#and she was just one of those animals that are just. like you love them all but some are different in a way where they're a part of you.

[fantasyandshit]

Replaced

Type:one shot

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Based off of this request

Hope this is heart breaking enough anon!

Trigger warnings- slight mention of ED behavior, torture, and implied violence

I stare out at the gardens, I used to think they were beautiful, I tended to them everyday, watered and checked all the plants, made sure the soil was perfect and they got the proper mix of shade and sunlight. I walked in them, sat on my bench under the giant cherry blossom tree and read my book. The gardens were always my space my place. I loved those gardens, always marveled at their beauty.

But not now. Now as I stare out at the gardens I’m disgusted by what I see, I hate the new flowers and the soil. I hate looking at it and I refuse to walk in it. I hate that my family simply gave my place to her. That Azriel gave it to her. That he sits out on my bench all cuddled up with her. Deep down I think that’s what disgusts me. Seeing him with her. No. Disgust isn’t the right word. It makes me sick, fills me with agony that spreads through my bones and boils in my blood. Sends jealousy spiking through my body like bolts of electricity.

When the middle Archeron had come into the family with her older sister- it was fine, everything was fine. My family was happy and although I always felt off about the female, I was civil. It was fine as my family turned to them, it was fine. They needed time and attention, like new animals. I let my family give them that. It was fine when I was asked to let her work in the gardens she ‘loved so much’. It was all fine.

It was all fine until they asked me to let her simply take over the gardens, ‘just so she can keep distracted and busy whilst adjusting’. It was fine till I came crying to Rhys about a vision I had, one of the first in nearly a month- I had seen something, I heard people screaming and blood everywhere, but ‘Elain hasn’t seen anything. It’s fine.’ It was fine till Azriel- my best friend for the last 500 years, the male I harbored feelings for. The male I loved for at least 450 years, turned to her. It was fine till she became all consuming. It was fine till ‘Elain needs me Yn.’ ‘Yn I have to go- Elain needs me right now. You know this is hard for her.’ ‘ Yn, stop being selfish- Elain needs me.’

It was fine till she became all consuming. Till no one listened to me, till Azriel- my mate, the man I loved with all my soul, left me for her. Turned a cold shoulder and left me. Till my family soon wrapped around the sisters and I lost them all.

Now I stare out at the gardens I once loved with disgust, nearly puking at the sight of the two cuddled up together, laughing about cauldron knows what. Now, as a headache comes on, the ones that always do before a vision, I simply slouch back in side, going to lay down on a couch. I want these seeings gone. No one cares anyway. If it doesn’t come from Elain Archeron, it means nothing. I mean nothing.

And it is now, as I lay myself across the chair that it truly sets in. He loves her. They love her. She is better. She is more beautiful and interesting and soft and she isn’t tarnished from years of fighting as I am, she is not the crazy woman I have become. She is Elain, she is all things soft and sweet, she is radiant and all consuming, she is powerful and all seeing. But most of all, she is the one Azriel wants. Not me. Her. He wants Elain Archeron.

———

I walk to the dining room for dinner, my head is a bit foggy and my eyes hurt. I keep my gaze down as I sulk into the room and take a seat next to Morrigan who talks idly with Feyre. It’s as if I’m invisible, no one even looks up to me as I walk in or sit, but of course, as soon as Elain comes in, everyone turns to her, conversations stopping. I simply look to my plate, fidgeting with my hands.

As everyone serves up their food, I sit, I’m not hungry. Plus, Elain is thinner, I want to be pretty like her and I have to be skinny to be like her. “Why aren’t you eating Yn?” Mor’s voice filters through my ears and it takes a moment for me to process them.

In a scratchy tone, caused by not using my voice, I reply. “Just not hungry I guess. Visions take it out of me.”

“You had a vision?”

“Yep. Third one of today.” My family pauses at that.

“Third? Today?” It’s Rhysand this time as his brows draw inward.

“Yes, they’ve been happening more and more often, I’m having at least 2-3 a day. I just want to rest.”

“Why haven’t you told me about them?”

“Because of two reasons. Rhysand.” His name is a hiss off my tongue as I speak, finally loosing my cool, “One, you would not care nor listen, haven’t for a single one of my seeings in the past month. And two- starting tomorrow I will no longer be working for this court.”

“What do you mean by that? Not working under this court?”

“I received a letter from Eris- he is ready to execute his plan to take over the autumn throne tonight and I shall be there tomorrow morning to begin my duties as his second in command.” The table is frozen, mixes of horror and sadness painting my ‘families’ faces.

“But-Yn you wouldn’t betray us like that would you?”

I can’t hold back the humorless, dry, laugh that leaves me. “Betrayal? I have Betrayed you?” My head whips to meet Rhysands as I stand and back away from the table. “Rhysand I have done nothing but support you. I was there for you three-“ I point to the three Illyrian males at the table, “in the war camps, I have been here sense we were learning to fly! I was there under the mountain! I lossed my gods dammed wings for you Rhysand. For you! Because you were my family.” Tears begin pouring down my face as I let everything I had bottled up out, “ I was there to support Mor after Eris’ ‘terrible acts’ and I kept my mouth shut about it being a half truth.” I look to the blond across the table who try’s desperately to avoid my gaze.

“I was there on the battle field. I told you my seeings no matter what they were. I stayed as I watched my family replace me, as I watched the man I loved fall for another over and over again. I stayed as my things were taken from me by her.” My finger points to the middle Archeron, Azriel moving slightly in front of her, “I have stayed as my family was ripped from me, I stayed and supported all of you even as my so called family replaced me, as the male I’ve loved as long as I’ve known him, as the male I have loved with my very soul, my very being, my mate.” I look into Azriels warm eyes, “left me for another, as my mate and my family left me in the dust for a new shiny toy.”

I breathe as I take a moment to survey the room, faces filled with shock and horror and sadness watch me. “So yes Rhysand.” It’s a sigh this time as I speak, tired, downright exhausted, “yes, I am leaving. But I am not leaving anything behind. I was already a ghost here anyway. I am leaving and taking my seeings and duties with me. You do not listen to them anyway, it will be no use to you.”

I snap and bags fall into my hands, I turn to the door, silence filling the room, “your my mate?”

“Yes Azriel- I am.”

“Yn wait let me-“

“Save it Rhysand.” I turn on my heel, “ I am leaving to a new kingdom, one that has much potential under their new leader. I am leaving to a court that I see thriving, I am leaving from the court I see crumbling- and it will not be my fault when it does.”

I turn back to the door, a gust of wind hitting me as I step out, taking the hands of the new high lord of autumn. Ignoring my family’s pleas and Azriels yells as I am taken back home.

—————

Okkkkk here it is! I hope you all enjoyed and thank you anon for the request!! Love y’all!

#acotar x reader #azriel x reader #acotar #azriel #elain archeron #elain x reader #feyre archeron #feyre x reader #nesta archeron #nesta x reader #cassian x reader #cassian #rhysand x reader #rhysand #eris vanserra #eris x reader #angst #no happy ending

[ferrstappen]

mónaco l Carlos Sainz

(a/n): this is a very short piece based on one of my favorite songs of all time which, by coincidence, is called Mónaco by Lagos and Danny Ocean. If you listen to it you can picture yourself having a summer romance with Carlos, true story. I'd love to dive deeper into it, but idk I just needed to get it out fast for some reason. hope you like it, feedback is always welcomed<3

summary: pero si algo que nos quedó es todo lo que pasó en Mónaco (but if there’s something left in us then it’s everything that happened in Monaco)

no sé si te acuerdes, de la vez que nos perdimos en septiembre

she'd never forget the warm september night when Carlos took her to the casino for the first time. He still wasn't very familiar with the principality and she was just a fleeting person for a couple of weeks, months, and he couldn't count on her of all people to know the streets of the heavenly Monaco.

As the flutes of Don Perignon continued to flow, he became more and more animated, trying his best to explain the intricate science behind poker and the true meaning behind each card. But despite his best efforts, she found herself unable to concentrate on his words. Instead, she was deeply lost in his eyes, taking in every detail of his sparkling hazel hue.

As she continued to stare, he finally noticed the piercing gaze, causing a warm flush to rise in his cheeks. A shy smile appeared on his lips, and she couldn't resist the urge to lean in and place a gentle kiss on them and when she pulled away, his smile grew wider making her fall deeper and deeper in this announced tragedy.

Everything was good until Carlos realized he was drunk, couldn't drive and didn't remember his address, eyes growing comically large as he came to terms that his alcohol-consumed brain really couldn't remember the name of his street, meaning someone had to drive him and his companion through the beautifully and carefully lit streets until one of you started to recognize his complex and as unusual and absurd of a situation they were in, she couldn't stop giggling as the streets kept passing by in a blur and watched Carlos still trying his best to remember.

tantas veces que tomé tres escalas para verte, creo que me acostumbré a tenerte como si no fuera a acabar.

her time in Monaco was over and Carlos' career in Toro Rosso was steadily climbing, he couldn't afford to take his mind off the track and she understood, she was willing to fly over just to see him.

but it started to fade away.

she was still willing to deal with three layovers to see Carlos, and his caramel eyes still sparkled when he saw her, but there was something missing, this wasn't like their late nights in strolling around Monaco, drinking cheap wine even if they could afford a way nicer bottle.

they weren't stupid, this wasn't meant to last any longer than a couple weeks in autumn, a simple memory, one of those people you can close your eyes and feel their scent, mind playing tricks that maybe if they closed their eyes long enough they might get a feel of the soft skin of each other, running her thumb through his cheek while he tried to fall asleep.

yo sé que para volver ya es tarde, y nuestro plan nunca fue quedarse, no sé si habrá una segunda parte, pero si hay algo que nos quedó es todo lo que pasó en Mónaco.

she stopped flying over, Carlos stopped asking her to spend the weekends off in his apartment, just the two of them

Both reminded themselves this wasn't meant to last, wasn't supposed to create one single string, but they both failed.

chances were, they would find each other again maybe on another holiday, another masters degree, PhD, Grand Prix; a part two, a proper goodbye to te September walks in heels she couldn't take off in order to not get a fine, pouting so Carlos would carry her on his back, as if they knew each other their entire lives.

it wasn't important now.

all they had left was what happened in Monaco.

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

translations <3

no sé si te acuerdes, de la vez que nos perdimos en septiembre: i don't know if you remember about the time we got lost in September.

tantas veces que tomé tres escalas para verte, creo que me acostumbré a tenerte como si no fuera a acabar: so many times i took three layovers just to see you, I think I got used to having you as if it was never gonna end.

yo sé que para volver ya es tarde, y nuestro plan nunca fue quedarse, no sé si habrá una segunda parte, pero si hay algo que nos quedó es todo lo que pasó en Mónaco: i know it's too late to come back and staying wasn't our plan, i don't know if there's gonna be a second time, but if something's that's left in us is everything that happened in Monaco.

#carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz blurb #carlos sainz au #carlos sainz angst #f1 fluff #f1 fics #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you

[aleiiii]

A) Do you have a favorite lmk ship?

B) does Nà have a favorite movie or show?

C) besides the whole immortality against her will thing, what are some other things Nà and the monkeys would/do argue about? (I crave drama)

(You don't have to answer all 3 if you don't wanna. I'm just curious. I love Nà and her interactions with the monkeys sm hehe)

(Teehee tyyy that makes me very glad to hear 🤭)

To answer those questions…..

A.) not any specifically! I enjoy most of them :D

B.) The entirety of Monkey King: the animated series! …..probably. She really likes anything Monkey king lmao. But outside of the canon… AND I MIGHT BE A LIKE BIASED… I would think she would like a good drama and romance.. so Bridgerton it is! ((Totally not biased or anything….))

C.) HAHA I love the drama too, so let’s instigate some drama 😈

Nà loves her hiking, right. She is quite experienced from doing it so much, she likes having her time alone away from society. So much so, she also goes out even when the weather isn’t so good to go hiking in. This frustrates the monkeys very much, as she’s seemingly just putting herself in danger voluntarily. Nà often brushes it off, she knows what she’s doing and doesn’t need them telling her she can’t do such thing. Well, yknow, as experienced as she may be, Nà gets into a lil predicament while she’s out hiking in some rain. A slip and fall down the side of a hill = a very dirty and mildly injured Nà. The boys were very very upset with her. As much as they would like for her to have her own autonomy, she makes it very hard not having them breathing down her neck. Nà herself is also frustrated with them, it can be very overwhelming having not one but two overbearing monkeys being overly protective.

I think this issue would be one that is reoccurring, but under different circumstances…

#once again posting from work oops #lego monkie kid #lmk #asks #lmk oc #lmk sun wukong #sun wukong #lmk monkey king #monkie kid #lmk macaque #lmk six eared macaque

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Never Loved

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not know.

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

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

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

He had paused to puff and shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once while alive. The other…

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

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

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

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

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

Of idiocy. Here and now. Requiescat in pace.

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

The wretched woman had fine aim.

And that’s not all she has, is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cold lump shifted in its pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he had ordered it.

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

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

Instead, a magic trick.

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

Talk of those in love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it? Has something happen—,”

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

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

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

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

“To—to wear it in town—,”

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

“N-No. No, I did not mean to—,”

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

“Sir—,”

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

“Please, I swear, I only thought—,”

“What? What did you think? Do tell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good.

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

Amusing fireworks had ensued.

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

A fine excuse the latter had made.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have until you finish the cigar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jonathan watched his Master through his lashes.

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

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

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

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

He had.

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

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

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

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

“Everything I want is above the neck.”

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

“Surprise me.”

“Only if you do not bite your tongue.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Off he had gone. Dense and careless.

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

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

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

“Father? Are you alright?”

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

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

“You look different.”

“Do I?”

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

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

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

“Good-day, diavol.”

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

And then.

And then.

Bastard. Delilah. Thieving scheming viper of a traitor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had known his son was missing.

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

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

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

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

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

It had been him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you truly grown so slow, Count?

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

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

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

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

Mine!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, fired into his head:

This is the last time you will touch me.

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

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

He looked up, feeling the skim of something familiar—

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

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

He had dodged. Not quite fast enough.

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

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

And his focus was in splinters now. 

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

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

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

He sat up quick enough to crack his neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is enough for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and sheltering—

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

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

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

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

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

There.

The window in the library.

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

He staggered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A toy? This alone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was not that.

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

Your heart? YOUR HEART?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Count. I did not know.

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

I’m sorry.

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

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

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

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

Jonathan, a pillar against the abyss, nodded.

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

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

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

The void was gone.

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

‘Please, Papa, you have to, please…’

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

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

‘Te iubesc, draga mea.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me go, Count.

No.

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

Before it’s too late.

No!

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

MINE.

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

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

 Jonathan?

“I’m fine. …How long was that?”

Less than two minutes.

“It felt longer.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need..?”

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

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

Are you certain you’re alright?

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

It showed you, didn’t it?

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

That. Was this what hurt you in there?

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

Do not distract. Was learning it what hurt you?

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

A slaying made into euthanasia?

“…That is certainly a word for it.”

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

His hand seized around hers.

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Mina. Did you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But wept just the same. 

#this AU has wrung four novellas out of me #I pray this is the last or my hands will be reduced to nubs #anyway #for maximum ambience imagine Dracula rocking back and forth in his dirt box listening to Annie Lennox's “Love Song for a Vampire” #but this time with the (grudgingly) appropriate Harker swapped in #he's about there #blood of my blood #dracula #dracula bad ending au #jonathan harker #mina harker #quincey harker #my writing

[lightlycareless]

uuu just imagine reading manga with naoya in bed while being cuddled up together <3<3

Hello!!!

Ok so this is sweet—kind of domestic amirite? oof. I love me some domestic Naoya when he's nothing but a loving husband. akgfhaksjghkjaghjkashgjas and a nerd too ahahah awww anyways...

warnings: very tiny mentions of smut. implications really. fluff outside of that.

happy reading!!

Imagine it being a cold snowy day where Naoya doesn’t have to go out on missions, tend to clan responsibilities, or anything else.

A day where he can simply spend his time in nothing but his favorite, deserving things, such as catching up with his favorite series, enjoying a well-deserved break from all those countless missions, and of course, spend time with you—his needy wife who didn’t hold back from letting him know how much she missed him.

“What would you like to do today?” is how the days would begin, with you peppering endless kisses across his face while the two snuggled underneath the sheets.

“Hmmm, I feel like spending the whole day in bed.” He sighs, kissing the top of your head. “The new chapter of the manga I told you about came out yesterday, and I want to read it.”

“I’ll make breakfast, then.” You smile, ready to push yourself up from the futon and rush to the kitchen—though Naoya had something else in mind too.

“What’s the hurry, my love?” he murmurs, pulling you back to him. “Going away from me so soon? I just came back…”

“N—No, of course not… I could never!” you blush. “I just… just wanted to make the best of today, you know? Please you.”

“You know, there’s one thing that will immediately please me.” He breathes against your ear, you shudder.

“…I still have to get your bath ready.”

“Can’t see why we can’t do both.”

You press your lips together, heated by his words.

“Ok, but we can’t get too distracted—I still want you to enjoy your day! You rarely get to rest as of lately….” You pout, he laughs before leaning to give you a kiss.

“With you by my side, there’s no way I cannot.”

After that is done, followed by a relaxing bath and a delicious meal prepared by you—Naoya insists in only being fed by you, not the staff; you happily oblige—you’re quick to take your place by his side on the futon, wrapping one of his arms around your waist and rest your head against his chest while his free hand holds up one of his favorite magazines, the one that publishes his favorite anime of the moment.

“I read they had to reprint this issue solely because of one mistake. Nothing too big, but apparently big enough to have the whole publisher pull out the magazine…”

“Gee, that must’ve been quite the task—And to allow it too! Is the author that big or something?”

“Kind of, he’s the best seller at the moment.”

“No wonder, if he’s not happy, that means no business for them.” You sigh. “I wonder if the change is even noticeable.”

“I don’t know, but that’s what I’ll figure out now—they usually point it out anyways.” Naoya squeezes you against him, kissing the top of your head.

“Well, that’s sounds like a wonderful plan!” You grin. “And if you get hungry, or want something to snack on, just let me know and I’ll bring it to you.”

Naoya blushes.

“I love you.”

It’s your turn to blush.

“I love you too.”

The rest of the evening would go on that way, with Naoya reading his manga, eyes intently fixed on the panels while murmuring to himself whenever particularly interesting scene occurs, if not scoffing when a character does something stupid—just as he did in real life; both gestures that you found incredibly cute, how relaxed he is when doing things he loves.

And though he was very focused on that, he was still attentive enough to your presence and gestures, hands and lips looking for yours whenever you reached out to him or vice versa, as well as allowing you to feed him, careful enough to not distract him that much.

Because you just couldn’t snap him out of trance, you know? He looked so adorable!!

Although it would turn a bit… too much soon enough.

“I don’t—I don’t want anything else, Y/N—” he protests when you try to shove another piece of popcorn into his mouth, going as far as moving away, but you simply stuck to him.

“Come on, you have to eat!”

“Not to this point!” Naoya gasps, stomach full to the point of exploding! Of so it feels. “I don’t—I don’t want anything else!”

“Tough luck, Naoya—If you didn’t want me to spoil you, you shouldn’t have stayed home!” you giggle, and Naoya just relents, because he can’t do anything else when he’s putty to both your adorable charm and insistence, his beloved wife.

A side of Naoya that fortunately, is just for your eyes to see.

I just realized that Naoya was the kind of guy to say: "I want a wife that is submissive, that is only attentive to me and knows her place and yadda yadda yadda" until you came along and he was like "ok I like that but... I also want kisses...."

Idk I just keep thinking he's very desperate for affection hahaha call it ooc I DO NOT CARE I AM IN LOVE WITH HIM. 😶😶

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this small thing 🥺❤️ him getting all flustered because you're always so caring to him is AGH healing!!! We could literally change him...

Now, thank you so much for sending in this ask ❤️❤️❤️ take care and hope to see you soon!!!

#ask #naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

[cocomuffy]

You know what we're doing if the Bats were to Crochet you know what why not-

Alfred taught everyone but Damian. I don't know why but he feels like he'd make mittens.

Bruce doesn't crochet very often anymore (never ending battle or whatever), but he used to just kind of crochet blankets or fabrics. He didn't make clothes, though.

Dick loves amigurumi. He would marry it, even if amigurumi doesn't have red hair. He sees one of those woobles kits and goes FERAL. EVERYONE gets plushies. Plushies of them, plushies of their hero identity, plushies of animals, plushies of anything. Kori and Wally's rooms are lined with them.

Jason crochets under very specific conditions. He has to a) have enough time on his schedule to complete something b) be alone and c) be watching a soap opera. (He finds them very relatable) He tries to give his finished product away to kids in need.

I think that most of the family is CONVINCED Tim has never finished a project. And to be fair, he's only finished like... five. One was a plushie that was instantly given to Stephanie because she saw it was purple. And then the rest are kind of floating around between safehouses, apartments, and whatnot, but usually Bernard has them.

Damian learned on his own, thank you very much. I feel like he could have knitted before, but when he saw that everyone else in his family crochets, he knew he wasn't going to be left out. However, he also didn't want anyone to know that he didn't know how before... He considered meeting Alfred in a secret location to learn, however, he decided it was too risky considering the fact that Alfred has to take care of his family when they screw up, so he learned from YouTube. Nobody ever saw him practicing, or at least, they didn't find the bodies.

I like to imagine Stephanie likes amigurumi, but she's actually never finished a project so she just steals everyone else's. But she doesn't tell them.

#sorry i still don't have enough cass and duke info to start dishing out the hcs #but i have picked up some duke things #so yay #dc #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #batfamily #batman #nightwing #red hood #damian wayne #robin #red robin #spoiler dc #dc spoiler #steph brown

[factual-fantasy]

10 asks! Thank you!! :}} 🌞

AHEHEHE KICKING MY FEET AND GIGGLING LIKE A DORK AT THIS 😭😭💞🥺💖💖 THANK YOU SO MCUH!! I DO MY BEST TO MAKE THE EXPRESSIONS KF THE CHARACTERS READABLE AND DRIPPING WITJ EMOTION SO IM GLAD ITS WORKING!! :DD ✨💞✨💖✨

@gummysusie

Oh there's lots I'd be willing to eat if I had to! XDD

My memory ain't the best but off the top of my head-- I'm sure eating miltank meat wouldn't disturb me so much! :0

I like fish so there's a lot of those I'd be willing to try! Magikarp, uhhh those two grumpy fish that are either green/red or green/blue! I forgot the name..

Of course all of the food themed ones would be relatively no problem. Fidough, Milcery.. There's some bird ones that wouldn't be too upsetting too! XDD

As long as my brain relates them to earthly animals, I'm not too disturbed by the thought of eating them XD Im sure they have to eat pokemon in the actual pokemon universe! Where else do their meat based dishes come from? How else do they feed their carnivorous pokemon??

@girlsackthing

Not recently :(( but I'd like to pick it up again someday once I'm feeling better! :}}

@illogically-austere

Hey thanks for checking in, that means a lot 🥹

I'm hanging in there as best I can. I haven't eaten much but am getting plenty of water and rest! I'm hoping this horrible health trial thingy I've been going through is over soon <:}}

@sussyhahag

y a l i k e j a z z ?

@littlelightfish

Hey pal, I hope You're doing alright! Hang in there.. <:}}

I haven't worked much on Tuna's backstory recently.. but I imagined that his blood family was gone.. he lived on a ship with a real rotten crew that was horrible to him.

As for how he joined Seafoam's crew, I imagined that the crew rescued him somehow. Maybe Tuna's old crew attacked Seafoam's crew but he kicked their butts. Perhaps in all the chaos Tuna was left behind by "mistake", only for Foam to welcome him aboard?

Maybe his old crew got too intense and he ran, somehow running into Seafoam and he offered shelter? Or maybe his old ship sank and he was found by Seafoam..? Something along those lines-- XD

Anywho- thank you! Things are starting to look up for me, I'm hoping this journey is almost over! <:}}

@raven-bearden-the-interviewer42

"Seafoam's heart 🥰..... Metaphorically I mean-"

I would assume so! :0 Maybe a cookie like that already exists in the games!

Well that's hard to say.. I usually draw comics all in one pass. I sketch out the entire comic, and then I go back and draw all the line art, and then I go back and color it all in..

So in that sense 1 drawing for a comic could take days to complete. But if I were to focus on just one panel/drawing? I would guesstimate about 10-15 minutes :0

Now my name! My memory is a little foggy.. but one of my favorite things to do in drawing is to apply logic, reason and explanations for things.

For example, Captain Barnacles! He's a polar bear wearing a full suit and lives out in the Pacific Ocean. Obviously there's a lot that doesn't make sense about that- but mainly the fact that Barnacles would be way too hot!

So I remedy this by making my version of Barnacles have very short fur, a special diet that thins out his blubber, and a special suit that helps keep him cool! It's not perfect obviously but it helps make him living out in the Pacific seem more reasonable. Which is what I love to do, and how I thought of my name! Applying fact to fantasy, Factual Fantasy!

Hm, Bibi's worst fear.. that would have to be something bad happening to me or any of the fam I'd assume <XD

Nothing bad actually happened to Red, that nightmare just manifested because she loves/worries about him so much 🥺💞 Like a mother having dreams about their children getting hurt. Nothing exactly happened to cause it, but they just worry about their babies so much that those dreams happen sometimes..

And lastly, thank you! It's looking good that I might finally get out of this pit. So my spirits are high! :}}

@beryl-shade (sorry for the late response! <:D)

He typically will not allow it 😅 I originally had a drawing idea for this ask but I dont have the strength to get to my PC so I can just explain it!-

I imagined Octo and some of the crew all tied to chairs with some other pirates taunting them. Octo looks very bored and very unintimidated.

Well one of the pirates makes the mistake of grabbing one of Octos tentacles and twirling it around. Octo immediately reacts and uses the other tentacles on his head to restrain his hand and start choking the guy-

The rest of the crew is just laughing and calling that pirate an idiot while he continues to struggle to get away from the angry Octo 🤣

Now on the other hand, if he gets a joking pat on the head from Seafoam? Or if Red is up on his shoulders and he pulls on Octo's hair by mistake? Eh, whatever he doesn't mind much. : '

#my response #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run ocs #my ocs

[starpunkssgalaxy]

you already know, a little short but its wtv

- Ben has a bunch of weird shirts, yk those ones that are like “I got my lobotomy done at Claire’s!” Aiden bought him one as a joke but Ben thought it was hilarious and got more

- if the group even makes it to adulthood i see aiden as a drag racer or something, he’d get a kick out of the thrill of it

- can you even imagine when they all have to get jobs? ash’s first job would be some kind of customer service and on rough shifts she just goes in the back to scream then come back out like “☺️ what can i do for you?” she quit that job and got a quieter one

- i could definitely see ash working at a library or something though, she gets to listen to music and stock shelves with books and barely interact with anyone? dream come true

- taylor and tyler are lifeguard material for sure, they would love working at the pool/waterpark

- logan once ripped a mannequins arm off in a store after jokingly shaking it and got so scared he hid it in the men’s bathroom

- ash loves old animated movies. the last unicorn, secrets of nimh, the black cauldron, arthur and the invisibles, she just has a collection of these kinds of dvds that are borderline nightmare fuel

- taylor is such an art girly idc, especially with coloring and i dont mean little kid coloring books but those adult insanely detailed ones and she can color and shade them beautifully

- in summertime taylor loves drawing on the sidewalk with chalk she just has such an eye for color

- aiden on the other hand is a doodler at heart, he and taylor will sometimes draw/color in class together

#sbg (webtoon) #school bus graveyard #sbg headcanons #ashlyn sbg #aiden sbg #sbg ben #logan sbg #sbg tyler #sbg taylor #fun thing about headcanons is i get to make shit up since its not canon #they hate when i have joy and whimsy #maybe logan becomes an assassin with his sniper skills #who cares #jokes #its so hard to become a ballerina #im talking first jobs EVER #i be living in my own world #and in MY world ben wears silly goofy shirts #LET ME LIVE 😭 #anyway lmao

[boy-of-death]

I just discovered the call of duty fandom and let me tell you I never read so much fanfic and hc in a week!!!

I will probably never play the game but I will still love those characters till my last breath. I am living for the cod cosplay community on TikTok and yes I was dragged there by the sheer power of our leader,✨💕Brittany Broski 💕✨

So here some fic/hc ideas I would love to read about but didn’t find🥲

• cod men going to the ren faire with reader who’s super excited and make the men dress up too (Simon dressed in a armor 🫠) ( the 141 that decided to go as a team with reader and they all play along and coordinate their outfits)

• gamer cod men that teach reader how to play and are super kind about it (bonus if in exchange reader tech them how to play cozy games like “animal crossing” or “a little to the left”

• cod men doing a date at the museum and reader is just a history nerd and basically do a guided tour and the men are just listening and be like: yup I am in love!

• cod men and reader drinking tea on the outside tables of a cafe and just gossiping about life and people that walked by (soap and reader with sunglasses just judging everyone like nobody could hear them and randomly dropping a “smash” every time someone hot pass them)

• (this one is especially for soap and it’s based on this TikTok https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGe9Taj72/ )

Just soap putting a kilt on at every single opportunity he gets because he loves it so much and reader had once said that they like it on him . So that’s how you get soap just rocking the kilt at almost every events they go together and of course, more than one time, there was a LOT of wind (Scotland is windy as fuck) and him being the idiot that he is and never learning from his mistakes, ended up butt naked in front of the whole wedding/party/baptism/family dinner/formal evening with the 141 … (he is a total idiot but I love him)

• cod men when reader put on the broski report every time they take the car and it’s just the both of them being super invested in what Brittany is saying. Bonus if it’s the first time reader put it on and of course it’s one of those episodes where she’s saying the most random shit and the proceeds to talk about religion and philosophy and they’re just there driving being like: “ I don’t know what this woman is saying but she did make some very good points” just becoming massives fan and buying matching sweatshirts with the broski report logo on it for them and reader. And yes, they start quoting her every day and it confuses everybody else!

Well, this was longer than I was expecting (that’s what she said) but for a first real post I’m pretty happy about it! Hope you enjoyed it and If by miracle someone found this post and want to use one of the prompts/hc feel free to use it! (Just tag me so I can see the results !)

✨💕have a nice day everybody!!!💕✨

(Sorry English is not my first language 😅)

#cod mw2 #call of duty #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #soap x reader #john mctavish x reader #ghost x reader #john price #captain price #price x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz x reader #konig cod #konig x reader #brittany broski #the broski report #masked men will be the death of me #cod cosplay #writing promt #hc #random idea

[but-a-humble-goon]

Hey, I had a thought about Cassandra.

I haven't read any of her comics, only read the Batgirls one with the three batgirls going on their own side with that artstyle I love so much for some reason.

I know the fact that Cass speaks, and how, tend to change a lot between comics and all, and I don't know the exact lore, but I thought a bit deeper about it all from what I know.

Cain never taught Cass how to speak, right? She grew up with fighting and understanding the body as her only way to convey anything from her brain to the world. (even if she obviously learnt to understand other languages)

But languages shape how your brain understand and interact with the world. It is most noticable when someone talk a language they didn't grew speaking, there's those little mishaps or confusion of meaning and use for words that are said to be equivalent, and that's because you have to relearn a way to see and understand things.

I'd say it's even more obvious when the structure of the language changes, I don't speak any sign language, but I know how some things work, and you don't describe things the same way with it as you would with a spoken language. You have to translate the meaning because of that.

Now, to go back to Cass, she didn't grew up with either of those, at least from what I know. Her language is Body. Her mind shaped itself and its understanding of things through her and others' body. How do you translate that?

Like, she doesn't say things, she can see how others' body feel by looking at them, so she express her feeling through her body. If Cass were to want to express an emotion,her mind would first and foremost express it through her body, and that's not words, that's feelings, and your body can reflect so much mors complicated feelings than words.

My point is, if Cass was to learn her first spoken language while in her teens, it would be really hard for her to express herself in a way that is understandable. Bodies reflect intent with specific muscles, while you need to build a sentence. I know fanon make her learn ASL, which is logical from a vocal cords point of view because she never trained it to speak, but that would still make communication hard, because sign languages are still not body language.

I don't know if I get the idea across, but Cass' whole understanding of the world was built around the way bodies work, and it probably holds for animals too, which are just different, sometimes similar, body languages.

It is so intersting! You can only guess how they would understand the world!

But also, would hinder them so much in their communication. Once, if she ever, get past the training to not express any feeling, you would have someone who express anything with movement, postures, specific muscle being tensed or not. Someone one who is constantly seeing how others feel because no one knows how to prevent their bodies from having feeling.

You're on the same level as an empath as long as you can see their bodies. hiding your body allows you to not be truthful about your feeling...

I fee like I'm not going anywhere with this, but the implication over how one would share anything is wide.

It's actually addressed directly at the end of her solo book that for her it's not as easy as just learning a second language, it's a hardware problem. Her brain is so specialized for body language that it lacks the structure to even process written or verbal languages the way a typical brain can. While she can learn, it will always be much more difficult for her than anyone else.

Also the thing that makes her way of communicating unique is that it's sort of "read only." As in, since it's about reading subconscious body language signals there's no real way to consciously express yourself with it. That's part of why she's all about the arts (dancing, drawing etc) because she's never had ways to express herself properly before and words obviously don't work for her.

#cassandra cain #cassandra wayne #batgirl #dc #dcu #comics

[lightwise]

TBB S3 E12 Reaction

Alright, this was the last episode that was truly represented in the trailer. I can’t wait to see Hunter kick some Juggernaut butt (why does that sound so bad lol)

- Hemlock wipe that damn smirk off your face

- Again with the shoulder shoves dude

- No why is CX-2 just walking away? We need to follow him and find out who he is!! *low-key screaming in frustration* lol

- I love how Hemlock is so arrogantly confident and uncaring that he comes across as almost respectful in how he takes the time to explain things to other people

- Come on Emerie, you’ve come so far! Don’t keep playing into Hemlock’s hand! You know Omega isn’t safe here and neither are you

- Lol he’s too busy to even wait for the test results. Bitch

- I do wish they had given us Crosshair telling Hunter and Wrecker about Omega. BUT I was very much correct that Hunter would not waste time being angry

- Every time Crosshair says something more about Tantiss it just keeps getting worse and worse 🥺🥺 don’t make that man go back there! Dee’s vocal inflections and the way he talks about Nala Se and Tipoca City is so regretful

- The trust and vulnerability he’s willing to show though with his hand shaking and admitting he doesn’t want to go back he’s so traumatized 😭💔

- No WAY they are bringing back Admiral Rampart! Kudos to those who called that one

- PHEEEE and AZZZZ

- Cross goes from pointing his rifle in Phee’s face to straight up telling her they’re taking her ship 🤣

- Okay, it finally happened. I finally teared up. Phee and Crosshair immediately sass each other, then she drops the fact that she and Tech were close and talked a lot and he TOLD HER ABOUT CROSSHAIR (and in a good light) and we got a BROWN EYES 👁️ 👄 👁️. I was in a puddle on the floor 🥹🥹🥹

- The way she treats all of them like family and helps them and puts her life on the line for them. It is just so satisfying to see her relationship with the Batch continue to develop like this. Truly family to all of them.

- More Andor vibes with this labor camp

- Of course Rampart is still a dramatic bitchy asshole. Prison hasn’t changed him AT ALL (except for the beard. Sorry guys but I’m just not seeing it 😆)

- Aw Wrecker giving Mel a little pat. He’s so sweet

- “Oh relax. I expect you to know a stealth approach when you see one” 🤩🤩 TECH you need to come back and marry this woman RIGHT FREAKING NOW

- Gosh they were so made for each other 😭

- That entire maneuver was insane and incredible

- Hunter’s helmet float 😄 at least one of them was having fun

- As others have pointed out I also really appreciate that they animated Phee with so much aging and tiredness and lines and wrinkles showing on her face. She’s a real woman who’s seen and done a lot of things and she’s incredibly gorgeous and badass and caring and intelligent and she doesn’t need perfect skin or a youthful glow to be completely amazing

- When are we getting the “day in the life of a storm trooper” workplace comedy? I need it Star Wars!

- It’s so good to see the boys working together like this

- The textures and lighting in this episode are just so real looking

- Wow Wrecker really just sucker punched that guy

- And he actually remembers plan 55 😁 so proud of him

- The music when they saunter in 😂 and we got a “how touching” too?!

- Rampart’s face is in the dictionary next to the word offended

- “Hunter, they’re sealing off the bridge!” Hunter: drives faster

- And he was giving Phee a hard time for her flying?? Boy is approaching Evel Knievel levels!!

- I need to see Hunter in a dirt bike rally now 😧

- Pretty sure Hunter is firmly in his Joel Miller Era. He does not care what he has to do or who he has to kill at this point

- “Not exactly a stealth exit boys” such a great line

- “We’re all in this together” sure Rampart sure let’s see how chipper you are about that next episode

- Emerie and Omega’s glances at each other 🥺

- “This is your new home” yeahhh I don’t think so

#the bad batch #tbb #tbb spoilers #the bad batch spoilers #star wars

[jacarandaaaas]

opening random encanto yt videos’ comments section is like staring at the waking storm you’re about to plunge into and knowing it’s not gonna be pretty and you’re probably not getting out of it unscathed (aka calm/happy fine—also sorry pepa oof—)

god the amount of misinterpretations people have with the movie, with so many scenes is insane, i’m about to go even more insane myself than usual

it’s so frustrating and i want to throw my phone every time AAAAAAA

but anyway yes, i wrote this ask in the first place to ask about your thoughts on different details and plot points and just general stuff of the movie that you noticed and really love, with any/all of this helping you appreciate the movie more? just anything, really, your choice on whatever you wanna ramble :3 (also to make up for how my last question had stopped you from rambling AHAHAH)

because i know you have so many good ideas and thoughts, so i’d love to hear it hehe :>

hope i made sense with the question, just a bit sleep deprived rn haha, but yes, ty!! <33

I totally relate to this feeling😭 except instead of YouTube comments it’s like almost every platform💀 and thank you for the ask!!

I could rant forever about all the details in this movie honestly!!!

The foreshadowing is SO good in this movie!! waiting on a miracle and the family madrigal being obvious ones but did you guys know the order mirabel sees the doors flicker when she sees the cracks is the order they lose their powers in? Isa + Luisa first because that’s who’s powers act up first dolores + camilo + antonio at the dinner scene and alma last because she was the last one willing to admit the problems!!

I love the character design!! I’ve rambled about it many times but it’s just !!!

I love how despite mirabel being our protagonist they show when she’s wrong and other characters call her out! She’s not a perfect protagonist she’s a flawed teenage girl and that just makes her more endearing

I love that they didn’t make Mariano a mean character just because isabela didn’t want to marry him. The problem isn’t Mariano it’s isabela feeling trapped!! Mariano is also shown to be considerate!

I love that most of the focus is on the female characters (if only the fandom would do that) I love seeing a multigenerational cast of women all flashed out with their own unique traits

about the misinterpretations i completely agree. I feel like this fandom has a “fanon” problem. especially with the most developed characters! surprisingly the ones with the most screen are the most common mischaracterised. I really dislike how encanto as a movie went to such an effort to give every character such a variety of traits and nuance only for the fandom to continuously reduce them down to one singular trait. It almost feels like reinforcing those stereotypes the movie was so set on breaking. As well as this continuously ignoring some of the best canon traits each character has. They feel so far from the original you might as well consider them ocs at that point.

I love the animation on Bruno’s vision shards (they look edible), I love the little details in mirabels room like her outfit sketches being hung up on the walls! THE BUTTERFLIES!! this movie has so many hidden butterflies it’s so fun to spot them!!

the soundtrack obviously but also the score!! only recently discovered that “the house knows” is a reprise of “the cracks emerge” it blew my mind!!!

One thing I really love about encanto is the expressions! they can convey so much with so little and the little subtleties it adds to each character is just incredible to me!!

SKIRT ANIMATION. it’s like hypnotizing to see how the skirts flow in this movie I am glued to the screen every time.

the dos oruguitas scene is gorgeous and so incredibly important to the core message of this story! As well as this scene the fall of casita is another incredible one!!

the songs feel like full blown fantasy musical numbers and I don’t know why people consider that a criticism of the movie is about MAGIC I want to feel that magic in the visuals of the song. So each musical number was like the most incredible experience!!

I love how waiting on a miracle starts off as a reprise of the family madrigal before changing to 3/4 time to show how mirabels out of place

the line “how far do these roots go down” hits so hard and I cant explain why

Felix and pepas love is so real and pure

julieta and agustín are incredible parents

dolores entire design

the fact luisa wasn’t reduced to a stereotype and was allowed to be flawed

mirabels voice!! it’s so unique and recognizable like I love it sm

the way felix sings “no clouds allowed in the skyyy”

I love that the characters actually look their age!

almas room being a replica of her old home showing how metaphorically and physically she’s stuck in the past

“I was thinking of my daughter!!”

I love that with isas transformation it’s not her hating femininity but changing what her femininity means to her

I love how mirabels worst enemy is her own mind. the madrigals aren’t aware of how she feels because she never opens up and it’s just slowly eating her up inside. in the end mirabel needed to acknowledge herself in order to grow (I say acknowledge because I refuse to believe it’s acceptance and I think she would still struggle with her self perception post movie)

I love how the Madrigals use their gifts to help their community and not for self gain. It’s such an interesting twist on the classic superpowers story

I love that the Madrigals are just normal people who randomly got a miracle, nothing of status just normal people in a normal town who got gifted.

the way pepa kisses antonio and hugs him after he gets his gift !!!

the way isabela is the one to initiate the hug but mirabel is the one who snuggles into it

julietas smile

the entire animation is so gorgeous!!

antonio. just antonio if u hate antonio I hate u

I love how realistically written alma is and how her story is treated with respect and nuance.

how all the madrigals problems aren’t solved instantly but it’s shown in a montage that happens over large period of time

#encanto #encanto disney #disneys encanto #mirabel madrigal #mirabel encanto #isabela madrigal #disney’s encanto #bruno madrigal #luisa madrigal #dolores madrigal #camilo madrigal #felix madrigal #pepa madrigal #julieta madrigal #agustin madrigal #abuela alma madrigal #ok I’m done rambling #thank u for the ask!! #this was so fun!! #I love this movie so much

[multifandombullshitbabes]

21

24

27

And

30

LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

thank you so much, I shall answer these prompts NEOW

21: Fics you wish you could find more of?

Oooohhh more fics involving Gwen, that's for sure. When she's written right she's one of the strongest, most relatable characters imo, 'cause all she wants is for the world to be right and just and kind and everything wants to prove her wrong, but she won't back down from her views. I would also adore more Elyan, just in general. And complete rewrites of the show 'cause the one I'm reading right now is so good I might do one as well. Also modern au's where they're all like secret badass spies or smth, 'cause those are so fucking cool (i am accepting fic recs for ALL of this, please feed me y'all)

24: Everyone knows that fandom doesn’t like uther but what are your feelings about gaius?

I think 1) we need more concrete info about how he was when he was younger, but 2) i think he is severely complicated and wanted what was best of merlin and morgana, but failed the two while also giving them a ton of love. With morgana, he just didnt want her to pursue her power lest she become uther's next victim, cuz gaius cares for the pendragon siblings like his own. With merlin, he was just trying his best with his overpowered nephew, who alos has a destiny regarding his people's genocide's son, and he just doesn't know what to do half the time, kinda like merlin. I didnt like how he lied to merlin n morgana, how he gaslit her and how he made merlin hide and become so anxious abt his magic (and we see what that looks like season 5), but i get it. I really get it. I dont know what i wouldve done if one wrong move could mean the death of two kids he considers his own. I bet he was scared all the time and hated himself for it.

27: Modern Merlin headcanons, if any?

OH BOY. OHHHH BOY. So many. It really depends on what au i have for modern merlin, but I'll give you a few generals:

he's a teacher of sorts; i like the idea that he's kinda collecting magical anomalies and teaching them how to understand their powers and being, since he knows what its like to be afraid of urself, so he's a personal magic teacher. I also rly like my magic elementary school au, since its merlin teaching magic to a bunch of kids, which is adorable

he has officially one cat, a black one called Midnight, that accidentally became immortal along the way and now hes severally attached. I say officially since hes also friends with any other animal that he might come across and they recognise him if he passes them again. disney princess fr

he's figured out his gender and he can turn into a woman if he wants; she looks exactly like merlin, same height, same weight n muscles, the hair is longer cuz merlin likes it that way and her voice is deep and gorgeous

his favourite weapon is a staff or any long distance fighting weapon of the sort; also he looks cool as fuck fighting with it, but thats just a bonus

I'll stop here but i have SO MANY MORE

30: Side character death that makes you the maddest?

Elyan. There was, quite literally, no need for it. I was gonna say Lancelot, since we did not get enough of him, but his death made sense for his character. Elyan? What the fuck was that? It was just for pain and nothing else. What did it add to the story if not just a sad funeral scene and thats it? It just felt like they wanted him gone n found a way, and that pisses me off. I feel like him saving gwen and living would've given such a complex situation when she turns evil, 'cause what if she "confides" more n more in her brother, creating a rift between arthur n elyan, which then creates a rift between arthur n the knights, which would just isolate him further n make him suffer, which is what morgana wanted!! we couldve had protective brother elyan! I think i just wanted more knights in general.

Thank you so much for this ask, I yapped a fuck ton but it was funn

#merlin #bbc merlin #come get yall headcanons #hey look i posted a thing #merlin prompts #this was so fun

[sirianasims]

tagged by @theosconfessions & @budgie2budgie ❤️

oc deep dive with Paul Romeo

What uncommon/common fear do they have? Paul's fears are mostly common things like losing the people he loves. He also has a minor phobia of needles, so while he likes the idea of tattoos, he never got any himself.

Do they have any pet peeves? It annoys him deeply when people are flaky, late, or keep changing their mind. He respects people who keep their promises and stand by their convictions, even if he disagrees with them.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom? Lots of books, especially fantasy, sci-fi and comic books but also non-fiction. Condoms and lube. A large television because the best way to watch movies is in bed.

What do they notice first in a person? How they move. Paul is a very visual person and appreciates beauty, and people who move with elegance and confidence always catch his attention. Personality-wise, their sense of humour. Paul cannot deal with people who don't have a sense of humour.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance? 8. He does his own stunts and spends a lot of time in the gym, physical pain is just the body's warning sign and a temporary inconvenience.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? Fight. It takes a lot to make Paul truly angry, he's a pretty calm and controlled person, but if he had to defend someone he loves, he would do anything.

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person? His mother didn't have much family when she left Henford behind so he doesn't know any relatives on her side. His father comes from a huge and influential Tartosan family and had 4 brothers and a sister, so Paul has lots of aunts, uncles and cousins. He is very much a family person and is getting increasingly worried that it might soon be too late to start his own.

What animal represents them best? A lion.

What is a smell that they dislike? Sambuca. Remember the first time you got so drunk that you threw up and now you can never drink that again? Paul remembers.

Have they broken any bones? During his career as Llama Man (and doing most of his own stunts), Paul has broken a couple of fingers, his collarbone, and a few toes, but nothing that didn't heal up nicely, thankfully.

How would a stranger likely describe them? Charismatic and funny. It takes a while to discover that Paul is actually surprisingly introverted, his career considered.

Are they a night owl or a morning bird? Paul has no problem getting up early if he has to, but he likes staying up late just to talk, read or watch a movie, or have sex.

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love? Paul is not picky when it comes to food in general, but he is one of those unfortunately people who can't eat cilantro because it tastes like soap to him. He loves a good quality olive oil and will put it on everything. Yes, even vanilla ice cream. With sea salt. You should try it.

Do they have any hobbies? Watching B-movies; the worse they are, the better. Reading. He used to ride his uncle's horses a lot before he moved to Del Sol Valley, and he'll still go for a ride when he visits Tartosa if he can.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises? Paul isn't too fond of the unexpected, so he might initially not be too excited. But he'd still be happy that his loved ones thought of him and wanted to celebrate him, so he'd get over it quickly and enjoy himself.

Do they like to wear jewelry? The only "jewelry" Paul wears is his father's priced gold watch. He's been wearing it since his father's funeral and takes extremely good care of it. He would very much like to wear a wedding ring too some day...

Do they have neat or messy handwriting? Pretty neat. His signature is very fancy because he practiced it a lot for autographs.

What are two emotions they feel the most? Confidence and yearning.

Do they have a favorite fabric? Satin. Paul loves luxury and comfort, and satin hits the spot for both texture and aesthetics. His sheets and bedding is mostly satin.

What kind of accent do they have? As a voice actor, Paul has tried to rid himself of most of his natural accent, but especially after visiting home, a bit of Tartosan sneaks back in. He also tends to have a slight Henford accent from his mother, but he can mostly switch in and out of voices and accents at will.

Thank you for the ask! I am tagging @hannahssimblr @lynzishell @rebouks @theplottdump and @thebramblewood as well as anyone else who wants to do it ❤️

#tag game #paul romeo

[the-al-chemist]

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday! As you've written a fair bit about Charlie, I'm sure you've thought a lot about dragons by proxy. Are there any headcanons/ideas you have about dragons in your world (that Charlie is likely to talk about at length to people)? - @hphmmatthewluther

Well, look who is here asking me about things that I love to talk about. Dragons? Yes please. Charlie Weasley? Even more yes please.

So, I had a good think about dragons when it came to Learning to Fly. I’m a stickler to canon, so I knew I wanted them to be completely wild animals, but I needed to have Norbert(a) able to interact with Charlie. So, I based my “characterisation” of dragons on a few things, some of which made it into the story, some of which remained unpublished.

Until now.

I’m so sorry, you hit my nerdy/hyperfocus spot. This is such an essay of a response. I’m leaning into it with picture examples and everything…

Anatomy/Physiology

Firstly, I used birds as an inspiration. This is an obvious one, sort of. Generally, you have two different dragon appearances in recent western fantasy: either they have four legs plus a pair of wings or their wings are their front limbs. In the Harry Potter films, they use the latter. It’s less cute, but makes more sense in terms of them actually being able to fly.

All the terms I used to describe Norbert(a)’s body parts were anatomical terms for these body parts in birds, e.g. the keel. The keel is the breastbone, and in birds the muscles used for flight all attach here in order to keep the centre of gravity low on the body for flight. There are tendons that then extend up through a loop of bone and act as pulleys for their wings, the bones of which are actually very similar to our own arms, if you look closely.

As well as their flight mechanisms, birds have a bellows system of air sacs that I wanted to borrow for my dragons. Birds use these for respiration (think about oxygen at high altitudes during flight), but for my dragons, they have another purpose. Because, what else needs oxygen? What is it that dragons are most famous for? What is responsible for those burns on Charlie’s arms?

Fire.

I am not much of a reptile expert, so I didn’t take much in the way of inspiration from reptiles when writing about my dragons. I do, however, have the headcanon that, like all reptiles, dragons are cold-blooded. Most physiological adaptations have more than one purpose, and so, my dragons don’t just use fire for hunting and defence purposes — they use it to keep themselves warm. They produce the flames in their thorax, where there is a good oxygen supply and the blood can be warmed easily due the proximity to the heart, and the muscles and thick bone of the keel are able to protect it.

Behaviour

I used more elements of dog behaviour when writing Learning to Fly than anything else, for the simple reason that it is the animal body language I understand best and that I thought most readers would understand best. However, I would argue that dragons are far more like cat species than dogs in regard to their behaviour, so I included some cat-like tendencies as well.

Dogs are social creatures, and most of their behaviours have evolved in order to maintain order within a pack. They hunt in packs, roam in packs, raise offspring in packs. Other than lions, cats are usually solitary creatures, only joining together as adults to mate. There are exceptions, of course, but this is usually the rule. The same goes for dragons, from what we see in canon. Therefore, their behaviour will largely be based on avoiding conflict in order to avoid injury to themselves, and on solitary hunting. I did put this in with Norbert(a) — in one of the final chapters, she engages in play behaviour by mimicking hunting, like a cat.

I also took a lot of inspiration from orcas, mainly in respect to the ethical arguments surrounding their captivity. If you haven’t seen Blackfish, you should definitely do so. I headcanon dragons to be immensely powerful and intelligent beings with wide roaming ranges, who do not cope well in captivity. In canon, it is known that dragons are too dangerous to keep as pets, and judging by the treatment of the Gringotts dragon, the ones that are kept in captivity do not lead happy and fulfilled lives.

I have written several times that dragons kept in captivity suffer from severe impairments to their physical and emotional health, to the point that they have reduced length of life as well as quality of life compared to their wild counterparts. Most of that has been in the form of dialogue from Charlie.

Three guesses what is the thing he really won’t shut up about…

#al speaks #charlie weasley #dragonology #about those dragons tho #dragons #wbw asks #did I mention that I love dragons

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

yeah so i'm falling for @weevmo's Guys... they're so neat! i dig their vibes and can't wait to see what Corduroy Stew is all about <3

#fuckkkkk theyre so SHAPED!!! #i can feel myself getting So attached #if anything happens to them... i will simultaneously wail and cheer #nimrod is so cute. nimmy. the nimster. id love to toss birdseed on the ground for him to peck at. pigeon coded tiny man #lulu being a sock puppet trainer THATS SUCH A NEAT IDEA ARE YOU KIDDING IM OBSESSED #now im curious as to if sock puppets are like Animals or if they're as sapient as the others... #but yes im already looking directly at lulu she seems Fun as fuck #oughhhhh and wb. listen. Listen. im a sucker for handsome Head Empty characters and he seems like one of those #i also like characters with many hidden internal problems and wb seems like one of those too <3 #i hear that the three of them are siblings and that is Such catnip to me... #scribble garnish #dont know what else to tag this as! huh! #BUT YEAH THIS ALL SEEMS NEAT THEYRE COOL i Will be following this project to see where it goes #so far it has great characters a sprinkling of Intrigue bomb art (which. ofc it does its weevmo cmon guys) #and a neat song that i sweAR TO FUCK REMINDS ME OF SOMETHING. THIS HAS BEEN BOTHERING ME FOR DAYS #the jingle is just vaguely familiar enough to make me Writhe in the agony of Unknown Knowns #but yes! i hope you all go check out weevmo's blog if you havent already! Good Stuff All Around!!