. Through the mist, it looks like an abandoned Victorian mansion.

"The Addams House," Yoongi says from behind you.

"Addams? Is that who lives there?" you ask with your eyes still fixed on the house, like a beacon that you can't look away from.

"Used to, they're long gone now," Yoongi replies. "The new owner rents it out now,"

"And who would that be?" you press.

Yoongi just shrugs.

"The only people who know for sure are the tenants themselves. Apparently, he's a bit of a recluse."

Hmm, interesting.

"And...that's where the coroner's office is?" you ask, a little incredulous.

He nods a little hesitantly.

"Mm hmm, it's in the basement."

"Ah, of course it is," you can't help but reply, and it makes Yoongi smile a bit.

There's a pause as the two of you poke around.

"So, what exactly are you looking for?" Yoongi asks.

That makes you stop and think for a moment, because you're not entirely sure what it is you're looking for here. At Bradley's place, it was the mushrooms. Laplan's place of death, any indication of unusual wildlife or animal activity. Here at the lake, you don't even have a cause of death.

"I'm not entirely sure," you admit, again not finding it in you to lie to him. "I'll have a much better idea when I get the coroner's report."

Something you said seems to remind him, prompting him to check his watch.

"I have to go now," he says, quickly gathering his things.

"Alright, I'll give you a ride back," you offer. Not that you would ever admit it, but you're not quite ready to part from him yet.

"No, no, that's alright," he blurts out, already making his way towards the outline of trees. "It's a short walk," he insists.

"From here?" you question, but by the time you turn around, all you can see is his dark hair and slight frame darting expertly between the trees.

Your shoulders deflate as you let the rest of your sentence die with a puff of breath. A strange man, no doubt. But then again, that's how you like them.

Later that day, you venture to the coffee shop to do some more research, but the establishment is closed. The man mentioned something about only being closed on Wednesday afternoons.

The bookstore on the other side of the alley is closed too, none of the warm light from last time leaking from the front window.

You use your entire living room floor as your cork board and red thread, scattering open books and papers like a difficult-to-navigate parchment sea.

And you sail that sea until three a.m.

Five missing. The first is Alissa Ward, aged thirty-two, last seen at a grocery store at 5:32 p.m. She returned home at 5:47, according to her home security system, and then randomly left through the back door at 2:42 a.m. She lived alone, and it took a while for authorities to report her missing.

Then, Brynn Synder, aged twenty-nine, last seen at her boyfriend's place the night before her disappearance. Apparently, she had a habit of running through the woods in the early morning, and she was reported missing when she failed to show up at brunch with friends the next morning.

The police searched the woods. They found nothing.

You fall asleep on the couch as you're nearing the end of her file, dreaming of feet pounding on dirt.

september 23, 2004.

The coroner proves to be even more elusive than you thought. He appears to be averse to his faxing machine, and downright allergic to his telephone.

By midmorning, you're trudging up through the damp earth to the house on the hill. The closer you get, the more massive it appears. Ancient brickwork, towers and iron spires, neatly clipped hedges flush to the sides of house, and crowned by spindly trees overhead.

There's a tall iron gate encompassing the entire property, spiraling with twisting designs. You try it, but it appears to be sealed even though you don't see a lock of any kind.

You still rattle it a few times for good measure, causing the metal to creak and screech as if it were alive, and very displeased at the rough treatment.

A moment later, a figure emerges from the fog. A man, it looks like, wearing a large coat. As he approaches, you notice the floppy black hair hanging in front of his face.

"Hello, I'm sorry to bother you," you call out when he's close enough to hear you. Really, you're not sorry, since you've been trying to get a hold of the coroner for several days now, with not so much as a return message.

The man is young, with a strong jaw and handsome features. But his skin, it's somehow completely colorless. You can't quite explain it, but it looks like ice, translucent yet cloudy at the same time. And what's weirder is the way your eyes can't quite stay focused on it. It makes your head throb if you stare at the same place for too long.

"I need to speak to the coroner," you say, putting authority in your voice. If you want to get anywhere with this case, you'll need the causes of death.

"He...He isn't here right now," the man says, sounding a little nervous. Now that you're closer, you can see his bunny-like front teeth biting at his strangely colorless lips.

"When will he be back?" you reply.

The man's head is downturned, eyes flickering over the ground.

"I'm not sure. He's spread quite thin, you see," he says.

You raise an eyebrow, unsatisfied.

"W-Well there aren't many forensic pathologists in this area, so he has to service the next three towns. And he always takes Wednesdays off for personal reasons, so he hasn't been in yet and-"

"Alright, kid," you interrupt his rambling, since he only appears to be getting more nervous by the second.

"Just have him call me as soon as possible, okay?" You hand him a card with your information scratched onto it, and he reaches through the gate's bars to take it between his extremely cold fingers.

"Yes ma'am," he says obediently, scurrying back up the hill and disappearing behind a hedge wall.

Strange young man, you think. But, as you're starting to realize, that is the norm in this town.

"She saw through my glamour," Jungkook announces to the room. And everyone freezes, stealing little glances at each other.

"I told you, she's perceptive," Yoongi says from his place on the chaise lounge.

"Curious too, she came into the bookshop looking for something on strange fungi," Namjoon supplies.

"And spent the entire night in the cafe reading," Jin adds.

"She won't stop calling my office. I'm not sure what I'm going to tell her," Taehyung admits.

"She's just doing her job," Jimin counters.

"In any case," a stern voice interrupts, the only voice that hasn’t spoken so far.

“Keep an eye on her.”

a/n: thank you muchly for reading!! if you tell me your thoughts i might explode with joy

NEXT PART: 05/15/24 @8:00 a.m. PST

[casualhedonists]

into the mist, into the clouds

pairing: lucy gray x fem!reader

words: 3.5k

warnings: very few; fluff, angst, mystery and intrigue etc, post tbosas lucy gray

playlist for this fic • main masterlist

a/n: my first non-smut fic on here! title from carolina by taylor swift, which this fic is very much based on. this is one of my favorite things i've written in a very long time. enjoy 🤍

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

“You didn’t see me here.”

Whispered words fill the space between you. Your head rests in her lap, dress crisp and clean and smelling like you, like your home. She looks at you with a sense of urgency, one you’ve seen all too many times before.

“What? Lucy Gray, you’re not…”

She can’t be leaving again. She only just arrived. The morning had brought dew and her muddied boots on your porch for the first time in months. Your mother was gone for the day, it was almost like Lucy Gray had known. Her dress was covered in dirt and grass stains. You piled it into a hamper, washed it in the fresh water of the creek down the hill from your house, scrubbing away while she collected firewood.

“I am. Tomorrow. Dawn.”

“Let me come with you.”

“It’s not safe, my love. I can keep myself protected if I’m alone. I’m startin’ to get real good at it.”

You don’t ask if she’d come back. Neither of you ever know the answer to that.

“Will you do something for me, Lucy Gray?”

Your voice drops. The fire crackles, the pine cones you’d collected together popping as they burn. She likes the sound, she told you. It was safe, comforting. Homely. You’d wondered if she was really talking about the fire, or you, the girl who sat with her in its warmth.

“Anything. You know I will.”

“Would you leave before I wake up? I’m not sure I can say goodbye to you again.”

She smiles, soft and sad, and gazes at you like you’re a song, or something she wants to memorise.

“Of course I will. It’ll be like I never came back here at all.”

The glow of the flames dance across her face.

“I don’t want that.” You whisper. “I hate feeling like you’re slipping away from me.”

She lowers her head to yours, your foreheads touch. You hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

You’ve learned not to waste your time in tears, when she’s going to leave. There are better ways to spend those last moments, eyes dry and focused on tracing the lines of her face, committing it to memory for the last time in who knows how long. You sit up, curling into her, pressing your lips to hers, her hair still damp and smelling like the bar of soap you’d lent her when you fixed her a bath, your pruned fingertips massaging her scalp as the water began to cool. You make it to bed, sleeping soundly with her arms around you.

True to her word, she leaves in the morning. Leaving no trace, no proof she was ever there in the first place. But you feel the warmth of the sheets next to you, and you know.

She finds you the next summer.

“Don’t move.”

You freeze, long grass up to your knees, long skirt swishing as you wade through the field, sun blaring down on you.

A pair of warm hands press softly over your eyes.

“You’re back.” You beam, spinning around, taking her head in your hands, eyes shut, just listening to her breathing. You press your lips to hers.

“I sure am.” When you break away to take her in, look at her sunkissed face, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen her smile wider. If you didn’t know better, you’d say she got more beautiful every time you saw her.

You lie sun-drunk in the shade of the tall grass, lazing against each other as you go over your birthday, the village gossip, and she listens. Always listening, drinking up your words like she’s parched.

You’ve learned not to ask Lucy Gray where she’s been hiding, you both know it’s safer the less gets said. But she presses on, ever gentle, asking you for details when you fill her in on your life.

You jump at a movement in the grass beside you, but she just laughs. Picks up the snake, humming as it wraps and twists itself around her hand.

“These ones won’t hurt you, darlin’. They’re docile, see? Wouldn’t harm a fly.”

She lifts the snake to you slowly.

“You’re sure?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Always.” You reply instantly, like you’ve waited your whole life to hear the question.

“Then hold out your hand.”

You reach out.

“Close your eyes.”

You do. After a second, you feel hers, pressing into your palm, and an oddly warm sensation, smooth.

“It feels… dry.”

You open your eyes. The snake twists and drapes between the two of you, loosely binding your hand with Lucy Gray’s, holding you together.

She laughs, bright and sweet, like music.

“Well, what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” You confess. “Maybe for it to be wet? Slippery?”

Her laughter chimes through the field, a low gust of winding carrying it away. You stay like that for a few more hours, until night begins to fall, and the summer wind carries her away, too.

A year passes. Then another half.

Your mother gets older; she gets sick. You venture outside the bounds in twelve, slipping under the rusted wire fence with a basket, collecting herbs you’d started to read about but couldn’t afford. You make tinctures, teas, you light incense and fill the house with sprigs of rosemary and thyme. It slows down the sickness that tore through her like wildfire. When she passes, it’s beautifully peaceful, like a candle being blown out. You carry her ashes to the lake and you spread them, lingering by the Covey’s cabin. Hoping.

She doesn’t come. You walk home, humming something you think you remember her singing years ago. You start to wonder if she was just something you dreamt up, an old folk song you sing to yourself each night before you fell asleep.

Spring rolls around, and your empty house gathers dust. Your way with herbs and remedies gets around, starting with a few bottles gifted to a neighbour with influenza. Her granddaughter comes to your doorstep with the empty vial and a bag of potatoes. You smile and thank her.

“Are you a witch?” She asks, barely ten years old and looking up at you with dark, mistrusting eyes. You laugh.

“I’m not too sure about that, hon. Did the herbs help?”

She nods, a frown etched along her features.

“Then perhaps I’m a good one.”

Before you know it, word gets around that you cured the old woman. You make a living collecting herbs, crushing them down, and people line up outside your door most days. You find a slice of peace in it, in the routine.

But winter is cruel, and the house turns cold. The house that was once the perfect size for you and your mother now feels like too much money and work to heat, and things start breaking, and leaking. You hear from your cousin in Seven, you’ve inherited a log cabin and a slice of land on the edge of some woods from a great-aunt you never met.

You weigh your options. You go to the lake and skim stones in the icy water, mulling it over.

To leave Twelve is everyone’s dream. But Lucy Gray. The gentle ghost who lingers over your shoulder. How will she find you, if she ever comes back? You can’t stay here waiting forever. One bad frost kills your crops, the chill sets into your bones, and you make up your mind. You pack up your herbs and bottles, your books and your clothes, the pinecone you keep beneath your pillow, the silver snake bracelet she gave you many years ago, and you leave. A simple, smudged note sits under the plant pot on the porch, your old hiding place for the spare house key where she’ll know to look:

I’m in the trees. Come find me.

District Seven has more trees than you’ve ever seen. Twelve is known for it’s forests and fields, but these woods are expansive, spanning over miles, trees lined up perfectly, the smell of freshly chopped wood filling your senses.

Every step you took made you wonder if Lucy Gray been here, if the birds in these trees had heard her saccharine voice.

Your herbs sell a lot better in Seven. It’s enough to buy new clothes, and the village is better kept. The people are kind, warm and friendly. You can finally afford to eat your fill. Your cabin at the edge of the woods stays warm and comfortable, the wood is plentiful, you chop your own from the land that’s now yours.

Sometimes when your head spins from the weight of the axe you see movement in the woods, and you wonder. Sometimes you peer inside, certain that it’s her. But she feels so far away from you now, that you can’t help but feel you’ve abandoned her.

You take walks through the forests; you whistle to the birds and listen for the ones who might sing back. You hear nothing. One day, in the town, you walk by a window display with an old, beat-up guitar. It looks well-loved, and something draws you to it. Faded gold paint around the sound hole, strings messy but you go inside and barter, and take it home with you.

You hum some of the old songs she used to sing, try to piece together chords on the strings that aren’t snapped. It sounds like a mess but you play anyway. It feels like a piece of her that you want to keep close to you. You’ve learned to become a collector of sorts.

You’re kept warm through winter, and spring fades into summer. You take the little fishing boat that came with the cabin out on the river, and hike through the forest. You take your guitar with you, and one day, finally, you hear it.

A mockingjay.

It sings your broken tune back to you, bouncing through the pines. A smooth voice cuts through the birdsong.

“Did you miss me?”

Lucy Gray.

Your head spins around. And there she is, smiling, and you fall into her arms.

“I was so scared. I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I know. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I would either.”

“But you’re here, you found me! My note, I didn’t know if…”

“The trees.” She grins. “District Seven. It made perfect sense, my love.”

“I can’t believe you’re here. Lucy Gray, you don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

“Oh, I think I do. If you think for a second you’re alone in that, you couldn’t be more wrong. Now,” she adds, nodding at the guitar, “what do we have here?”

You take her onto the river, safer in Seven than you’d ever been in Twelve. She watches as you grind up lavender, the smell filling up the cabin, fascinated as you explain the hobby that you’d turned into work. She fixes your guitar strings, teaches you some simple chords. You sit on the porch, playing while she sings.

“It suits you here, you know.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” She pauses. “I was so sorry to hear about your ma. She was a good woman. She was always kind to me. To everyone.”

“Thank you. I’m okay now, really. I like it here. It’s quiet, peaceful. I think that’s what she’d want for me.”

When she stares up at the sky, birds soaring up above, the rush of the wind through the trees, you can’t help but ask. This is all so perfect, and after so long you can’t bear the thought of her leaving again.

“Do you know how long…”

She smiles.

“Maybe a day or two? If that’s okay.”

You can’t hide your grin. You nod, and she glances up at you.

“Of course that’s okay. More than okay.”

Her fingers press over yours as she demonstrates a final chord. She sits behind you as you strum, grinning at her, head spinning around and she’s so close, it’s almost surreal.

“You did it!” She’s beautiful. Vivid like a daydream, all technicolor.

“That’s all of it?”

“That’s all of it. Just play those four over again and you’ve got yourself a song.”

Your fingers intertwine, hand slipping from the guitar.

“Thank you for teaching me.” You whisper with a smile.

“You’ll remember it, won’t you?” There’s a solemness to it.

You frown.

“Of course I will. I’ll practice all the time.”

“You promise?” Her voice is desperate.

You slide the guitar to the floor and take her hand in yours, clasping it to your chest. Eyes making a silent oath.

“I won’t forget, Lucy Gray. I promise you.”

She nods, corners of her mouth turning up into a smile. You sigh.  

“You know I’ve kept everything, don’t you? All of it. Everything I have that reminds me of you.”

“I saw the pinecone on the mantelpiece. Was that from-”

“The time we made the fire in 12? Yeah.”

She lights up.

“You’re such a romantic. I love it. You-”

Your lips press to hers, suddenly overcome with emotion. When you pull away, she sees the tears on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” You cry. “I really didn’t, and… I don’t want you to leave, I-”

Her wide eyes fill with apology.

“I know. I wish I didn’t have to leave, sugar. I’m sorry it took me so long this time. I wish I could tell you how much it hurts to be away. It feels like I never really rest, until I’m back with you. Does that make sense?”

You nod, blinking away your tears.

“Will you do something for me, my love?” She presses, soft hands brushing away your tears.

“Anything.”

“Until tomorrow, can we pretend I’m not leaving? Pretend like this is our normal. Like we’ve got all the time in the world.”

You close your eyes, then look at her again, just as quickly, not wanting to waste a precious second.

“All the time in the world.” You whisper back.

True to your word, you make the most of it. She leaves you the next morning. You say a proper goodbye this time, holding her like you’ll never let go. But you do.

Weeks stretch on and you can feel her slipping away again. The birds ease the pain, singing her pretty melodies back to you, like a worn-out record you’ve played on repeat. You throw the windows and doors open, filling the house with summer’s balmy air and the sound of her voice bouncing through the rooms as if she was still there. But soon enough, they forget her dulcet notes, and you’re alone with yourself again.

You track the time through seasons, like you always have. The summer draws to a bittersweet close, and you miss it before it’s fully gone.

You slip back into your routine. You take the boat out alone. The schoolchildren sneak up to your door at times, you hear them whispering. The witch rumours are back in full swing but you don’t mind them. You think it rather suits you. You open the door, much to their horror, and offer them some cookies. They come dutifully back for more on Saturdays, and you appreciate the bit of company.

You keep your promise, and it keeps her alive. You practice the chords she taught you, rough calluses starting to form on your fingers. You trace them at night when the world gets too quiet, and as winter closes in again it gets quieter still. The birds fly away to escape the cold, and you wonder if out there somewhere, she might see them. You find yourself praying the winter isn’t being too cruel to her, wherever she is.

One day, at the market, you’re sat at your stall selling chamomile and sage tea, and you hear her name, like a question in someone’s voice. They remember. They remember her. Your heart swells. You want to scream at the top of your lungs, it’s her. She is the girl you love.

She appears more and more in your dreams, some nights you’re restless, dreaming of her scared, running from something in a dark forest, sometimes you’re there by her side. Other times you wake with a start thinking she’s knocking at your door. You sprint outside into the darkness, barefoot on the damp grass, turning in circles before you catch your breath.

You could make yourself some valerian root tea as a remedy, but you don’t. You don’t mind her living on through your dreams. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

You’re comforted by this haunting.

She finds you again. She always does.

“I saw the Covey a few months ago.” You tell her, the first night you spend together, lay in your bed, arms and legs a tangled mess, her hand in your hair.

Her eyes light up.

“Did you really? Close to here?”

You nod.

“They weren’t here for long. I’m not sure they recognised me, I was at the back of the room. It was pretty dark.”

Her eyes are wistful, filled with something you think you understand now.

“It all feels like so long ago, doesn’t it? I forget sometimes, just how long it’s been.” She looks to the floor. “And Maude Ivory – was she there? How’d she look?”

“She was.” You grin. “She looked happy. Healthy. She was smiling and dancing the whole night, like she always used to.”

You pause for a second, wondering if you should go back, mention that she, much like you, must still have an emptiness, a gap in her life even after all these years, but it’s like Lucy Gray reads your mind. Always one step ahead.

“That’s good.” She says decidedly. “It’s all I ever wanted for her. To be happy. Free. Thank you for telling me. I… I think about them a lot. About all of it. But I always hoped they’d move on without me.”

You’re quiet when you speak again.

“Lucy Gray, I don’t think anyone could ever move on from you.”

It lingers in the air. You speak up again.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course you can.”

“When I saw them that night, I stayed for the whole set, because… well, it’s silly,” you confess, “I couldn’t stop watching. I kept thinking that you’d show up. Like they’d just announce your name and they’d all cheer like they did in Twelve. Like you would get up there and sing, and see me in the crowd, and just… smile. Like you’d asked me to be there that night.”

It’s back again, that wistful look of hers.

“I sure wish I had been, sugar. But I think I’d rather be here with you than up on that stage, these days.”

Warmth fills your chest. “Yeah?”

She takes a breath.

“It’s important that people forget me. It’s safer this way. I don’t know what they’d do if they found me, but I know for certain I don’t plan to find out. Maybe one day… well, we’ll have to see. But for now, I could stay a little longer. Would that be okay? If I stayed until the week ends?”

Stay forever, you want to say. But you nod, holding her like she’s already gone.

When she leaves, it’s too soon. Always too soon. You stand in front of the cabin, wishing you could mold your hand around hers and never let go. You kiss her goodbye.

“You didn’t see me here.” She whispers against your lips.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about.” You respond, and her lips turn into a half-smile.

“Now. Close your eyes.”

You press them shut, feeling her hands slip from yours. When you open them, she’s gone again.

As the years go by, you stop hearing the name Lucy Gray altogether. She starts to feel more like a folk tale; a messy, ink splashed cursive on old parchment. You yearn to speak of her, to keep her legacy alive, but you can’t. You don’t. You remember, though. The world could forget about Lucy Gray Baird, but your memory of her lived on like a still-beating heart, and in turn it kept her alive. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t keep you alive, too.

You make quite the name for yourself, your apothecary bringing in customers from across Seven, sometimes further. So much so, that sometimes you wonder if when she passes through Twelve or Seven, she hears about you and remembers, counting down the days until she gets to come home.

She still haunts your dreams, slipping away as soon as you wake up. But she’ll come back. No matter how many times she leaves. Wherever you go, she’ll find you. She could go anywhere in the world, but she’ll always come back home to you. And you’ll be waiting for her, even if the world curses her name, even if the Covey forgets her too. You understand now. She’s as much yours as you are hers. And when she comes home, it’ll always feel like she never left. And that’s enough for you. It was always enough.

You leave your porch light on.

taglist: (i'm just gonna tag people who showed interest in the excerpt/might like this!) @etfrin @darby-rowe @ohstardew @ohmeadows @sabrinasbd @ctrlovertheworld

[serxinns]

hi i was wondering if you do a yandere class 1a and dad aizawa x female reader and how would they react when they find out that she has insomnia and has trouble sleeping..what you have time.thank you.

(im also adding yandere midnight as well)

•one word they are not happy

•the class will 1st start to notice how you would fight to sleep in class literally swaying side to side eyes blinking fighting not to close whenever someone ask you something you would be in your little word that aizawa would have to slam his desk to get your attention

•Whenever your classmates tried to talk with , you would barely pay attention just staring at them while they talked and talked while you slowly fell asleep they had to shake ur shoulder softly to wake you up or whenever at training you always seemed to lack fighting you were a good fighter but is slow at reacting to stuff due to your drowsiness

•Aizawa was equally worried for you as well but hid it he would strictly lecture you about not sleeping in his class or you'll fail and you didn't even pay attention to that you just kept focusing trying to stay away which made him frown a bit

•The classmates worriedly asking you what time do you sleep and you always joke it off dismissing it and when they ask you to get more sleep you promised them they would but failed to do so which made them even more worried

•"Darling hasn't gotten as much sleep I'm worried for her..." Ochako said frowning the class made a secret meeting to discuss your sleepy habits "Whenever I tried to tell the dumbass about something she never pays attention just daydreams" Other classmates began telling their stories about your behavior until Izuku stopped everyone "guys guys I have a plan" they gather around him and looked at his notebook for his list of plans

•they gave you melatonin 2 a day which didn't work Aizawa tried giving you Nightquill which you didn't like cause of the taste, next was a good sleep schedule iida advised you to go to bed early but that still didn't work your classmates and teacher were getting more worried by the second until everyone thought of the same thing

Midnight

•Now Aizawa and Midnight don't get along well because Midnight trying to steal his child away from him but this is an "emergency" so he had to suck it up Aizawa and Midnight Midnight came up with an agreement that if she can use her quirk on you to help you sleep then she's allowed to cuddle sections only and IF she stops complaining about how dangerous and rough he's being with you

•So whenever you go to bed you see a purple mist you freak out a bit then suddenly you felt dizzy your eye lids feeling heavy and ur body swaying next you know you were knock out on the bed sleeping peacefully

•the next day you kept asking your classmates about this mysterious purple mist which then they either laughed it off or say that you were prob imagining things because you were half asleep you were sure you saw the purple mist tho right?

•While you were questioning your theories about the most your classmates and teacher all winked secretly

[seancekitsch]

Falling Hard, Failing Fast: A Hughie Campbell x Reader fic!

You get dosed with... a mystery drug made by Vought. Hughie is a good friend and stays with you while you monitor the side effects.

Warnings: sloppy sex pollen trope usage, dubcon turned just normal con, drugging, friends to lovers under upsetting circumstances, foreplay, sappy missionary, not my best work tbh

“What did they get her with?” Butcher asks, his voice near a yell through the receiver. 

Hughie traps his phone between his ear and his shoulder and waves his fingers in front of your face, struggling to get you to focus your eyes. Everything blurs around the edges, the same way blood rushes against your ear drums. All you can focus on though is heat, heat in your knees buckling, heat in Hughie’s other arm around your torso to keep you upright, heat in your head that plunges down your front and settles under your pants. 

All you can offer is a weak shake of your head to no one in particular. You don’t know. All you know is heat, and that you’re fading fast. 

“I think it’s bad, it was all over her,” Hughie says. He had watched a guard pull something that looked like pepper spray into your face, and he ran into the mist of it to pull you away and back up the stairs, begging you to stay upright the whole time. 

“I can’t—“ you mumble, your head falling back against Hughie’s shoulder. Relief, like a cool drink of water, trickles into you at the contact. You need more, you need—

You sober up, almost, as fear cools the fire under your skin momentarily. Your head snaps up, and Hughie immediately goes on the alert.

“Get away from me!” your voice shakes, but it's the most clear you’ve sounded since Hughie grabbed you. 

“What? No—,” he stops himself, confused, “No, we have to get you somewhere safe.”

He hangs up the phone in a panic as you try to pull away from him, throwing yourself towards the cold brick wall. He recaptures you, steadying you as you keep trying to lurch away. His bare hand against your arm feels like a white hot poker, feels like he's burning you, but you want it. You want to feel what those burning hands feel like moving across your skin, want to feel the pain they'll leave in their wake; part of you imagines they'd leave a trail of destruction like a forest fire, marks of Hughie all over your skin.

Another wave of heat hits you, this time forcing an embarrassing moan from your lips as you double over, stumbling down the hallway with Hughie still painfully attached to you. There's a basement apartment being used as a safe house up ahead, and if you can just get to a bed, or a couch, or even the floor to sweat this out you’ll be fine and maybe survive with your dignity.

You hear Hughie curse as you try to pick up speed, your sweaty hands clawing at his grasp on you. You don’t care if you seem insane in this moment, you just need to barricade yourself in…. alone. 

Hughie helps you in, punching in the door code on the lockbox and fumbling with the key once it’s free, while you lean into the door frame, sweat starting to gather at your hairline. Once the door is open, you practically throw yourself in. The safe house is scarce; a simple kitchen with a can of corn on the counter, a navy futon, a radio, a folding chair, a bathroom. Dread pools in your stomach, settling right above the heat churning, as you realize: Hughie is not going to leave you alone in a place like this. 

You shrug him off, dropping yourself to lay flat on the floor, your face to the ceiling. You screw your eyes shut, the muscles of your face hurting from how hard you’re trying to hide yourself from this. You must look like a fucking mess to Hughie, you realize, with sweat starting to coat your skin and your chest heaving as you struggle not to writhe on the floor in pain. 

He rushes to the sink in the sad excuse for a kitchen, running the tap with water. Hughie mumbles to himself while he searches the cupboards for a cup or a mug. 

You stare up at the off white ceiling- one of those sloppy paint jobs a slumlord does to turn a profit. It probably covers mold.

You pray silently that Hughie brings you water and leaves you the fuck alone before you embarass yourself any more than you already have. At some point the heat has to subside, right? At some point the painful desire in your gut has to fade away, right?

You close your eyes again, trying to block out the sensations you feel to no avail, the hopeless idea that if you hide from the situation it will go away. 

But then Hughie’s sneakers are shuffling across the cheap thin carpet towards you, and he sits down on the floor next to you instead of taking a seat on the futon. You put your hands on your face to try and further hide from him, and realize how big a mistake you just made. 

A low moan escapes your throat, relief from the heat not found, instead the same burning Hughie’s hands had on you in the hallway. Pleasure, embarrassing and wanton, shoots through you seemingly from the palms of your hands.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, and you can hear the dull thud of the mug he chose being placed on the ground. 

“Leave,” you pant out, your voice wavering and airy.

“Not gonna happen,” he immediately responds, a breath of a chuckle exhaled through his nose. It's silent for a minute, maybe more, time feels weird and far away right now. The world has stopped and you feel like you're melting.

And then that stabbing, burning, sublime pleasure erupts on your skin again. 

A strangled cry whines itself out between your closed lips as Hughie takes your hands in his own; a movement too tender and intimate for what you are.

“You’re so… hot,” Hughie whispers, concern laced in the edges of his voice. His touch sends shockwaves through you. You whimper pitifully as you finally open your eyes, just a crack. Worry is painted all over Hughie’s handsome face, his brows furrowed and eyes wide, his lips falling open. In this moment he looks like he would do anything for you, and you can't ask him to do this. You squeeze your eyes shut again, so tight you fear you may start tearing up. Hughie squeezes your hand in his, and you whimper again, your chest heaving and your body betraying you.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, no. Hurt isn’t exactly the word you’d use. Your limbs feel heavy, your head feels heavy, and Hughie’s touch feels like heaven, featherlight and fresh. 

You want him to keep squeezing your hand, you want him to squeeze other things, to grab you, those long fingers curling around your flesh. Another moan escapes your lips at the thought and Hughie freezes up. His hand drops yours, unfortunately. The heat rages again.

“Oh,” Hughie says, voice small. He searches your face, and as hard as you try to shy away from him, he still finds you.

“Is it touch?” he asks, “Something to do with me touching you?”

You nod, embarrassment flushing your features. 

“More? Less?” He presses, and it's so fucking sweet how much he wants to help you. It hurts how nice he’s being about this. You ache between your legs, and wish he would stop being so nice about this.

“More,” you plead, arching your back in discomfort. Hughie’s hands are back on you in an instant, pulling you up to sit so he can massage your shoulders. Your forehead falls onto his shoulder, and you move closer to him, your hands moving across his ribs. He leans into the embrace, his large hands guiding you to lean yourself onto him as he rubs circles into your skin, ripples of pleasure radiating out from each spot he touches. He switches from massaging you to just rubbing your back, his hands moving over your tee shirt and roaming the expanse of space.

His fingers trace your spine, stoking the fire and bringing you relief, if only slightly. You move similarly, hands feeling completely right as you try to follow the same patterns he traces along your back onto his.

“I need…” you beg him again, desperate and shameless. You’re gasping for breath as you continue to move against him, your hands moving up under his shirt, his back feeling almost cold under the heat of your hands. You dont miss the way Hughie shivers at your touch. He keeps rubbing your back, adding more pressure to his touch. You squirm against him and moan, and then Hughie stops.

He pulls you back by the shoulders. 

“Holy shit. Are you?” he asks, bewildered, but then something else crosses his features. Something you can't exactly read. 

“I think so,” you mumble, again trying to look away, trying to hide from him, “That’s why I wanted you to get away from me.”

Hughie seems to ponder this for a moment, his eyes searching your face, and then they dip lower. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you never thought of Hughie that way. 

“I can help? If- only if you want…” he trails off, unsure. You can’t agree to that, no matter how much you want to. It would feel amazing, his hands on you, roaming and groping and taking, his mouth on you. You shiver, not a chill.

“Help?” you echo, and that look you can't read crosses his features again.

“Like I could,” he pauses, finds the word, “Try to give you a hand?”

If you werent already burning up and soaking wet, you would be. How does Hughie sound so effortlessly arousing in a situation like this? Maybe its just the literal drug you were dosed with, though. Either way, it doesnt matter. You cling to him, nails starting to dig into his skin. 

“I- I couldn't ask you to-”

“But you’re not,” he interrupts, “I’m offering.”

He is offering. Offering to get you off as if thats a normal thing to offer one of your friends on a Wednesday afternoon. Like he’s offering to help you move or put together a book shelf. 

You pull yourself in closer to him again, resting your forehead back on his shoulder. It’s less embarrassing this way.

“Let’s try it,” you mumble into his chest. This way, you dont have to face him, you can hide from it and maybe keep a shred of your dignity.

He moves his hands lower, sliding them down to your hips. Hughie guides you back down, laying you out on the ground. He takes away your ability to hide from him. Now hovering over you, he smiles slightly as he takes you in. He steadily raises a hand, moves it down between the two of you, stopping over the button of your jeans.

“Can I?”

You only nod, no turning back now.

He undoes your jeans slowly, as if he’s the one with something to be nervous or shy about. His fingers are warm against the cool metal of you zipper, the sound as he drags it down mixing with the sound of you gasping for breath, a cacophony of desperation and nervous lust. 

Hughie leans back on the heels of his converse, his fingers hooking themselves under the hem of your jeans and pulling them down gently, care in every step. You whimper as you lift yourself up slightly, letting him pull the jeans over your thighs. He stops at your knees, your legs trapped in place by denim. 

“Okay?” he asks, and “okay,” you also confirm. So Hughie takes it a step further, his hand coming to the waistband of your underwear, a black mesh thong that really looks like you were asking to be dosed with sex mist, but ultimately the case of the fact that you had yet to do laundry this week and all of your comfortable briefs were sitting in the laundry bag ready to be carried down the steps of your walk-up.

His fingers dip below the fabric,and when his middle finger brushes the top of your slit your body contorts beyond your control, a strangled cry leaving your lips. 

“Shh, I’ll take care of you,” he reassures you, leaning down further as his hand travels further, his middle finger leading the charge and stroking you. Each movement is like a breath of fresh air, Hughie’s hand a lifeline to calm the fires within you. His lips part as he reaches your clit, fingertip to pearl. 

Hughie’s eyes bore into yours, lust of his own growing in them. You don't feel as embarrassed anymore, instead, something dreadful that mixes with your hunger. It's going to be hard to stop after this, it's going to be hard to be in the same room after this, knowing that look in his eyes. 

“Touch me, please,” you whisper, the words leaving your lips and sealing some kind of unspoken pact.

He nods his head, obeying you as his hand dips lower. Hughie teases, but not really. Every slow movement is deliberate, testing the waters, gaging comfort and mapping it out for himself as well. It’s careful, calculated, and generous. Just like the kind of friend Hughie always is. 

But all thoughts go quiet as his middle finger slides into you with no resistance, and finally it feels as if there is an end in sight to your predicament. His finger feels… divine. Feels like it belongs there, feels like your salvation, and he your savior.

He slides his finger in you to the knuckle, curls it gently, and then slides it almost completely out again.

“You're so… wet,” he comments, and then a blush radiates up from his neck to his cheeks, as if embarrassed that thought did not stay in his head. You lean into his touch, nails raking into the cheap carpet to cement yourself in place. Your eyes don't miss how his free hand moves to his thigh, his own fingers gripping at the material of his jeans.

He starts again, pushing all the way into you, then almost completely out, then all the way in again. Then Hughie picks up his pace, steady and sure as he begins to thrust his middle finger in and out of you, starts to earnestly fuck you with it. The sounds that come out of your mouth are pathetic at best, whining moans and pants and unintelligible begging for more, all of which he obliges enthusiastically. 

You arch your back into his motion, chasing the rhythm of his fingers, the wet sounds between your legs now filling the air and adding to the sound of your already labored breathing. Hughie is short of breath as well, laser focused on you and all too reactive to your body. He meets every movement with one to match, like physics, actions and reactions. He watches your face for any changes, watches you hungrily, his lips parted and eyes dark. 

It doesn't take much, especially when Hughie adds another finger, and both start moving within you. He curls them along the most sensitive part of you, doesn't hold back as he pulls keening moans from your lips and whispers words of encouragement the whole time. 

You come quieter than either of you expect, with a few shuddering breaths and tears that Hughie wipes away, with your teeth buried in your bottom lip and his hand stilled against you. He lets you ride it out as gracefully as you can, not daring to move his fingers from inside you while his other hand continues to smooth down your hair and wipe away tears. 

It’s only when you still, relief and calm finally replacing the heat, that Hughie slowly pulls his fingers from you. Your breath hitches, your body still sensitive to his touch, to his long fingers. He pulls his hand out of your underwear, and leans back onto his heels again, the comforting warmth that came from him leaving you. Finally, you feel cool, normal. A fever breaking. 

“Was that? Was it good?” Hughie asks, sounding nervous. Was it good? It was exactly how you thought Hughie would pleasure a woman. Lovely, thoughtful, with your care in mind. You want it again, just not under these circumstances. You would like to imagine a date, maybe dinner or drinks, maybe a movie, and then a lovely trip back to either of your apartments and a taxi ride because you're too eager to deal with the subway. 

But yes, it was good. 

And as soon as the relief flows through you, it seeps away, a bucket with a hole in the bottom. The heat returns. You shake your head desperately; No, it did not help, not enough. Tears well in your eyes. 

“I still feel-” you cut yourself off. 

“It was good!” you explain hastily, desperately, panicked, “It was good. But I’m still…”

You don’t exactly have the words for it.

“You need more,” he finishes, not asking, but telling you. You press your lips into a thin line, shame at the thought of what Hughie just did not being enough for you. You look away from him, not wanting to say the words. Once again, you think about asking him to leave, asking him to go and let this pass and then maybe one day it could be a funny story. 

But then you see movement from the corner of  your eye. 

It looks like Hughie was just rubbing his nose, but then his tongue darts out from between his lips and to the side of his middle finger. From that hand, the one that was just between your legs. He puts his hand down quickly, too quickly for it to be a natural movement.

The fire within you floods down the front of you, back with the debilitating vengeance from before. If you were standing, it would have knocked you to the floor. 

“Hughie, did you?” you ask, unsure if you should truly accuse him, your voice shaking the entire time.

“Can I say I was just curious?” he asks, a sheepish smile on his face.

You narrow your eyes at him again, trying to hide any of the discomfort that might be returning to your features. You don't believe that. And luckily, Hughie caves quickly under this kind of scrutiny. 

“Okay, I was curious! I was,” Hughie admits, the blush across his cheeks darkening. You don't even want to ask what conclusions he came to, this horny-embarrassed-nervous-hungry combination doing a number on your thought process. 

You only nod at him, slightly skeptical.

“And you… you need more? So I could-,” he pauses, recollects himself so he doesnt ramble.

“I could do more? I could help more?”

You're taken aback by this, pushing your elbows under you to lean up towards him, ignoring the fact that you're still exposed to him. More? How could you ask him for more? Even though this time and the first time he offered, how could you accept?

“I couldn't… I can't ask you to do that, Hughie,” you cringe as the words come out of your mouth, your head betraying what your body wants, but it's the right thing to do, right?

“Well, you wouldn't have to do much asking,” Hughie sighs, his eyes darting from his own lap to the lightswitch on the wall, away from you. 

Your eyes follow where his fell and… oh. 

From what you can tell, he’s rock hard, the zipper of his jeans bulging as it holds him in place. Hughie liked that just as much as you did. If things were not already complicated, they are now. 

Again, he’s offering. 

“It's a big step,” you say, trying to give him an out. You can't ask him to do this, it's not fair. You're not in your right mind, despite how willing he is. 

“Ah, yeah, you're right,” he admits, then, “this isn't how I wanted it to go-”

“Wanted it to go?” you interrupt him. 

“Like if we ever, you know,” he’s getting truly flustered now, his hands gesticulating to try and explain what his mouth can't. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and then his shoulders sag.

“Let me help you.”

The air, everything in the room shifts between the two of you, something new and heavy. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you, and you don’t dare break eye contact. Instead, you nod slowly; giving him full permission, giving yourself full permission. 

Within a second, he's positioning himself over you again, this time with his knee between your thighs. The heat radiating off of him somehow stokes and calms yours, his proximity its own salve after he’s already made you come once.

He leans down to kiss you, his lips fully covering yours. His lips are wet, his stubble coarse against your skin. He’s sure to rub off the makeup around your mouth and leave you with beard burn on your chin and cheeks, but that's the least of your worries. He kisses hungrily, passionately, fierce unlike the normally level headed and more meek member of the team he usually is. His lips seem to pull moans from yours, your tongues and teeth clattering and tangling together.

His hands move across your skin, his thumbs rubbing circles down your sides, reaching further and further down. He stops and pauses almost awkwardly, the first time in this entire encounter that Hughie has shown any of his awkward tendencies. He pushes himself off his hands and knees just enough to get a good grip on your jeans and yank them down. Hughie only pauses when you kick off your shoes, both of you working together to free you of the confines of pants. 

You spread your legs for him gladly when he crawls his way back on top of you, settling himself firmly between your legs. His hips rut and bump against the wet patch of your thong, and briefly it fills you with an odd sense of pride that it may leave a stain on his jeans, that he may carry a physical trophy of this moment.

Hughie’s lips are back on yours quickly, his hands careful and gently as they guide themselves around your body. His fingers dip into your collarbones, palms full of the swell of your chest, ghost over your ribs in a tickle. 

Your hips buck, needy and desperate against him, and he pins you down with his own. Fucking hot, in a way you didnt expect from Hughie Campbell. 

“Please,” you whisper against his lips, and he nods, practically swallowing your words. 

“Wait I have a,” he cuts himself off, and pulls his wallet from his back pocket, producing a beaten up looking trojan condom ribbed for ‘her pleasure’. He holds it up to you between two fingers with a smile.

“Why do you carry that?” you ask, honestly taken aback at his forethought. 

“Well after Herogasm anything is possible, so I figure it's better safe than sorry,” Hughie jokes, and for a brief moment it makes you wonder what other odd shit he might store in his pockets or wallet.

You roll your hips again, and he gets the message. You need him now. 

Hughie tosses the condom down near your shoulder, and untangles himself from you. You take the opportunity to pull the rest of your clothes off, as he sheds his just as hastily. All of your clothes get thrown into a messy pile, to the side, neither of you care.

Hughie practically throws himself down on top of you the moment he's bare, rolling the condom down his shaft quickly before he's rubbing himself along your entrance. He wants this just as badly as you do, and you feel guilty for doubting him earlier.

“Ready?” he asks, already breathless. You grant him a nod, a nervous smile on your face, and that's all he needs. 

He pushes into you slowly, filling you. You're surprised at the way your breath gets caught in your throat, knocking the wind out of you. You did not get a good look at what Hughie is working with before, and you’re very much wishing you did. He bottoms out inside you, his hips flush against you.

He nods, as if asking if this is okay, and you push your head up and rub the tip of your nose against his. Hughie laughs, and the tension of the moment breaks. 

You lift your legs, coming up to wrap them around his hips as he settles himself.

“You're so tight,” he breathes, a lazy smile on his face as he rolls his hips, testing the waters the same way he did when his fingers were inside you. He’s checking on you, making sure your comfort is first. He pulls himself almost completely out, and then back in, and then repeats the whole process. The head of his cock drags within you, rubs against the same spots that had you seeing stars earlier. You're not uncomfortable, not too sensitive, and Hughie seems to sense that. 

Hughie wastes no time speeding up his pace, pressing himself deeper and deeper, never fully pulling out of you between thrusts. He fucks into you not like a friend doing another friend a favor, but like a lover, he fucks into you like he wants to wake up next to you. Hughie presses kisses to your face, hips lips all over you, his stubble scratching you just like you knew it would.

"You feel amazing," he whispers against your skin, "So fucking perfect."

Your moans are like a staccato, punctuated and cut short with each thrust, as Hughie fills you to the hilt you lose all ability to use your voice. He pushes your bodies flush together, connecting completely. Hughie moves against you like he can't get close enough, like he wants you both to fuse together. The friction between your bodies as he moves, the way each thrust drags along the most sensitive parts of you, its all so much. Whatever's going on with you or not, this may just be the best sex of your life. Hughie leaves no part of you untouched and no part of you unsatisfied. You can feel your edge approaching fast, too fast, and you wish you could make this moment last longer. 

Its no use, however, as Hughie pulls your leg from his hip to the side, granting himself access to your clit, where he rubs harsh circles against you. 

“Come on, give me one,” he pants against your jawline, and how could you deny him?

He presses his hand a little harder, speeds up the thrusting of his hips, that friction and closeness never being sacrificed for his speed, and something within you breaks. 

You cry out, a high pitched call of his name, before shaking sobs wrack your frame, your back arching your chest into his, Hughie never slowing down as he pushes you through this. 

This orgasm feels like a jump into the ocean, refreshing and cooling to the fire inside you. 

Hughie works you through your orgasm, your bodies rocking together as you come down from your high. He pulls himself out only when you come back to him, when your breathing starts to regulate, when your muscles start to relax. 

Hughie moves desperately himself, rutting against the apex of your thigh, spilling into his condom only moments after, your hands tangled in the short curls of his hair. 

He moves away from you, the loss of contact genuinely having you feel cold, only to pull off and tie off the condom. Hughie comes back to you quickly, his arms immediately coming around your as your limbs tangle once more.

“Don't worry,” Hughie comforts you, pulling your chest against his tightly. His sweat mixed with his cologne smells almost sweet, decadent. One of his hands comes up to smooth down your hair, sweaty and messed up from the friction of the carpet, his other hand grabs your hip. The heat subsiding temporarily again, this time, it feels less painful, less all consuming. Its getting weaker. 

“We’ll be at this as long as it takes, I’ll help.”

You believe him, and nod, your cheek against his shoulder. He presses a kiss to your hairline.

“Afterwards maybe a shower and I can buy you a coffee? I mean, I think this place has hot water,” he asks, nervousness in his voice. A shower would be nice, but you doubt this place has even one towel.

“A coffee?” you echo. 

“You know,” he explains himself, “so I can say I took you on a date, so that we can be… you know… normal about this.”

“You want to take me on a date?” you lift your head, and that unreadable expression is back in his gaze.

“That wasn't obvious by now?”