#her and april…gone but never forgotten
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me when i watched gen v for the first time and cate showed up: STERLING FROM TEENAGE BOUNTY HUNTERS????
#who remembers…#her and april…gone but never forgotten#gen v#teenage bounty hunters#sterling wesley#cate dunlap#maddie phillips
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So if you dont mind me I was just going to ramble about my ideas surrounding This post.
long post!
... so it takes place in the far future, where humanity has mived on to live with the planet and live harmoniously (think solar punk). the reason for their success as a species can be traced back to these mysterious heroes, who have vanishes from the world and are now mostly regarded as myth.
the turtles themselves have aged weirdly. without the stress and tremendous pain of the apocalypse they do not seem to age like humans do. much like the Yokai they are based upon they find they have incredibly long lifespans.
and as they age, they move away from what ties them to being human.
they become mythic and ethereal.
I didnt have clear cut plans for most of them, but heres what i came up with:
Raph never stops growing, ever. while his brothers find suitable hights he gets ever taller. eventually he becomes too large to move about safely.
When this happens he voluntarily sinks into a deep sleep. his physical body becomes part of the landscape as the world carries on around him.
But Raph's not gone. he can still send out his projections, which without a close bond with his physical form become more and more abstract as time goes on and Raph becomes more separated from his physical body, still embedded in the landscape.
The locals call these forms their 'red angels' as they commonly lead lost children back home and protect wanderers from falling rock slides. they also look almost incomprehensible, their abstract forms overwhelming to the human eye, such a display of mystic power.
Donnie never stops working. his need to create insatiable. So he never stops. From the shadows he helps humans build their technology, expanding their collective knowledge with his own.
he pours his soul into his work.
his technology becomes inseparable from humanity.
and so does he.
Donnie's soul is present in every computer, interface, and screen. watching over humanity behind a curtain of coding.
hes spent so much time watching over humans and creating with them, that hes kind of... forgotten... what he last did with his body.
oh well. he can always build a new one.
Mikey never stops helping
Mikey has committed himself to the restoration of nature. during humanities growing pains a lot of the planet had been scarred by their errors.
So Mikey has been helping them fix it.
with the help of his mystic powers, which have evolved beyond all recognition, he twists the environment back to the health of its prime.
(large machines a big as skyscrapers aid him, purple light flooding their servers as they trudge through the landscape)
he gives so much of himself, so much of the light of his soul to nature that its started to give back. flowers grow where he stands, the wind ruffles his hair. he snores in whalesong. he can speak in the light trills of birds. the wind gales when he sneezes. and his scales become soft with moss
Leo has grown with the O'Neil bloodline. All his brothers startes distancing themselves from the family once April passed, unable to look at the faces of her descendants without being over come by grief. but Leo stays.
he looks the same as he did a thousand years ago.
#wow that was a lot to write#i hope you dont mind my rambling#rottmnt#rottmnt donnie#rottmnt raph#rottmnt mikey#rottmnt leo#rottmnt april#far far future au
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RECOMMENDED NCT FICS OF JULY 2023💖
hello, hello! here are my nct recs of july! hopefully these beautiful stories get more recognition as well as the writers 💝
** anything in parentheses and bolded are my thoughts that can be disregarded if needed **
🔞smut || 💔angst || 💕fluff || ✅completed || 🔄ongoing || 💯favorite
Baseball (& Other Disasters) || @tqmies💕✅
↳ Everyone admired Mark Lee, starting pitcher of your school’s baseball team and famed ladies man. You, on the other hand, only know him as the boy who broke your dorm lobbies microwave the first time you met. Too bad that was all it took to grow an embarrassingly huge crush on him. So when he comes to you, in need of a new baseball manager, how could you say no to that face? (Spoiler: You couldn’t)
Let You || @waerie💕✅💯💯
↳ jisung would never let anyone ruin his game, so he says to his friends. but the claim deteriorates when you come. (stop this is the cutest jisung fic that i have read in this month. fcking enjoyed this fic so much with all of the cuteness)
Reminiscing || @ihaechans💕✅
↳ Time flies. Especially with best friend and nerdy ride or die Mark Lee. Reminiscing on the rooftop leads to foreign emotions and forgotten memories to rise to the surface, and the obvious tension between you two can no longer be avoided.
April Showers || @lelengerine💕✅
↳ you never liked staying out while it rained, but perhaps you’d be okay with being all soaked if it meant being with him.
Caramel || @nctmiami💕✅
↳ jaehyun can’t wait to get home to you after a boys trip
Exhaustion || @xrenjunniesx💕✅
↳ moving houses is tiring, but it’s easier when you’re with your loved one.
Flustered By You || @lelengerine💕✅
↳ your boyfriend surely knows how to make you flustered, even when he’s the one who should be.
Fucking Up The Sheets || @ah-ga-seven🔞✅
↳ (no summary, but its just jaehyun casually fcking up the sheets.)
Rule Number 1: Don't Fall In Love || @jaylaxies🔞💕💔✅
↳ your ex getting a girlfriend after just two weeks of breakup was enough to infuriate you to the point where you had to step up and make him regret breaking your heart. solution? fake date his best friend and make him jealous!
How About Now? || @nctsplug02🔞✅
↳ Anon Req: Recently I been thinking about romantic sensual sex with Johnny but it lasts like the whole night. Different positions, cuddles, cream pies UGHHHHHHHH I WANT THIS MANNB 😭😭😩😩😩
Lowkey || @onyourhyuck🔞✅
↳ You and Jaemin are best friends but behind the close doors you have a lowkey relationship that no one knows about.
Wicked Games || @cherryeoniis💕✅
↳ And even as your heart breaks, you can’t deny that having him against you feels like your own small piece of heaven.
After You || @ryozaki21🔞💕💔✅💯💯
↳ Na Jaemin had it easy. Loved by everybody, the man of everyone's dream. He's a perfect mix of a charmer and a player. Girls begged to be his, and he loved every part of it. Life used to be so fucking perfect for him. Then comes you. You're like an old book, ink fading, cover tearing, but he swears you're worth the read. Before you, life was easy. After you? He wasn't so sure.
Blue To Orange || @seren1tyhaze🔞✅
↳ your break up leaves you with a plane ticket to Greece on a couples trip with your best friend and her partner. she convinces you to still come on the trip and you meet two strangers who leave you with memories of long nights under a stunning starry sky.
Dog Sitting Gone Wrong || @onyourhyuck🔞✅
↳ You were hired by a rich man to babysit his daughter, when you arrive you realise his daughter is a dog and you’re now dog sitting while he is out running errands.
Hotel Paradise || @jaesheart🔞✅💯
↳ you visit an exclusive brothel for the second time to satisfy your needs.
My Little Doll || @haechansdoll🔞✅💯
↳ Humans have hormones, you understand that much. But does that explain why you can't stop the filthy daydreams that fill your head whenever you see a specific redhead? Does it excuse you for getting turned on by him simply breathing in your direction? And to make matters worse, he is off-limits, if your father found out you were messing with his prized boxer? You would be chained to a tower and your red-haired crush would be used as mincemeat.
Sunday Sinner || @smileysuh🔞✅💯
↳ “Everything is wrong,” Mark sighs. “Doing this with you two is wrong. Wanting you this badly is wrong. Getting hard in Church is wrong. What I want to do to you is wrong. But… as crazy as it sounds, it also feels right.”
The V Week Spy || @smileysuh🔞✅💯
↳ Every year, seven days before Valentines day, sororities and frats are paired together, and eligible himbos, hoes, bimbos and fuckboys alike volunteer to be raffled for a chance to become the year’s V Week Spy. V Week is open season, with outings and parties tailored to be the perfect excuse for sexscapades, with the knowledge than 1 boy and 1 girl are undercover, grading sexual performances. Once the week is over, at the annual Valentines Day Party, the evaluations are presented- It’s a bad time to be unsure about someone’s feelings towards you, and an even worse time to fall in love. (get out, this literally screams the mafia game but sexedition. i love it)
Wanna Ride? || @onyourhyuck🔞✅💯💯💯
↳ (if you enjoy reading biker!au's, yall should really read this series. cause sht was wonderful af and spicy)
Strawberry Sunday || @doiesfav💕✅💯
↳ You realized that your daughter would feel awkward with his own dad sometimes so you decided to do a picnic to help them improve their relationship.
Dirty, Little, Traitor || @onyourhyuck🔞✅
↳ Wherein you asked your roommate Mark to help you out with rearranging your room but ends up rearranging you instead.
Ice Cream Thief || @tddyhyck🔞✅
↳ someone has been eating haechan's favorite ice cream so he decides to put a hidden camera in the kitchen and living room thinking it's a shared space it shouldn't invade anyone's privacy... right?
Safety Zone || @cherryeoniis💕💔✅💯
↳ Mark Lee. The most perfect roommate and best friend that you could have asked for - except for the fact that he constantly messes up your laundry and can’t cook eggs very well. Even then, that doesn’t quite stop you from falling for him in your final year.
Finding Cinderella || @justalildumpling💕💔✅💯
↳ it wasn’t often jeno showed emotions of love and affection, let alone kissing a stranger at a party that he doesn’t even remember?! determined to find his nameless cinderella, he began searching the campus far and wide but as hidden secrets started surfacing, he started to wonder whether the midnight spark was meant to be pursued after all.
*i think half of my reblogs for july for nct were all texts, and i am fine with that. so for this, imma rec the ones that had me choking on my spit from cackling.*
Getting Picked Up Texts || @ohmygs-blog💕✅
↳ Anon Req: "hi, can I request where the dreamies are picking u up from school/work? cause everyone at work was picked up by their partners and I’m here waiting for a taxi cab lol y isn’t haechan picking me up smh 🤦♀️ thank you so much! I really love your works, and I really look forward to your new posts, they make me happy! ^^" ("you can ride on my handlebars" i cackled a bit too hard that i choked on my spit.)
Pulling Another Member's Photocard || @onyour--ash💕✅
↳ (the title says it all. haechans is fcking too real. my guy i like looking at mark too. but also jaemin having a jeno collection, im ngl he probably does have a folder on his phone dedicated to jeno.)
Fuck The Police || @loudstan🔞✅💯
↳ Your ability to read people's minds is very useful for the police during interrogations. And that's how you meet Yuta, a werewolf accused of stealing a car.
Do check out all of the other NCT Fics that i have reblogged as well!!
** if there is any fics that you guys would like to recommend, please do! i am slowly running out of fics to read **
#nct scenarios#nct fluff#nct 127 scenarios#nct dream scenarios#nct 127 fluff#nct dream fluff#nct smut#nct angst#nct dream angst#nct 127 angst#nct best friends to lovers au#nct friends to lovers au#nct social media au#nct dream social media au#nct werewolf au#nct established relationship au#nct fake dating au#nct roommates au#nct dad au#nct friends with benefits au#nct fic recs#nct recs#nct texts au#nct dream smut#nct 127 smut
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TIME AFTER TIME
Chapter one ❣︎ Uh oh, i’m fallin’ in love
uh oh, i’m fallin’ in love
i thought the plane was goin’ down (how’d you turn it right around?)
❧ warnings: none!
❧ wc: 2.8k
❧ Note: first chapter is outtt! I hope you guys enjoy and are as excited for this story as I am! if things seem to be going a little fast i do apologize, but i am going straight off of the book! like all this happens in literally the first chapter
❧ masterlist
♥︎
The day started out completely terrible.
First, you’d woken up late and threw on the first thing you saw. And you only realized the massive coffee stain on it once you’d reached school.
Then you realized you’d completely forgotten about Mrs. Clicks homework and had barely managed to scribble down random answers on it before the bell, and even then the disappointed look she gave you as she collected it made you want the floor to swallow you whole.
The only good part of the day had to be the prom posters that had been thrown up around the school over the weekend. You couldn’t help the pride that filled your chest when you saw your own design looking right back at you.
The prom committee had let you have complete and total free range over them, and you liked to think they turned out pretty well.
You’d gone with a dark blue base with white sprinkles thrown across it, the words “A Night Under The Stars, Senior Prom, 8:00, April 5th, 1985” sprawled across it in baby blue letters.
“The posters came out super nice!” You don’t have to look behind you to know the voice belongs to your best friend, Robin Buckley.
You bit your lip, arms crossed over your chest, “Do you think so? I feel like I should’ve made the letters white or something.”
Robin shakes her head, “It looks fine to me.”
You gave her a grateful smile, “Shouldn't you be getting ready for the pep rally?” You asked. The school would be having a seniors only pep rally at the end of the day to celebrate your final semester of highschool, and you were honestly excited for it.
It was silly, but you couldn’t help the thought in the back of your mind that this could be it. Maybe you’d meet the guy you were meant to end up with there, even though you already knew practically everyone in your grade. You still couldn’t help but hope.
Robin threw her head back with a groan, “Please don’t remind me.” She whined. You snorted.
You knew the real reason Robin didn’t want to go was because of her new crush. It was cute, honestly. And you understood why Robin is so hesitant to make any moves, but you’re positive Vickie is the right girl.
She looks disgusted every time she’s with her boyfriend and you swear you catch her gazing at Robin more often then what should be considered normal.
“If you never make a move you’ll never know, and then you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” You tsk, lips thinning out into a sharp line.
Robin rolls her eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” She sighs, “Look, I don’t wanna be any later for band then I already am so i’m gonna run, but nice dress!” She yells out as she jogs away, and you grin and yell back a thank you.
You turn around to head to your next class but are met with something rock solid. You nearly tumble to the floor, but are caught by a hand around your waist.
“Shit,” The wall says, “Are you okay?”
You looked up, arms tight across your chest to hold your books in place. The sight you’re met with is one you hadn’t been prepared for at all.
Jonathon Byers stood before you in all his glory. He was still as handsome as you had remembered.
Jonathon had lived across the street from you practically your entire childhood, and you’d harbored a massive crush on him the entire time.
How could you not? He was kind and such a gentleman, and he had an amazing family. (Apart from his dad, but you liked to pretend he didn’t exist.)
He smelled so-so good, and you wanted to catalogue every part of this moment in your mind. It was the perfect meet-cute, even if this wasn’t your first time meeting.
“Jonathon?” You stuttered out, carefully finding your footing as he slipped his hand away from your waist and back to his side.
He gave a weak smile, “Hey, Y/N.”
You couldn’t help but throw an arm around him, the other holding your books in place. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in years! When-when did you get back from California? Why are you back?” You asked, thoughts going a mile a minute.
Jonathon had moved to California at the end of your eighth grade year. His mom, Joyce, had been offered a well paying job that she couldn’t turn down.
It had been a teary goodbye, but you chose not to dwell on the fact that Jonathon would never know how you really felt.
Now, you couldn’t help but think that maybe you’d be able to turn that around.
Jonathon shrugged, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Mom lost her job and she was offered a managing position at her old one back at the store, so we came back.” He explains.
You frown, Joyce losing her job must’ve sucked, but you can’t help but be the tiniest bit thankful that it brought Jonathon back to you again.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” You murmured, laying a gentle hand on his bicep. He just shrugs, hands shoved into his pockets, “It’s okay. At least we didn’t have to move somewhere completely new again, right?”
You nodded in agreement, and you both stood in silence for a moment. You held your breath, you had to do it. You were going to ask Jonathon to prom. Was it a little hasty? Sure, but chances are he doesn’t have a date to prom yet, and there was no harm in asking, right? You were friends, or at least you had been, so it only made sense.
You swallow, “Hey, do you think you’d want to-” But you were cut off by someone knocking into you from behind and shoving you away from Jonathon.
“Holy shit, man! I didn’t know you were back!”
Your eye nearly twitches at the voice. Steve Harrington. The very bane of your existence.
You’d grown up with Steve as well, he only lived two houses down from you, but it’d been nowhere near as romantic as it had with Jonathon.
Steve was obnoxious. He was what your parents considered “troubled.” He would tease you for the dresses you wore, refused to play any of the games you wanted to, and was just an overall punk.
You grit your teeth, “Um, maybe watch where you’re going?”
Steve blinked, once, then twice, before finally he turned to you. “Oh, so sorry. I didn’t even see you. Which is strange, because that dress is seriously an eye-catcher.”
The tone that he says it lets you know it’s anything but a compliment, and you cross your arms over your chest, subconsciously hiding the light brows stain on it. “Hm, it’s weird, Even with your hair being nearly half your height, I still didn’t see you coming.”
Steve goes to bark back a retort, but Jonathon’s chuckle stops him. “It’s nice to see you two haven’t changed a bit.”
You force a smile, “Yep. You know. Same ol’, same ol’.”
Steve glared at you, “More like she hasn’t stopped being annoying.”
Jonathon furrowed his brows, “She’s not annoying. She’s just spunky, it’s my favorite thing about her.”
Your jaw nearly drops at Jonathon’s words, and your cheeks begin to flush a pretty pink. You stutter out a thank you, and Steve leans in and whispers, “Careful, you’re drooling.”
You stomp on his foot with your heel, causing him to hiss and pull away from you. He swatted at you before he turned back to Jonathon, “You remember Tommy Hagan?” He asks.
Jonathon nods hesitantly, “I think so, yeah. First Baseman right?”
Steve snaps his fingers, “That’s the one. Look, he’s having a party this Saturday and you should totally come.”
You do your best to keep your expression neutral as you listen to Steve invite your Jonathon to a party. What right did he have? What if you were gonna invite Jonathon somewhere on saturday?
Jonathon glances at you, “Sure man,” He says. “Sounds fun.”
Steve grins and claps him on the back, “ Party starts at eight, i’ll see you there!” He turned and jogged to his next class with a shout of, “Later guys!”
You and Jonathon watched as Steve disappeared into the crowd of people. He turned to you, “Are you going?” He asks.
Your mouth dries a bit at the question, though you aren’t sure if it’s because Jonathon’s looking at you with those wide, chestnut brown eyes like you move the sun and the moon, or if it’s because you, in fact, weren’t invited.
“Oh, um, I don’t know. I think I have to work.” You stammer out the excuse, hoping he doesn’t catch the nervous way you pick at your chipped nail polish.
He doesn’t, instead he gives you a weak smile and lazily says, “Alright. Look, i’ve gotta run, but let’s catch up soon, yeah?”
You smile girlishly, “Okay.”
His arm brushes against your own as he leaves, and the touch nearly leaves you dizzy.
Finally, things were working out for you.
🝮
Once the pep rally ends you immediately shoot for Robin. You find her next to the bleachers, staring longingly at an unaware Vickie.
You can’t help but roll your eyes, “You look like a kicked puppy!” You yell at her.
She nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of your voice, but she’s quick to collect herself and throw you a glare. “I do not.”
You shrug, “Fine, keep telling yourself that. But, anyway, you are not going to believe who’s here!” You nearly squeal, fingers playing with the hem of your dress.
Robin thinks for a moment, “Who?”
Your grin grows impossibly larger, “Jonathon Byers.”
“I know.”
Your smile immediately drops, “You do?”
Robin furrows her brows, “Uh, yeah? Was it a secret?”
You scoff, “I mean, no, but - look, this is really good for me.”
Robin squints at you, leg kicking up onto the wall she’s leaning against. “And why is that?”
Your grin returns as you shift back and forth on your feet, “Jonathon is gonna be my date to prom. We already had our meet-cute, now I just have to win him over.”
She nods, eyes lidded, “Right. And how do you plan to do that?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
You shush her and roll your eyes, “Don’t question me. Just trust that I'll make it work.” You begin to walk away, gesturing for Robin to follow. She does so with a groan.
“Steve invited Jonathon to this party. Which, might I add, he did right in front of me and didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go!”
Robin snorts, “Don’t you guys not like each other? Why would he invite you?”
While what she said may be true, it was still just basic manners to not do something like that right in front of people. But, Steve was constantly tiptoeing the line between person and barbarian so you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know basic human decency.
“That’s besides the point,” You grumbled. “I just need to get into this party and then boom! Me and Jonathon will be married in no time.”
“Tommy’s parties are always just beer pong, fireball, and truth-or-dare immature bullshit. Honestly, I'm glad we didn’t get invited.“ Robin murmurs.
The both of you approach your car and you hop into the front seat with an annoyed dent in your brows.
“And…” Robin bites her lip, “I guess Jonathon moved a couple houses down from Nancy Wheeler and they’ve been talking for a while now.”
Your heart plummets. Nancy Wheeler? Is this a joke?
Sure, you didn’t know Nancy very well, but that didn’t stop you from despising her very being. She always played the image of the perfect girl. Smart, pretty. You could see right through her though.
It’d started in kindergarten, when you’d gotten a bloody nose and shrieked an Ewwww right in your toddler face, making the entire class join her.
In first grade she exposed your box of love letters you’d made for Bryce Waterson, and he’d called you gross. It was humiliating.
In fifth grade, not long after your mom died you’d been forced to sit next to her at lunch. And it wasn’t the perfect cookie cutter sandwiches that bothered you, no, it was the notes.
Everyday she’d pull out a handwritten note from her mom. It always said something different and had colorful hearts and doodles. You’d get so sad you couldn’t even eat.
While Nancy could play the part for everyone else, you saw right through her.
And besides, Nancy always got everything she could ever want. She couldn’t have him. You wouldn’t let her.
And Nancy didn’t have the history with Jonathon that you did. She didn’t grow up in love with him, always watching in admiration as he played around with your nemesis.
Your mom said it was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen, though your dad couldn’t help but disagree.
Robin looks at you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking, “Jonathon Byers is not your perfect oh-we’re-so-in-love guy, okay?”
He could be, you wanted to retort, but you held your tongue. Instead you just shrugged as you began to drive your car out of the parking lot, “In all actuality they aren’t even together yet, so I still have a chance..”
“Don’t be that girl!” Robin scolds, “Whatever happened with him was not your meet-cute.”
You couldn’t help but buzz a little at the thought of your interaction with him. The way his arm had ever so gently bridled your own.. that wasn’t coincidence.
“But maybe it was.”
She throws her head back against the seat, “Pull yourself together, woman! You barely even know him anymore.”
His eyes flash in your mind, those beautiful dark eyes. “I know everything I need to know.”
🝮
Jonathon was back.
You propped your feet up onto the kitchen table and dug into your container of ice cream.
After Jonathon had moved, you’d daydreamed about him for what honestly was probably years.
You came up with so many different scenarios in your head for him, but there was one that always seemed to stick.
It was December, Christmas Eve. You were sitting outside in your cutest winter outfit just staring at the snow, and you get the sudden urge to turn your head. When you do, you’re met with the sight of him. He runs to you, holds you in his warm embrace and tells you every thing you’d ever wanted to hear. Some would call it delusional, you just called it perfect.
It took you forever to get over him. And at some point you’d accepted that he was never coming back.
But now he’d returned.
The smile on your face grows wider at the thought.
You didn’t have any classes with him and you were no longer neighbors, which sucked so badly, but you were anything if not persistent, and the one thing in your corner was your expertise on love. Not to call yourself a love expert, but, well…
Love was practically in your genes. Your mom lived and burned for it, and she had luckily given the very same passion to you.
Thanks to this, you were more then certain you had to get to Tommy’s party.
Honestly, the party scene had never really been your thing. A house filled with the distasteful smell of sweaty jocks and booze along with people who didn’t even know you wasn’t your idea of a good time.
But, you were running on a tight schedule here, so party here you come.
Lightning shoots across the sky and illuminates Steve’s car, and you’re reminded of the days events.
There was a parking spot right outside your house, and it was sacred.
If you wanted to be able to comfortably get to your house without having to walk all the way up the street, you’d have to park in this spot, which should be no problem right?
Wrong.
Steve knows about this spot, and unfortunately he wants it just as bad as you. And he’d tailgated you as soon as you’d dropped Robin off at her house and he’d snagged it away from you, forcing you to park a block over and walk all the way to your house in the rain.
You licked off a spoonful of ice cream and daydreamed that Jonathon lived there instead of Steve.
And that’s when it hit you.
Steve was the key.
He was your in. Steve, who’d invited Jonathon in the first place, would be attending this party.
But, there was only one world where Steve Harrington would be willing to help you, and honestly, you were willing to live in it. Even if you had to be drenched in rain everyday.
♥︎
#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#joe keery#stranger things#jonathon byers#jonathon byers x reader#stranger things x reader#robin buckley#jonathon byers x nancy wheeler#nancy wheeler#xspeter#time after time xspeter#better than the movies au
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It was a "small" act.
But, at the time, she didn’t realize she was making a life-changing, and life-saving decision, not only for her but for hundreds of Polish Jews during the Second World War, helping save them from Nazi execution.
Only when she died last year, on April 8, 2022, at the age of 107 did the rest of the world learn of her courage.
She was born Carmen Koppel in Vienna, daughter of Frieda and Emil Koppel. Her father, an opera-loving grain merchant, chose her name after Bizet’s Carmen,” according to The Guardian, “She studied languages at the University of Vienna, taking shorthand to help with her note-taking.”
She said “My mother had insisted that I learn something useful, so I learnt to type.”
“In 1936 she married Josef Weitmann, who owned a curtain-making business in Kraków, and the couple settled there and had a son, Sascha.
“After the German occupation of Poland in 1939, the administration wanted to re-establish Kraków as Krakau, a German city. As Jews, [she] and her husband were forced to live in the Kraków ghetto, established by the Nazis in 1940. Its inhabitants were allowed to leave and return only with special permits. Josef was killed while trying to escape; Sascha was smuggled to relatives in Hungary.”
According to the New York Times, “in late 1944, as a slave laborer in the administrative offices of the Plaszow concentration camp in Poland, [she] typed an important version of the manifest of prisoners bound for [a] munitions factory in the area of the Czech Republic then known as the Sudetenland.”
“It was in those offices” that she also added her name and the names of two friends to the list, indicating her profession as “schreibkraft,” according to writer Alex Mindlin.
By typing that list, she almost certainly saved her own life, the lives of her friends, and many others, according to Mindlin.
That “list” “saved them from the gas chambers of Auschwitz, where most of the other Jews from Plaszow were deported,” according to The Teller Report.
Years later after the war, she would meet again the man who had made that list possible, the man who employed her.
She had a different last name by this time, but he still remembered her by her nickname. [She never liked the name “Carmen”, so close friends referred to her after a character in “La Bohème”.]
'It must have been around 1953,” she said. “I had gone to Vienna and I was walking along a street with an uncle. We were passing a coffee house where there was a group of people sitting. This large man ran across and hugged and started kissing me, saying: ‘Mimi, Mimi…’
“It was then that I realised that it was Schindler sitting with some of the Jews he had rescued.”
“The documents that [Mimi Reinhardt] worked on were made famous by Thomas Keneally’s 1982 novel . . . and by the 1993 Steven Spielberg movie ["Schindler's List"], both of which detailed the extraordinary lengths to which [Oskar] Schindler went to save the lives of some 1,200 of his Jewish workers,” according to the Times.
Other sources cite the number of lives saved even higher. According to AFP (Agence France-Presse) and The Times of Israel, “The lists which Reinhardt compiled for [Schindler] helped save the lives of some 1,300 Jews at considerable risk to his own life.”
“Austrian-born Reinhardt (sometimes spelled “Reinhard), herself a Jew, was recruited by Schindler himself and worked for him until 1945.”
This is a new story for the Jon S. Randal Peace Page. The Peace Page focuses on past and present stories seldom told of lives forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. The stories are gathered from writers, journalists, and historians to share awareness and foster understanding, to bring people together. And, as such, the stories are never relegated to one single month - they are available all year in the Peace Page archives and on this page each week throughout the year. We encourage you to learn more about the individuals and events mentioned here and to support the writers, educators, and historians whose words we present. Thank you for being here and helping us share awareness.
~~~~~
Reinhardt, then known as Carmen Koppel, “survived the final liquidation of the Kraków ghetto in March 1943, when 2,000 Jews were slaughtered, because the Nazis deemed her language and secretarial skills useful,” according to The Guardian.
At the time, the Red Army was approaching Poland and workers in Plaszow were being sent west to death camps,” according to The New York Times.
Reinhardt was a “prisoner at a concentration camp near Krakow, Poland during WWII in 1944,” according to the World Jewish Congress, when Schindler recruited her for a job in the camp's administrative office.
“Schindler and his Jewish accountant Itzhak Stern, who had helped to motivate Schindler, prepared the 'list' of essential workers - all of them Jews - for relocation to his new factory,' according to writer Peter Beaumont.
As Schindler’s secretary, Reinhardt “drew up the lists of Jewish workers in the Polish city of Krakow to work in the factory of her German industrialist boss”, according to writer Caroline Frost.
“This was a highly risky enterprise but is estimated to have saved . . . [the] workers from deportation and almost certain death in Nazi concentration camps.”
Reinhardt also “added the names of friends and her own married names until Schindler's quota negotiated with the SS was fulfilled: "Weitmann, Carmen, January 15, 1915, typist" is number 279 on the list.
“The rescue almost went awry” according to The Teller Report.
“On the way to Brünnlitz in 1944, the train carrying Schindler’s workers was diverted to Auschwitz,” according to The Guardian. “Death seemed inevitable. But Schindler used his military intelligence contacts to stop the diversion, claiming that these workers were vital for his armaments factory.”
“They had to stay in Auschwitz for two weeks,” according to The Teller Report.
“Mimi Reinhardt later compared the time to Dante's ‘Inferno’.”
“At the war’s end, [Schindler’s] workers were liberated, and Mimi was reunited with Sascha.”
Reinhardt “settled for a time in Morocco and then New York, where she lived for 50 years,” according to The Guardian. “She kept in touch with other ‘Schindler Jews’ whose lives had been saved by escaping the Plaszów camp under Schindler’s protection, but did not speak publicly about her earlier life until she moved to Israel in 2007.”
In Israel, she joined “her only son, Sacha Weitman, who was then a professor of sociology at Tel Aviv University,” according to The Times of Israel.
Schindler died in 1974, when he “was named by Israel’s Yad Vashem Holocaust museum as a member of the ‘Righteous Among the Nations’, an honour for non-Jews who tried to save Jews from Nazi extermination,’ according to Frost. “He is buried on the Mount of Olives just outside Jerusalem.”
The story of Reinhardt’s “small act” came to light when she was being interviewed by the Jewish Agency for Israel. (Note, “Reinhardt wasn’t directly portrayed in the Schindler’s List film,” according to News18.)
Reinhardt “expressed regret that Mr. Schindler, whom she adored, did not become a household name until after his death in 1974,” wrote Mindlin.
“He would have loved it, the attention,” she said.
She added in another interview, "I saw a man who was constantly risking his life for what he was doing. He was human. He must have had a heart of gold."
Reinhardt spent her last years at a nursing home north of Tel Aviv.
She is “mourned by her son and his family, as well as the thousands of people whose parents and grandparents she helped escape certain death,” according to the Jerusalem Post.
She has three granddaughters, nine great-grandchildren and two great-great-grandchildren.
In the image attached, Sasha Weitman, son of Mimi Reinhardt, holds an old photograph of his mother in Herzliya, Israel, (AP Photo/Ariel Schalit).
Of her contribution to history and assisting Schindler in saving hundreds of her fellow Jews, Reinhardt said, “I was just typing the list.”
~ jsr
The Jon S. Randal Peace Page
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One For The Money
pairing: yoongi x f. reader
genre: mafia au, established relationship, smut [21+]
summary: Yoongi's not afraid to collect his own payments, to get his hands dirty, or to put you in your place.
wc: 871
warnings: mafia au, mention of oral sex (f. receiving), mention of murder with chopsticks, choking, degradation, use of a knife to cut clothing, implied smut
date: April 21, 2023
The air seemed to shift the moment Yoongi's sneakers passed the threshold, somehow growing colder despite knowing it was all in his head. He evened out his breathing, listening to the tapping of your claw-like fingernails on the armrest of your chair as you stared out the window.
Despite his quiet footsteps, you were aware of his presence. Yoongi had never been able to sneak up on you. Never.
Slowly, your chair spins and you face him as he stops at your desk, setting the duffel bag on top of it. Your most prized possession hisses at being disturbed from her midday nap, a thick diamond-encrusted collar around her neck. Muffin. Yoongi smirks. What a fitting name.
“Chopsticks?” You raise a brow at the man in front of you. His electric blue jacket barely looks disheveled, but the same can’t be said for his pretty onyx locks that you were tugging on just this morning when he woke you with that sinful tongue of his. But not even getting you off would curve your anger.
“It’s what I had available,” Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly as he rounds the desk to sit on the corner, his usual spot when Muffin isn’t on it.
“It’s what I had available,” You mock rolling your eyes. Yoongi chuckles, smirking as he takes in your appearance. Your hair is immaculate, not a single strand out of place, your eyeliner sharp like the knife you conceal on your thigh, and your lips red like the blood he had spilled just hours before.
Yoongi is fast when he wraps his hand around your throat, grinning maniacally as he pulls you close.
“Don’t you know better than to mock me, princess? You think just because I let you sit in my chair while I’m gone that you’re in charge? You might be my bride-to-be, but I still call the shots around here,” Yoongi scoffs.
You smile widely, opening your mouth further and sticking your tongue out. Yoongi laughs, throwing his head back but never loosening the hold on your throat.
“You’re just my little cock hungry slut, huh?” He smirks, clicking his tongue as he leans over your face. “Tell me, love. Have you been waiting for my return? Aching just to feel my hands on you, perhaps my tongue once again?”
You nod, just barely, but it’s not good enough.
“Answer me when I ask you a question, princess. Or have you already forgotten?”
“Yes,” you answer. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Good girl,” Yoongi finally pressed his lips to yours. You moan against his lips, hands gripping his shirt as his necklace dangles over your hands.
Before things can progress, a loud thump has you pulling apart.
Yoongi groans. “That cat is the biggest fucking cockblock.”
“You love her,” You laugh as you rise from Yoongi’s chair to grab the duffel bag Muffin had pushed off the desk. Yoongi takes a seat, patting his lap for you to join him. Your heels click as you return to him, bag in hand.
Slowly, Yoongi wraps his hand around your ankle, moving his hand upward until his hand finds the small blade on your thigh. He takes it out of the holster with ease as you open the bag full of money, smiling.
“It’s all here?” You ask him as he cleans under his nail with the sharp blade, a bit of dried blood from before.
“Mhmm, bitch knows better than to short me,” Yoongi shrugs as he cleans the blade on his pants. You fan yourself with a stack of money and Yoongi cuts the band. It goes flying all around you.
“Yoongi!” You huff in annoyance. You’ll have to get someone to collect it all. Yoongi is silent as he drops the bag on the floor. A yowl from Muffin fills the air before she’s running out of the room through the cat door. Another expense Yoongi had paid for.
Happy wife, happy life, and all that jazz. He figures he has a few minutes before the feline is interrupting again, staring into his soul with those emerald eyes.
“Shut up and kiss me,” he demands, eyes sparkling with mischief. You kiss him anyway, gasping when the blade cuts through your blazer and white top as if it were nothing.
Yoongi cackles as you shove him playfully.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he shrugs as he runs the blade over your skin just to watch you shiver from the iciness before he’s cutting your bra off, too.
“I don’t have any extra clothes here,” you inform him as he sets the blade down on the desk, far enough to make sure it won’t hurt either of you.
“Who says you’ll need them?” He licks his lips as he peels the clothes off you and makes you sit on the desk. He bunches your skirt up to your hips and you lean back on your elbows when he’s tugging your panties down your thighs.
“Don’t you look delectable just like this, princess?” Yoongi groans when you spread your legs apart, pulling his chair close and placing your ankles on his shoulder.
Yoongi meets your hungry gaze, licking his lips one last time before he dives right in.
#bangtanarmynet#btsgoldnet#btshoneyhive#yoongi fanfic#yoongi fanfiction#yoongi drabble#yoongi x reader insert#yoongi x reader#yoongi x you#yoongi mafia au#yoongi implied smut
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Like it or not, the one who saved and modernized the monarchy was King George V, not king Edward VII, and this is an undisputed fact that all historians would agree with. After all, It was during the reign of King George V that 13 European Monarchies crumbled to the ground while the british monarchy survived. And it survived because of George V, because of his leadership, his modern statesmanship, his will to embrace and encourage changes, his popularity and the respect that his nation had for him, while he led his country to victory during WW1. He was the FIRST Monarch that brought monarchy close to people, hence why he was nicknamed the People's Monarch or the Citizen Monarch. George reigned during the most difficult times in the history of monarchy and of mankind, but he managed to save his monarchy and to modernize it, setting the path for a Constitutional Modern Monarch*. Your bias cannot change it, because facts dont give a damn about your opinions. A pity that you cannot uplift Edward VII without bringing George down. George wasnt dull, he was quite the character. He was genuine, funny, reproachable, a lover of books and cinema, and most importantly he was a SERIOUS LEADER, who acted exactly as a modern head of state is suppsed to act. Oh and he was a FAITHFUL Husband, he was devoted to his wife and loyal to her throughout their entire marriage. Something that can never be said of Edward VII who was unfaithful and over-indulgent in everything ( Im sure his mistresses would have preferred Handsome George though). If being faithful and family-oriented makes a man dull, than give me dull everyday. Queen Alexandra would've been happy to have married a man like George who never embarrassed and humiliated his wife
Oh my, where does this come from? lmao. Tbh, I deserve this kind of message when it's about Wilhelm. I'm totally biased regarding this rascally young fop (Alexander III said it first!). Badmouthing him is one of my favourite pastime. But George, come on! I never been too harsh with him? EXCEPT, perhaps, when it comes down to the Romanovs, but what can I say? When you don't have a backbone, you really don't…
Yet, I'm a tad puzzled by your message because we are talking about George V right? The one who in April 1905 hadn't seen his children for three months. The one who used to shout at his second son "Get it out" when the poor soul was suffering from stammer. The one who in 1917, while on a stroll in the grounds of Sandringham complained to Nora Wigram that his children always avoided him. Nora retelling this story in one of her letters to her parents said how Mary, David and Bertie became "quite cheerful & entirely flippant, writing their names in the snow" when George and Mary had gone home on said stroll. However, do you know who was ACTUALLY a good father? his cousin *whispering* Nicky.
Faithful yes but let me remind you that their marriage was far from smooth sailing. They lived seperately for months on end. You also must have forgotten the countless letters from George trying to apologise for shutting down, being rude or cold towards May. + May's letters complaining on how he would shut her out. The man was unable to articulate his feelings which led to endless misunderstanding. May who once wrote to George while in Paris : "I quite understand about yr not wishing to come to Paris & am not angry, I only thought it wd be nice change as I find life in general very dull- unless one has a change sometimes." She had wanted him to join her but had received a rebuff instead. May who wrote to his brother in 1900 while she was stuck in the gloomy York Cottage: "It is so dull here & I feel very low & depressed tho' Im pretty well on the whole" (alright she was pregnant at that time, but guess where George was?… out shooting birds).
Led his country to victory during WW1? Hmmm, you really mean George V who was described in 1918 by the Viscount Esher in those terms: "he seems virtually a recluse, steadily devoting himself to good purposes and little works of a good kind, but with not conspicuousness, no assertiveness of the King's position." / "making himself a nonentity" ? While May wrote on 19 november 1916 to her son David about the hospital visits: "They are "assomant" (tiresome) & I dislike them more than words can describe!" and then proceeded to explain how much she enjoyed her shopping trips at Goode's.
I'm teasing because OF COURSE I think George V was a good ruler and perhaps he was the kind of ruler the country needed at that time. He was a great arbitrator and was able to adapt and change despite having conservative views and being very much uneducated. How he dealt with the Irish question is a stellar example! He was an ordinary man who disliked society and suffered from bouts of depression. There is a sentence that struck me in Ridley's book which in my opinion sums up George : "He was a man of disconnected feelings".
I could write PAGES about Bertie's shortcomings and how his shenanigans damaged the monarchy. Yet he was a gifted ruler, very much in tune with his time.
So I guess anon, it comes down to... preference. If you are more into shooting birds and collecting stamps, you do you! I, on the contrary, have a soft spot for cosmopolitan kings with a string of scandals.
Now if you'd excuse me, I'm off painting the town red with Bertie!
#don’t come after me#with those rose-colored glasses#i'll show you the receips#and give you a reality check 😗#i do hope#this anon is a troll#because you can't go about life#being so short-sighted#& i'm sorry but#not even ridley's EXCELLENT bio on george#could change my mind#georgie was a dull man#actually my last words will be#le roi est mort vive la république#because there is no way#i'm starting a debate on which king saved the monarchy#*even though Bertie did hehe*
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Not sure how good it is but here it is anyways!! A non canon AU of the crossover AU that is heavily based on The Last Day of Summer from Percy Jackson The Musical.
@daboyau
@phoebepheebsphibs
@littlemissartemisia
DvD: Until I Found You Donnie
Dee: No Fun in Fungus Donnie
“Hey, you ready to finally leave the competition?” Leon questions, packing away non perishable food he was gifted.
DvD stands next to him, arms folded in thought.
“I…..don’t know. It feels….wrong…..leaving so soon.”
“If this is about Misa, she can come see us any time. She even asked to come babysit Mikey.”
“No, it’s not her. My brain is nagging me like I’ve forgotten something important.”
“Maybe Karai can help you figure it out?”
“You’re right. I’ll go talk to her.” DvD lowers his arms and walks with purpose to their ancestor.
Karai is watching over Mikey and Raph saying goodbye to Misa before she notices DvD walking her way.
“Donatello, is something troubling you?”
“I should have known you’d know already. Does anything seem off to you right now? Anything at all?”
Karai considers this for a moment then shakes her head.
“No, I don’t believe so. Perhaps you still have leftover anxiety over what happened.”
“…..I don’t think that’s it, but if you say everything is okay….”
Karai puts a hand on his shoulder, immediately throwing him off since she knows how he feels about touch.
He’s more focused on how her eyes glow, though.
“You have been betrayed by one who calls you friend.”
“Ex-Excuse me!?”
April suddenly appears and moves Karai away.
“Haha, whoops! Looks like she still isn’t normal after all that mystic weirdness! I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”
“Wait! April! Where are you taking her-!?…..Aaaand she’s gone. This only confirms my suspicions. I have to find the NFIF group, that Donnie should share my doubts.” He begins walking again.
DvD is surprised when he sees a portal open and 3/4 of the counterpart turtles already gone. He picks up the pace to catch the last member, which luckily is the one he wanted to speak with.
“Dee!”
NFIF Donnie turns his head back.
“If it isn’t the big hero that got rid of the spores.”
“You’re leaving? Without saying goodbye?”
“We said it before, don’t you remember?”
DvD furrows his drawn on eyebrows.
“No…? Wait….vaguely….?”
Dee smiles faintly.
“Tough last day of the competition?”
“I thought when we took care of those spores everything would feel normal again, but it doesn’t. It’s the last day but I don’t feel like anything is truly over.”
Dee turns his whole body around at those words.
“I get it. After I dealt with them the first time, I thought I’d never have to feel the way I did again. We destroyed it. It was supposed to be done. Then we came here and everything just repeated. I was changed, but they were exactly the same. The mod always said no fighting, it’s supposed to be this safe magic space. The truth? It’s so the authors can see us suffer, even if they don’t bother to show their face.”
DvD feels another change. Or, maybe, this was what he felt before. He’s just feeling it stronger now.
“What is going on? Are you causing this? What did you do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just telling you what this all really was. I need to get back to my brothers.”
DvD looks at the portal.
“Are they really in there?”
“Technically they’re on the other side-“
DvD suddenly pushes past him and goes through the portal despite the attempts to stop him from doing so.
He takes a gasp of breath as he sits up. There’s a bunch of spores clouding his vision that he waves away. It’s then he sees the reality of the situation.
Everyone in the competition is unconscious on the ground, surrounded by spores and mushrooms. It’s dark in the room but lit up by the eery glow of everything. His brothers are laying near him, Misa tucked under both Raph and Mikey’s arms. April and Karai are there too, although Karai has been moved away from the group slightly. He might be the only one awake.
Or that’s what he thinks, until he sees Dee in front of him.
He’s sitting next to his sleeping brothers. Vines are wrapped around their hands. It doesn’t look painful, more….reassuring in a way. His eyes are glowing somewhat, but not fully.
“Of course it had to be you who broke out. Karai almost did too, did she use her chance to help you instead? Typical.”
“You’re the one who did all this.” DvD hisses.
“Karai warned you. Betrayed by a friend.”
“You spored me! You freed the mushroom! Why!?”
“It promised me the power to keep everyone safe from whatever is back in their universes! All I had to do was add my own nanobots to it so it can generate and feed off emotions other than fear.”
“It’s just using you! It wants to have everyone from every universe!”
Dee stands up, vines keeping him off his feet.
“Good! We’ve been brought here although we’re just kids! I watched everyone suffer with those asks, yeah I did! And for what!? You know our worlds will never be ours! Not as long our authors rule over the stars!”
DvD reaches for his tech bō, Dee sends vines that grab it and him, holding him closer in front of him.
“So I’ll do anything.”
A vine breaks the bō.
“I don’t care if I hurt anyone.”
Dee tightens the vine around DvD.
“It doesn't pay to be a good kid, a good kid, a good creation.” He tears up.
DvD struggles heavily.
“The authors were never on our side, so I think it’s time we watch them fall!” Dee turns to look at the device for the competition that tracks and sorts universes.
“And soon you'll see what I did, soon there’ll be no other worlds at all!”
“What are you talking about!?”
“If there’s only one world, this world, and I’m in charge, we’ll be safe from everything. Forever. No Kraang, no invasions, no bad futures, not even fear.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Maybe I am! But you’d do the same if it kept your Mikey safe! You’re lucky that you don’t have to make the decision! I’m doing it for you! Your whole family is seeing whatever they want! You could be doing the same!”
“I don’t want your fake happiness! Grow up and realize that you can’t just fix everything bad that happens!”
Dee grabs him harshly by the face.
“Watch me.”
#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#no fun in fungus#rottmnt#2018 tmnt#rise of the tmnt#tmnt 2018#i’m getting spored now i guess#rottmnt until i found you#until i found you au
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fae!shikamaru x (fem) reader | you know the drill (entirely self indulgent, entirely too long), fantasy!au, shameless smut | cw: cursing, mentions of blood & minor injury, degradation, manipulation?, shikamaru is an ass but are we surprised
-fae!shikamaru takes a liking to you-
part 1 | part 2
The flowers are in full bloom, both inside and out of the forest. Though the forest flowers are livelier, more lovely, under the perpetual watch and care of the forest nymphs.
April has colored the ground in yellow and pink flowers, the little buds accompanying the violets in their ever vigilant guard. Among them is a wildflower, twisted and brambled, and seemingly out of place, but pretty nonetheless. It reminds you of him and you almost take it with you, but Gaara would know, and he would know exactly who it was for.
The very faerie he warned you never to meet again, of all things.
You had gotten an earful from both him and you mother. The two of them trying their very bests to make sure you never passed the edges of the forest, never passed Gaara's spring. Honestly, if your mother had it her way, you'd never again leave your room. You can hardly blame her after disappearing for half a year with nary an excuse on your tongue.
What were you to tell her? That, despite all her warnings, you wandered into the woods that had claimed so many lives, that you took the hand offered by a faerie, made love to a faerie? You really would never see anything but the walls of your room again.
So maybe you lied, spun a little tale, that's what you're best at, after all. And even with the little freedom you wrangled from her, Gaara was always there at the edge of the woods, goading you back towards home; you couldn't hide anything from him as much as you'd have liked to.
So you tried to forget him, you really did, busying yourself with this and that, and evermore. But Shikamaru plagued your mind, your dreams and your nightmares, beckoning you back to his nook in the woods. And maybe, maybe, you could have forgotten him, wrote him off as a bad dream, and forgotten him in the day. If only every little thing didn't go wrong since he left that day with his thinly veiled threat.
It was only ever minor inconveniences of course, but it made you think of him, everytime.
You'd lose this and that, bits and bobbles would break and fall apart, and god forbid you could ever find a matching pair of socks. It makes you think of the stories your mother told you when you were just a child, of mischievous fae and their passive aggressive nature. It feels petty more than anything, childish even. As if Shikamaru is pouting, counting the days that you've been gone and retaliating for each and every one.
And it makes you laugh, makes you miss him, you suppose, though you'd offer yourself to the clutches of a wrathful god before admitting that to him.
So you sneak away, past your mother's vigilant watch, past Gaara's meadow and bubbling spring, past the the violets and familiar trees, until you're surprised Gaara's yet to show. You expected a fight, the kind with stern words and disappointed stares, at least. Perhaps he was too busy to play keep away today, or perhaps he'd finally given up.
Night settles over the forest and worry gnaws at your chest, but not for the reasons it once did - not for the specters and shadows, or the fear that the tall, looming trees would devour you - rather the thought that, perhaps he's forgotten you in your time apart, or perhaps you were just a pastime, a plaything, a new shiny bobble for him to toy with after all; Gaara's words must be getting to you. And it worsens with every hour that passes, and with each hue that lightens the sky you wonder if the sun will greet you in his stead.
And that hurts you more than you ever thought it would. You've had too much time to think, to ruminate over your feelings for him in your time apart. All of those strange, convoluted feelings coming to a head and revealing things about yourself and the fluttering feelings in your chest that are still hard to accept, sometimes.
That's why when the moonlight dwindles, strokes of pink coloring the horizon, it hurts your pride; the anger drowns the sadness filling your chest like poison, and you give the tree stump you'd been perched on until a moment ago a hefty kick. It retaliates, the bark making a sickly crackling noise before splintering upwards and piercing your shin.
You'd forgotten how alive the deep forests are.
You yelp, doubling over to clasp a hand over the offended area. Tears prick your eyes and you grumble out an angry, "Stupid tree." Blood seeps through your fingers and you choke on a whimper. "Stupid forest, stupid faeries, stupid Shikamaru."
"Still have quite the mouth on you, I see."
You nearly get whiplash from how fast your head whips up. Shikamaru's within arm's reach, leaning lazily against a tree, dark eyes steadied on your wound. Your surprise turns to relief, and then to anger. "You were watching the whole time, weren't you?"
"I'm not omniscient, you know." He crosses his arms, seemingly disinterested in your current state. "And sorry to disappoint you, pretty. But I wasn't endlessly waiting for you to wander through either."
You try not to glare, mood long soured. The cut pulses, a limp in your step when you turn away.
"And where exactly do you think you're going?"
"Home."
He's in front of you in an instant, surprise shifting to apprehension as he draws close, though he only crouches before you, examining the gash with one gentle hand. "Careful, this isn't that nymph's tenderhearted meadow, the forest already wants to swallow you whole, don't give it a reason to."
"You think you know everything, don't you?" You're looking to pick a fight, if you're honest - frustration like a splinter in your chest.
"More than a little human like you, at least. Now hold still."
You whimper when he winds a stray cloth around it. "Don't you have - I don't know - some fancy fae magic that can make it go away?"
He cocks an eyebrow, shoots you a look before returning his attention to your wound. "What do you take me for, one of your benevolent nymphs?"
"Dunno, you're all high and mighty about being a faerie, you'd think you'd have some powers to show for it."
"Oh?" His mood shifts and you're not entirely sure how to read it, you'd think him annoyed if not for the smarmy grin curling his lips. "Are you curious, pretty?"
He tightens the knot and you wince, watching as he stands, seeming all the more intimidating, bigger even, like a towering shadow. You shake your head, taking one step back, then two when he follows. "No, I was just-"
You miss the circle of mushrooms at your heel, taking one step, then two until it's too late. The world shifts beneath your feet, swirling and turning and mixing together like watercolors until the sky is a starry, twilit pink. It makes you nauseous, and you're keeling over, swaying almost precariously. Shikamaru's hand finds your shoulder, and the nausea vanishes, replaced by the familiar haze seeping into your being, stealing your conscious bit by bit.
Your eyes meet his, the colors dance in his irises and you fall further into the trance, keening up at him, into him. "You like it here, with me, don't you?" You don't want to nod thoughtlessly, obediently like a puppet on a string, but that's exactly what you find yourself doing. He leans forward, lips molding against your own, breath hot against your mouth when he speaks again. "You'll stay here with me then - by my side - forever?"
Your brain tries to shake the thought, the haze, but it's no use, it only lulls you deeper, drags you into the abyss. "Please."
"That's my pretty girl." He noses against your jawline, suckling at your pulse. "All mine." You whimper when his teeth prick you skin, voice deepening in a way that sounds almost frustrated. "Mine, mine."
His demeanor shifts, anger starting to bubble, and you realize this, frustration palpable even in your stupor, hairs on the back of your neck rising. "Shikamaru..."
He huffs against your skin, fingers digging your sides. "So why did you disappear like that?"
He's pulling away, haze lifting until you can finally see him clearly, lips set in a straight line, deadly serious. "I-" You hesitate, scramble for any excuse to appease him. "I've been busy."
"Not too busy for that forest nymph." His words are snappy, pointed, sharp like a well kempt knife. "Just too busy for me?"
"It's not like that, I just-"
"Maybe I should get rid of him, set his meadow alight."
"Shikamaru that's enough-"
"Will you come back to me then? When he's not around to coddle you anymore?"
"Shut up!" Your temper reaches its limit, ignoring the way Shikamaru's jaw clenches, eyes narrowing at your sudden approach. "You're being an ass!" You dig a pointed finger into his chest, tears stinging your eyes. "You think you know everything about us? Because you watched us from a far a few times? Or is it because you think you're just so smart? Tell me, does being a faerie mean you get to be a presumptuous ass?"
"Watch it." He warns, hand engulfing your own, bringing it to his lips and nipping at your wrist. "Even my patience has limits."
You laugh, a dry, spiteful sound as you try - and fail, miserably so - to wrench out of his hold.
Shikamaru sighs, tugging you forward until you're stumbling into his chest. "I'm so good to you, even though you're a disrespectful little thing." You're able to pull just far enough away shoot a pointed glare his direction. "I treat you so well, look at you in ways he would never dream of."
"That's because he doesn't feel that way for me." You settle into his embrace, as if you have a choice. "I've known him since I was a child, he saved my life. He's like an older brother to me, that's all."
Shikamaru laughs; it feels almost condescending. "A forest nymph? The older brother of a human? Isn't that absurd to you?"
"Not anymore absurd than a human having feelings for a faerie."
He grows quiet and so do you; you're not sure what you expect, but the disappointment consumes you. "Nevermind, I didn't mean anything by it."
"Tell me." You ignore his softly muttered request, turning to pull away, to leave, as if you could, as if you weren't already trapped in the confines of his twilit world. He pulls you back, holds you perfectly still. "What are those feelings, exactly?"
You try to avoid his gaze but it's unwavering, burns a hole right through you, makes you feel helplessly exposed. "I don't know."
"Figure it out."
He really is a jerk sometimes, you surmise. But there's something sincere about the way he looks at you, strange irises filled with you, you, you and nothing else. And it makes your heart stutter in your chest, makes you afraid of admitting exactly what that feeling is because you're not sure he feels the same, even less sure he even can. And if he doesn't, if he doesn't -
"You think too much pretty," he sighs, lips slanting over yours. "Tell me what's on your mind, yeah?"
His breath is hot against your lips and you nearly melt in his embrace; he's warm, so warm and you're burying your face in his shoulder, settling into him like your favorite arm chair tucked in the living room corner. "I'm in love with you, I think."
The grin that spreads across his face is satisfied, yet taunting. "And what does a little creature like you know of love?"
"I-" You're at a loss; he's right and you hate that he's right, just like he always is. But you know better to feed his ego, Challenging him with an unconvincing, "Well what does a faerie of know of love?"
He doesn't skip a beat, pulling you in by the hand still encased between his fingers, smoothing the other around your back to settle on your waist. "I've loved many things in my lifetime, more than a pretty, finite thing like you could ever comprehend."
You wait, wait for him to say you're one of those many things, but he only stares, caresses your cheek with gentle fingers - and it feels condescending almost, or perhaps it's just the disappointment getting to you.
"Is it fun for you, playing with my feelings?"
"No, it's not." His playful demeanor, the deflection that you've grown so used to falls, plummets, shatters in an instant, and suddenly he's serious to a fault. "It's not fun to want you, to miss you, to be so enamored with you that I'd burn the entire forest to the ground to keep you by my side."
It startles you, leaves your mind reeling, grasping for any inconsistency in his proclamation. But you can feel it - his sincerity, and it chills you, heartbeat thrumming in the silence. "What?"
"Is it fun for you?" His cantor rumbles with frustration. "To make me wait, and wait, and wait, and watch as you give your time to that forest nymph, and leave without even thinking of me, every single time?" You open your mouth, prepare to protest, to tell him just how wrong he is. You thought of him, more than you ever thought you would, more than you would have liked; but he continues, doesn't give you the chance, "Do you think I want to be this enamored by an insignificant little thing like you, wrapped around the finger of a human, of all things?"
Was that how he thought of you this entire time? A pathetic human, undeserving of his love? Your sympathy dwindles, flickers out like the last licks of a dying flame. "Then don't be."
You push against his chest but he wraps his arms around you, suffocates you in his embrace. "I already am."
You hate how quickly you lose your fight, give in to his strong arms and settle against his chest like he'd said nothing at all.
He's gentle about the way he turns you, cups your jaw with such tenderness that he feels like a stranger; in some ways he still is, you suppose. "I waited so so patiently for you, so stop being troublesome. Let me enjoy you now that I finally have you."
He doesn't give you a chance to be indignant, pressing his lips to yours until you sigh against them, submit to his attentions. Gentle fingers draw a line down your spine and you shudder, realizing just how much you've missed him, been starved for his affections. His fingertips caress the thick of your thighs before moving to play with the hem of your dress, and you keen up at him, into him, wincing against his lips when your injury protests.
You feel his sigh, hot against your mouth. "Let's take care of that first, yeah?"
He hooks an arm beneath your legs and lifts you from the ground, chest rumbling with quiet laughter when you tangle your arms around his shoulders in a panic. He takes you to the old well, tucked behind his house in a flowery little corner. It was your favorite place to escape to when you needed your own space, especially when you first arrived, tiptoeing around the faerie whose intentions were still a mystery.
He's gentle about the way he sets you atop the cobbled rock, mumbling a stern "stay right here," before disappearing inside the cabin.
You sigh, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding. The well sloshes faintly and you wonder just how it's sustained, given that you've never seen it rain in this strange world of his. The faint pinkish clouds suspended above your head seem real enough, but you can't help but wonder if they really are.
Everything about this world still feels like a dream, even Shikamaru - especially Shikamaru - and you wonder if it's all some elaborate trap to catch gullible humans like you; a small part of you even flirts with the idea of letting yourself fall into it.
Shikamaru comes into focus, sharp features contrasting against the rose dusted sky. He really does feel like a dream sometimes. "This is going to sting, probably." He lays a hand on your knee, just above the wound. "Just try not to kick me, alright?" - and sometimes not so much.
Your amusement shifts, turns sharply to a grimace when he removes the bloodied bandage, replacing it with the sting of a damp rag. He's careful about the way he dabs the wound, tempering his strokes each time you flinch beneath his hold. It's odd, but sweet and you chew the inside of your cheek, wonder if you could take it as an opportunity.
"I thought you'd be mad."
He wraps a clean bandage around your leg, securing it much more tenderly than the first time. "Who says I'm not?"
"Well, considering I've yet to become breakfast-"
He grins, wild and taunting and you'd think it wicked if you knew him less. "Is that an invitation?"
You blink once and suddenly he's standing, ignoring your indignant squeal when he sweeps you up and carries you inside. The sheets are plush and sunny, like the plume of a canary; it reminds you of home. "These are new?"
"Mhm," he mumbles, sprawling you across them, lips immediately finding the corner of your jaw, kissing a trail down to your chest. "Figured you'd like them, besides," he nips the swell of your breast, hands creeping beneath the hem of your dress. "Mm, forget it."
"What is it?" He ignores you, nosing further into your chest but you prop yourself up, move to squeeze his cheeks between your palms. He narrows his eyes, seemingly confused more than anything; and it's cute, almost. "What is it, Shikamaru?" He doesn't answer but also doesn't move to stop you when you lean forward and press a kiss to the bridge of his nose, the swell of his cheeks, the corner of his lips, sighs even when you lean forward to gently nudge your nose against his. You bat your eyelashes once twice, three times. "Please?"
"By the gods, fine." You watch him expectantly, wait one beat, then two until finally, he sighs. "The old ones smelled like you."
You're offended by the implication, at first. But it hits you, makes more sense than you'd like it to. He missed you. And you know it all too well; the smell of honey and flora - home - was always your favorite, but you found yourself missing it, him, the musk of deep forest trees and smoke that curls around you like an ever present shadow. And you yearned for it, yearned to drop everything and run to Shikamaru.
And you left that feeling, that yearning, with him, in perpetuity - left a piece of yourself behind whereas he only lingered in your memory.
"Now, if your done with your little interrogation," he trails off, hooks an arm beneath your knee and pulls you forward until he's hovering above you, hips flush against your center. "I do believe I was making good on a threat."
He doesn't give you a moment to dwell, already pushing your panties down, head dipping between your thighs to devour you like a feast laid before him, just for him. And it has your eyes rolling back, has your thighs shaking and fingers grasping desperately at the covers, like your clawing your way back up the precipice of a cliff. But it's futile, of course.
It's lude, his tongue circling your clit, the squelching when he sucks - and you hate just how much it turns you on, has you arching against him like you're begging him for more, more, more; like you just can't get enough. But he doesn't seems to mind, not when you're moaning his name all pretty and pathetic like.
He looks up at you, briefly, studies you with those dark, swirling eyes. It would be unsettling if you weren't on the verge of coming against his tongue.
You manage a broken, "What?" and he grins, prodding at your lips with two of his fingers. You're confused but part them, hesitant as you are, let him press against your tongue. "I was just wondering," he starts, patting your cheek dotingly with his other hand when you instinctively lave your tongue around his digits. "If your face would look prettier when I touch like that, or like this."
He pulls his fingers from your mouth, spreads you open with them instead. You choke on a moan and he laughs. "Is this funny to you?"
"A bit."
"Big talk for someone who hasn't even made me cum yet."
"Keep talking." His breath is hot against your sex. "It'll be all the more satisfying when I shut you up."
You roll your eyes, half a taunt catching on your tongue the moment his fingers curl inside you. He fixes his mouth on your clit, all tongue and teeth and pure desire, and it's embarrassing just how quickly the heat takes you over; how quickly his words become true and you just shut up - reduced to moans and the pathetic whimpers of his name while he works you through your high.
You're struggling to catch your breath and it's bewitching, the way he kisses a trail up your hip, over your breast and up to your lips. You catch the way his own lips glisten with your slick when he pulls away, just long enough to dip his head beside your ear and utter a simmering, "Can I have you?" that has you keening for him, into him, all too easily.
Far too easily, and a part of you wonders if this is a trick, a play on words to catch you, bind you to him with the deceitful, wicked powers of the fae. But he's looking at you with those dark eyes, touching you so sweetly with the warmth of his palms, and he wouldn't, surely he wouldn't -
Besides, what are you going to tell him - no?
Your nod is hesitant, and he's on you in an instant, wrapping you up in his strong arms, sucking hickies against your throat. "Mine." He spreads you over his hips, pushes his pants down with one hand and presses his fingers into the meat of your thigh with the other, until he's sure the shape of his fingertips will linger in sickly violet hues. "Mine, mine, mine."
It burns, the way he stretches you, stretches you until you cater to the breadth of his cock. It burns, almost as much as the first time and even worse is the pace he sets. You'd think him gentle, merciful even, but his arrogance is palpable; he knows he's driving you mad with his slow, aching thrusts, tilting his head this way and that as if he's studying your desperate eyes and agape, pleading mouth.
"Who would have thought," he muses, pressing into you until your hips lay flush against his, cock nestling deeper, deeper until you're pushing against his shoulders, arching your back in a pathetic attempt alleviate the burn. But he pulls you back, holds you down until your eyes screw shut and your crying his name, begging him for sweet reprieve. "That you look the prettiest like this."
There are tears in your eyes when you mumble a pathetic. "You're so mean."
He finds it amusing, if his taunting chuckle is any indicator. "If only you knew just how nice I am to you, pretty."
He certainly doesn't seem nice, not with the way he slides his cock out just to thrust back in, setting a brutal pace to contrast the first, ignoring your babbling lips and weak hands pawing at his chest. "Isn't this what you wanted?" His words are soft, doting but you catch the mocking lilt to his voice, clear as day even as he's wiping the tears from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. "Should I make it better?"
It's suffocating, the haze that closes in on you like smoke filling the room, stealing your mind from your pretty fingertips. And you hate how easy it is to fall for it, into it and just how good it feels. But you're shaking your head, clinging to what's left of your mind before it's gone.
"What? Are you going to take it like a big girl?"
The haze dissipates, like a weight off your chest and you breathe, sighing an indignant. "I did last time, just fine thank you."
His lips curl up in a wicked half grin. "I'm going to continue to let you believe that."
He sits you carefully over his lap, pulls your dress over your head with a tenderness that surprises you. He doesn't miss the way your eyes follow him, infatuation in your gaze, reciprocates with a kiss, sweet, deep, divine - and entirely too short-lived. His palms are warm, so warm when they lift your hips, almost distracting you from the burn when he slides out, turns you around until you're kneeling, precariously swaying on your forearms.
Shikamaru sighs, snatching a pillow from the head of the bed to tuck beneath your middle. He places a palm between your shoulder blades, goading you down until you're laying comfortably over them. Soft fingertips wander your spine, chills tingling your nerves when he presses his lips one, two, three vertebrae down.
You almost relax, almost until he leans over you, makes you feel all kinds of small and docile when he rests a big hand beside your head. His voice is raspy, more so than usual when he whispers a suggestive, "Last chance, pretty. I can make you taste heaven, if you want."
You roll your eyes, crane your neck to shoot him a look, but there's gravity in his gaze. Smoldering orange flames color half his face, the other lingers in shadow, and he looks all the more sinister, foreign, ethereal, from his high cheekbones to his pointed nose, the shadow of two wings painted across the ceiling, reminding you that not a part of him is human, mortal. Every word, stoked by his ego as they are, hold weight you'll never fully comprehend.
He can give you euphoria, or he can make you hurt, and he's bending his knee, bowing his head and giving you - an insignificant creature like you - a choice in the matter. It makes you burn, makes you ache for him.
"I want you." You place your hand over his, intertwine your fingers. "Wanna feel you, every bit of you, even if it hurts."
You don't miss the sigh he breathes, shaky and wanting, his urges hanging on the precipice of a breath, denying himself the chance to devour you whole. A part of you hopes he will, and you certainly think he won't; at least until the the haze lifts completely, and you're left with sudden clarity you didn't realize was missing.
And suddenly you're not so sure.
You have second thoughts, almost when he digs rough fingers into the meat of your thigh, spreads you open for him, forces you down on his cock with a cruel and startling lack of mercy. And you realize how nice he's been to you all along, just how much generosity he's shown you without you even knowing. Still, you don't regret it, even when he sets a pace that has you reeling, has you gripping his fingers until your knuckles pale and a scream catches in your throat.
He doesn't seem to care, too lost on the way you clench around him, suffocate his cock as if you're begging for more, more, more of him, as if he doesn't see that you're barely hanging by the last threads of some god given will. Or perhaps he does and is simply too enamored by the way your lips cry out in pain, the way your brow draws together, eyes clouded not with magic, but in pleasure. And he thinks you look beautiful, exquisite, absolutely mouth watering.
So much so that he loses his cool, his composure, breath labored and rough like gravel when he holds you down against the pillows - and cums.
A moment passes - then two, and it's not until he shuffles atop you, separates his body from yours, do you realize you'd forgotten to breath. He presses a soft kiss against your shoulder and you inhale deep; lungs, chest, being suddenly so full, so warm, and you're not sure you can let this feeling go again.
"Thank you." It almost sounds sincere, but when you turn to face him, a shadow of smirk hangs from his lips.
You're almost afraid to ask.
"For what?"
He doesn't answer.
Strong, careful hands draw you to him, encases you between his chest and a myriad of pillows, lulls you ever closer to sleep, nearly convinces you to stay, eternally.
"I should leave soon, my mother will worry."
Something rumbles in his chest, verging on laughter. "Just sleep, pretty."
"I'm serious."
"You said I could have you," he hums. "Did you not?"
The panic sets in and you try to sit, but he holds you firm, "I didn't, I mean - I thought-" Your fear turns to indignance. "You can't keep me here."
He rolls atop you, caging you between his thighs, expression smug and lazy. "Oh I certainly could, if I wanted." He leans forward, lips pressed gently to your temple. "And gods do I ever want to." He moves to cup your cheek, seemingly unsurprised when you slap his hand away. "And that is exactly why I won't.
"A caged bird is never as pretty, don't you think?" He sighs, tries once more to cradle you, coddle you, thumb stroking the skin. You let him. "I want you to come to me, stay with me, sing of your own accord."
You search his face, study the space between the lines. "Would it kill you to be sincere for once?"
"I love you," his voice is like searing fire, engraving itself in your memory. "And I want you to love me." He holds your gaze for only a moment before he laughs, airy and awkward and for a moment he almost feels human. "Remember it, because I won't be saying it again."
You settle, fingers settling atop the ones still encasing your cheek. "Believe me," you sigh, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand. "I will."
"Stay with me?" For the first time it sounds like a question. "Just for tonight."
It gives you pause, his sincerity, his desperation to have you, even for a night.
You nod.
#shikamaru#shikamaru x reader#shikamaru x you#shikamaru x y/n#naruto#naruto x reader#naruto x you#naruto x y/n#naruto smut#shikamaru smut#this is for me and the two people who've definitely already forgotten this exists#no i don't know how to write things in a timely manner what about it 💕
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52 + Touching + Japril
gripping thigh
There was definitely something wrong with her.
She had seen Jackson in many relationships over the years, most of them casual flings that last a couple weeks at a time. There were a few people that had lasted past that threshold, and she’d paid attention to how he acted in those relationships in particular. It wasn’t even intentional that she had paid attention, but she blamed it on curiosity and drunken rambling from her best friend about the women he dated.
April hadn’t seen him get jealous in any of his other relationships. With Lexie, sure, he’d gotten frustrated having a mentor that was in love with his girlfriend. And he’d told her once about a kiss between Drs. Edwards and Ross, where he’d nearly broken up with the former (and wouldn’t that have saved everyone a lot of trouble, where two breakups didn’t have to happen at her wedding).
Jackson just really wasn’t the jealous type.
Except when it came to her.
And, okay, this might make her a bad person, but it made her feel special. Spending so many years of her life never feeling that way by a partner made it to where it was just really nice when she finally did.
So she kind of liked it when he got jealous.
It wasn’t like she’d gone out of her way to get him to feel jealous. No, they were married (again, and happily), and he had no reason to believe that she had feelings for anybody other than him. It just so happened that they were at some banquet, sitting across from Tom Koracick, and he made a bad joke about a very regrettable decision April had made earlier on in her sex life (in other words, referencing the fact that she had indeed slept with Koracick during a breakdown).
To be honest, April had mostly forgotten that experience (or mostly blocked it out, who knows), but she sensed Jackson’s irritation from beside her. She didn’t pay attention to whatever her husband said in response, because his hand was on her thigh, jealous and possessive and—
She was going to need to make an excuse to get them both out of there.
Touching prompts.
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request: none!
🝮 “ cherrypie ”
rise!raph x villain!female!reader
author’s note: hello, hello! this fic is a special one that i actually co-wrote with my beloved, @tmntxthings !! We were both tasked with writing as much of a scene for 20 minutes and going back and forth until the fic felt finished 😎 they will be posting this to their account in the following days, so keep a look out to give them lovin’!!
word count: 4.2k
There was a friendly hum in the air as Raph stood in the mirror and tried on outfits for his special day! Upon his suit’s collar was a chained pin. A ruby gem shimmered on the left side, twinkling with a mystic charm.
Emerald green hues gazed back at Raph, soaking up the humanoid figure he had once more with a nervous—but excited!— exhale. Today would be one more of the many dates he went on with a special girl he met topside, and hopefully he could make it the most memorable date yet! After all, this gentleman might have had a nice little itinerary tucked away in his suit’s pocket.
Today’s plan was to meet up right outside of a ball that his dearest friend, April’s college was hosting! April and Y/N would be there, and Raph was Y/N’s choice as her plus-one. Thoughts of dancing across the floor with Y/N’s smaller hand in his, her dazzling smile flashing brightly as he whirled them to and fro! Gosh, just imagining it now had his feet thumping rhythmically upon the floor.
Alright, one last tug of your cute tie and you’re ready to go out! His back turned to the mirror, eyes fixating on the doorway. Don’t worry, big dog, you’ve got this.
———
Elsewhere, a dolled-up Y/N paced across the linoleum with her heels clicking intimidatingly.
“ They really think I was joking? Do they? Am I a joke to them? “
Some particular floor plans and interventions had not gone too well—it was as if nobody truly wanted to escape the Hidden City and go topside! Had so much time passed that everyone was complacent with being moles, deep under ground, without a single sight of the moon big in the sky at night? Had they all become completely okay with never seeing the sun again? Y/N took—no, snatched!— a towel from its position on the wall and grit her teeth while trying to rub clean the irritation vivid upon her features. Her eyes glared at the reflection in the mirror, but just for a second as they then trailed down to the form-fitting Ruby dress that draped her body. It was much too flattering, causing a blush to dust Y/N’s features and her nervous habit of spinning the wooden ring upon her ring finger—the signature ring banded with an arcanic red crystal that was poured into it.—had kicked in. There was a heavy inhale as the thought of today's date resurfaced. She was going to be seeing him again today, her dearest Raph.
“ Oh, please like my dress… “
Y/N whispered, turning and posing to check all the angles. It was deserving of a gentle silence, the dress. As you soaked in the you in the mirror, so many thoughts whisked past.
That’s me?
I’m so beautiful.
Will he be just as impressed?
I could stare at myself forever.
There was a shy warmth whirling in your chest, so much so that the previous thoughts in your mind had been subsided. The operation had been all but forgotten from your mind, cleared by the thoughts of how tonight would go. You were in love with how you looked right now. Not a doubt in your mind, you were truly gorgeous for tonight’s date to the ball. Had your past self said, “ hey, you’ll be attending the hall with the kindest man ever ” then surely you would have called her a liar, but here you were.
Y/N L/N, otherwise infamously known as Cherrypie to both witches and humans alike for her fiery villainous deeds, dressed in a shimmery red dress with a split up the thighs, accentuating all the best parts. For a second, you felt less like a villain in disguise and more like a regular girl ready for her date.
But…
Would anyone blame you if that’s what you truly wanted? Y/N bit her lip, trying to imagine for a second that she was exactly that—just a regular girl getting ready for her regular date. There was a bittersweet smile that subsided just as a ding came from her phone—Raphael!
———
Raph had entered the building, slipping his phone back into his pants pocket. He was taking in the crowd that was before him as he took tentative steps forward. He blew out a breath, eyes scanning for the most beautiful girl in the world. He had messaged you to let you know he arrived, but sadly his searching was to no avail. He did spot April though!
He made a beeline for the only other person he knew there. Raph couldn’t lie, he was definitely nervous. He’d never been to a fancy ball before, the only other time he had dressed up in black tie attire was for the magic show that Leo had begged them all to attend. His brothers weren’t here this time, but his nerves subsided as April turned recognizing Raph’s green eyes.
“ Look at you!! I’m so happy you could make it! ”
April was all smiles, giving Raph a crushing hug.
“You haven’t seen Y/n yet have you?”
Her eyebrows waggled with a promising look and Raph shook his head, looking around as if you would suddenly appear since your name had been said. No luck!
“ Do you know where she is? ”
Raph asked, a small smile forming on his face as he looked back down to April.
“ I don’t but you’re in for a treat, she’s wearing your favorite color. ”
April winked and Raph’s imagination went wild. You were wearing red? He felt his cheeks flush, head whipping back and forth now honing in on all the different dresses that showcased hues of his favorite color. He was disappointed, huffing slightly at the fact that he still hadn’t spotted you. April couldn’t help but laugh at him. April loved how smitten Raph was, and April knew you felt the same way. She was so happy for the two of you. It warmed her heart to see Raph so happy, he deserved it. So she decided to help out, looking around the crowd wondering where you had wandered off to.
Maybe it was just pure luck, but it only took a few seconds, and April tapped on Raph’s arm. He immediately looked down to see April pointing to her left. His eyes followed, and he sucked in his breath. It was as if the crowd parted and he could see you, walking towards him. Stealing his breath away. You were drop dead gorgeous. Hair swishing back and forth in slow motion as if the world revolved around you.
“ Breathe Raph. ”
April teased, elbowing him in the side. His cheeks burned as he took in deep breaths.
Y/N held her phone in her hand, checking it over and over again while waiting for Raph to arrive. She had seen April already and received the most dramatic positive response for her attire EVER. All the whistles and shouts as her friend took photos from every angle had left you fidgeting embarrassedly.
She hadn’t seen Raph yet either, so you settled for roaming the floor in hopes that fate would bring you both together!
And, as luck would have it, you both did encounter each other after only a few minutes of search. The sensation of a burning gaze on you had your attention. Turning on your heel quickly, your eyes locked with the warmest emerald pools ever, of which were currently taking in your silhouette in its entirety. In your chest, your heart was performing somersaults and leaving you out of breath. Why, he did dress up nicely. The suit just seemed so right on him!
From your pocket ( after all, what witch-villain wears a pocketless dress? ), you pull a small square matching your dress and tick-tack-tick’d on up to your love.
“ Raphie, you made it—eek! “
Once Y/N was close enough, Raph wasted no time in scooping her up and giving an affectionate twirl.
“ I gotta be dreaming, there’s no way the world’s prettiest Angel is smiling at me right now. “
He gave a toothy grin, his signature snaggletooth pressing upon his bottom lip in that captivating way it always did. You melted as his hand brushed strands of hair from your face carefully. He leaned in, planting a satisfying kiss upon your forehead before pulling back to see what the handkerchief you held was for.
“ This, this is to show we’re a pair! “
Y/N cooed as her hands pushed it into his suit’s chest-pocket, smoothing it out neatly. Her hand patted it, lingering on his broad chest for some seconds until his bashful throat-clearing had stirred her out of the trance.
“ Um, right, I hope you don’t mind that I planned out the night for us. Af-After being together so long , I was… I… “
His train of thought seemed to leave without him as his gaze fixated on your dress. You could’ve sworn tears welled up in his eyes as his hands reached to rest on your hips, rubbing slow circles against the fabric. One of his hands lifted to take your hand, lacing together your fingers. He had noticed that even dressed as you were—fancy for a ball—there was still that special wooden ring sitting snug upon your dominant hand’s ring finger. It’s red band glimmered in the light just as your dress did, causing his gaze to just soften with all the love in the world.
“ Sorry, red just looks …. Breathtaking on you, Y/N. “
As the lights were dimming and music was beginning to play, Raph’s attention was brought to the couples forming on the floor’s center. His hold on your hips tightened snuggly as his eyes returned to yours.
“ Raph…? “
You breathed out, captivated in his burning gaze.
“ Can I have this dance? “
His hand rose, its open palm extended as a comfortable place for your smaller hand. Not wanting to miss a single second with him, you were eager to oblige. Your hand slid into his as you both joined the floor with almost literal hearts bobbing within your irises, pure love as the two of you swam through the sea of dancers, rocking with the flow almost as if it were second nature.
Y/N wasn’t some villain from the Hidden City and Raph wasn’t some mutant ninja from the sewers. For now, the two of you were the most ordinary couple swaying across the ballroom door with sweeping steps that almost traced hearts with each pat of a toe-tip. A shared welling-up in each other's chests, identical breath-holding, and just the same amount of tears glowing your eyes. Raph and Y/N were in perfect harmony, almost the stars of the dance so far as others would catch sight of your mesmerizing dance.
It would have continued being the most romantic song ever played by two bodies, had the record not been scratched by a distant explosion. Easily overlooked, if not for the second that followed.
Then a third, fourth—hell, even a fifth. All inching closer and closer.
In that moment, both your hearts plummeted in your chests, but for different reasons. Raph, fearing what those sounds meant for your safety, and you, fearing for having even dared try to pretend you were anyone other than Cherrypie, the villain to bring this city to its knees. Tonight’s attack has completely slipped your mind.
The last explosion rumbled the entire building and Raph’s hold on your hips moved to encase your whole body. Pulling you right to his chest, ready for if the entire room collapsed, he’d protect. This was bad, Raph thought, he didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he needed to get you to safety and then he could figure out the rest. He was a hero after all.
“ Y/N. “
The reverie of the dance and music was broken. Screaming started to sound around them as bodies were rushing this way and that, to get out of the building. Running towards the various exit signs in the room.
“ I need you to run and get to safety, find April and stick together. “
His tone was serious and authoritative, his arms holding you put to look into your eyes before squeezing your arms and letting go.
“ Raphael! Where do you think you're going?! “
Your hand shot out as soon as he turned to leave. In your mind, he was just a human. The safest place for him would be at your side, even if you were the villain of this story. Even though the surrounding explosions were your doing, you didn’t want Raph to get hurt.
“ I’ve gotta go help, baby! What if someone was caught in those explosions? I’m sure they are scared, no need to worry about me. ”
He gave you a rugged smile, sounding confident. So when your hand slipped away from his arm, watching as he ran to the front doors, leaving the ballroom, heading for the chaos that was ensuing outside, you knew you had to get back to business. After a few moments of cornering your resolve you booked it to the back doors. Pushing them open and immediately found yourself swarmed by the scent of smoke.
“ Ready or not New York, here comes Cherrypie. “
You mumbled a spell under your breath, your dazzling dress disappearing.
As it vanished, the dress was replaced with a maroon wide brim hat, polished off with a green ribbon with long tails that would whisk through the hair behind you. Your clothes became green bell-bottom pants, flaring out to frame smooth red Mary Jane’s that made a familiarly intimidating click-clack with each step. Red magic crackled at your eyes as they embraced a deeper green hue. A sinister smirk found its rightful place upon your lips as the magic placed a finishing touch of a red blouse with a deep v-neck and flounce sleeves.
The wind danced through you, Cherrypie, swaying your clothes in an all-too perfect way. The crackling red magic enveloped your body, snapping to make your stature disappear and reappear at the scene of the explosion, right upon an elevated surface—just for that extra bit of power imbalanced in your favor.
“ Now, now, people of New York! “
Your voice boomed, amplified by magic as your hat’s brim hid your eyes and only revealed the villainous smile you held.
“ You couldn’t have possibly expected I was gone, could you? No, no, never would I have gone without such a flamboyant exit. And say, what would be the best of exits than a series of explosions to leave you all trembling at my feet? ”
With their spiel, Y/N found themselves working far too hard to feel the strength, the power—the fear-striking twinge. It had been a thought on the back of their head, especially since meeting Raph. A thought of, “ hey, what if we were a normal resident? someone better, not villainous? ”
Their smirk faltered at a passing memory, one of their younger self. See, you hadn’t always wanted to be a villain. Once upon a time you dreamt of being the hero of the topside. You dreamt of being someone that the people were so happy to see, someone they cheered for.
You dreamt of being the person that struck hope in everyone, not fear.
But, you know what they say about villains.
A villain is simply a hero that everyone failed. And the first to fail you was your own mother, ingraining her hatred for the humans and their having sent everyone underground, all into you. You became her conduit for revenge, and had long since accepted that as your fate. You just weren’t meant to be a hero, right? Especially not with the magic you had. You were just a tragic villain, simple as that.
But when you met Raph? Why, he awoke something within. He had made you remember what it felt like to be the reason for someone’s smile, for their happiness. He reminded you how much you longed to be good. For a second, you almost thought… maybe… Could you—
“ Swooping in LIKE A BOSS! “
Y/N lifted her head to see a surge of red magic crackling towards them, forming a humanoid—no, turtle-like?— figure. Their fist was focused right towards them. Bracing themselves for the sudden impact, Cherrypie tried to hold her ground against the force but found themselves toppling over, plunging downwards.
Thankfully, she was rescued by her magic softening the fall, but still she rolled across the ground.
“ What the—? “
You looked up from where you had fallen, dazed and confused by just what hit you—or, WHO, dared to hit you. Standing on the edge above you was the large frame of what seemed to be a … turtle? Is that a turtle yokai? No, you didn’t recognize their magic signature, it seemed something more… mutated?
“ A mutant? But you seem different from the others… “
Muttered Y/N under her breath before reflexively rolling out of the way of the second punch coming straight down as the red-banded mutant pursued her once again. It was almost as if this one hadn’t been a human originally—or even mutated recently. Almost like he was… born from it? Born as a mutant?
“ Whoa! What’s with you?! We’re on the same team—against the humans! “
There was a pang in your chest as that last part slipped your lips, just as a thought crossed your mind, “ but raphael's a human, too. “ For a second, you found your balance to be put off a bit as you narrowly dodged the tonfas lunging towards you.
“ Against humans? No, I PROTECT the humans, against villains like you. “
Raph jabbed a single tonfa in your direction, pointing accusingly with black eyes glaring daggers at you.
You almost felt like those eyes were familiar, but just on the tip of your tongue. Shaking that away, Y/N flicked her fingers to envelope them in her signature magic. Eating away at her was a quiet little voice in the back of her head, going, “ hey, his magic is kind of like ours. red, fiery—looks and feels destructive.. but, he’s a hero! `` Your eyes looked at your magic simmering, just a second’s look. “ maybe we can still be a hero, don’t you think? “
His voice… Y/N shook their head and let out a frustrated yell before lunging towards the mutant.
For a big fellow he sure was fast. With each swipe you made striking out violently, your magic resembled streaks of red lightning as they crackled around you both. But the mutant dodged each, and thus a dance began. While you tried to maintain the offensive, the turtle would gain enough momentum with each of your misses and parry back with his own weapons.
The fight was destructive too, each missed strike would ricochet off into a nearby building or car—resonating a loud crack of lightning around the two of you. Y/N gritted her teeth, growing tired of the endless dodging,
“ You’re good, I’ll give you that, turtle, but you are no match for me. “
Your eyes shone brighter as you called forth a powerful surge of your magic. It would take a lot out of you, but you needed to end this fight quickly. The longer it went on, the more favor swept to his side.
“ I am sorry it has to end this way, “
Your tone was teasing and condescending. As if your victory was all but assured now. The mutant watched as you powered up, his own stance becoming one of defense, his body turning into red and the red version of himself growing in size. But just at the last second, as if he had suddenly changed his mind, he lunged forward attacking you.
Your eyes widened as his massive figure barreled towards you at a speed that shouldn’t be possible. You yelled, throwing all the power that you had accumulated, though premature. Your magic burst from your hands—sparks, lightning, and flames alike shooting out in madness. You had your target locked in and just as the first met the mutant's skin, he apparated.
“ NO! “
Y/N screamed as the mutant disappeared from her line of fire. Most of the magic colliding into a university building, demolishing it entirely. You were seething, breathing heavily as the power drain hit you like a truck. It would take time for your magic to recuperate. You had to get out of there, not wanting to retreat but not wanting to get caught in such circumstances!
“ You’re not so bad yourself. ”
A deep voice rumbled from behind you. And you cursed under your breath. Already feeling one of his weapons graze the back of your neck.
“ Don’t you even think about movin'. “
He warned, and you rolled your eyes. It would be so easy to get away, if only you had enough magic to do so. Why had you used so much?! Was it the anger? Was it because of your past? Because your head wasn’t in the game?
With your magic starting to dwindle and cave in on itself, your disguise was starting to fall with it. Raph had swept your feet during this, watching you fall and moving to press his leg just enough against you that you were unable to escape. Your hand reached out, as if it could put a distance between you and your enemy. There was a fear bubbling under the surface as you watched your clothes slowly fizzle and fade, gradually revealing the human “ you ” underneath it.
Raph’s expression contorted into one of an emotion you couldn’t recognize, though a nagging voice clawed its way through your mind, saying it was pity. You had lost, and he must have been all too aware of that! He would finish you off—or worse, throw you to the humans to determine your fate. Here would be where Cherrypie ended, right at the peak of her villainy. It would be here that your mother’s disappointment would fester. Would she even retrieve you or leave you behind, turning to someone else to train into her vessel of revenge?
Those thoughts never met their end, instead vanishing at his leg loosened on you.
“ Wha—? “
Y/N breathed out in confusion, barely able to raise her voice as Raph’s lips tugged downwards in what might have been a pained frown. He swiped his arm, pointing away.
“ Get out of here. “
“ What? “
“ GO! “
He roared, enough that it shook you to your core. Away you went, not wasting a chance to return to the Hidden City. Your heels clicked on the ground as tears welled up in your eyes. Were you afraid? Sad? Relieved? Whatever it was, no matter how badly your legs wished you would stop running, no matter how your throat stung, you never stopped running until you got back.
———
As Y/N ran, her ruby-red dress flowing in the wind, glimmering as the moon’s light illuminated its glittery fabric, Raph watched with a heartbroken disbelief. Upon the hand that shakily held out as if to be a puny boundary, protecting the villain from the hero, shaky black eyes rested upon a painstakingly familiar wooden ring around their hand. A suspicion rose in his head, and before it could ever be denied, the villain’s disguise dropped and revealed the worst plot-twist of this hero’s life.
Cherrypie was none other than the girl he had fallen head over heels for. The girl who filled him with so many amazing emotions and feelings was the very same villain who had done almost irreversible damage to the city.
The twisting in his chest, the clawing in his throat, and the stinging in his eyes as tears welled up.
He didn’t know how to feel. For the first time in a long time, since Shredder, the Kraang, or Big Mama, Raphael Hamato was left out of breath and without a plan.
An unknown amount of time passed as he stood there, Y/N long since vanishing in the distance. All that was left in the air now was distant cries, shouts, and alarms from cars and buildings alike. That, and a sheet of paper that was stuck under a rock, fluttering violently in the wind. Raph stared at it for a few seconds before wiping his tears and reaching down to pick it up.
Raph & Y/N’s Date!
Ballroom dancing! (make sure to practice your moves once more. It has to knock her socks off!)
Walk to Star’s Pointe at the park (there are shooting stars tonight, and we know Y/N would love them.)
Listen to the Bellman Fairy’s performance (they’re doing an impromptu concert at the same park at midnight! It’s Y/N’s favorite band, I don’t think even she knows it’s happening!)
Finish the night off with Lou, Mike Tony, Tony's Pizzeria (We always told her we’d take her to my new favorite pizza place. Hopefully she doesn’t question DIGG.)
Optional: Maybe walk her home and give her a kiss..
The paper ended up crumpled in the red-banded turtle’s hands as he turned on his heel and slid into the shadows, heading home after such a night.
Later, he would receive a message from Y/N.
NOTIFICATION
You have seven new messages!
———————————————————
♡︎ Y/N L/N 11m ago
Raphie! Are you okay? Did you get home okay? I was so worried about you the entire time.
♡︎ Y/N L/N 10m ago
Raph?
♡︎ Y/N L/N 10m ago
Please tell me you’re okay…
♡︎ Y/N L/N 5m ago
I…
♡︎ Y/N L/N 5m ago
Can I tell you something?
♡︎ Y/N L/N sent now
Never mind that last message.
♡︎ Y/N L/N sent now
Please be safe..
#raph x reader#raphael x reader#tmnt Raph x reader#tmnt raphael x reader#rise raph x reader#rise raphael x reader#tmnt x reader#Rise tmnt x reader
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The Villainess, AKA: Cherrypie
author’s note: this wonderful fic idea was a collaboration effort including myself and @marwhoa (go check them out, lovely page even lovelier person) 20 min rounds of writing back and forth and boom!! I couldn’t be happier with the outcome and I hope you guys enjoy~~
warnings: rise!raph x villain!reader , established relationship , fluff , angst , cliffhanger
prequel one → 〔 you’re here 〕
There was a friendly hum in the air as Raph stood in the mirror and tried on outfits for his special day! Upon his suit’s collar was a chained pin. A ruby gem shimmered on the left side, twinkling with a mystic charm. Emerald green hues gazed back at Raph, soaking up the humanoid figure he had once more with a nervous—but excited!— exhale. Today would be one more of the many dates he went on with a special girl he met topside, and hopefully he could make it the most memorable date yet! After all, this gentleman might have had a nice little itinerary tucked away in his suit’s pocket.
Today’s plan was to meet up right outside of a ball that his dearest friend, April’s college was hosting! April and Y/n would be there, and Raph was Y/n’s choice as her plus-one. Thoughts of dancing across the floor with Y/n’s smaller hand in his, her dazzling smile flashing brightly as he whirled them to and fro! Gosh, just imagining it now had his feet thumping rhythmically upon the floor. Alright, one last tug of your cute tie and you’re ready to go out! His back turned to the mirror, eyes fixating on the doorway. Don’t worry, big dog, you’ve got this.
。・゜・( pov change: y/n )・゜・。
Elsewhere, a dolled-up Y/n paced across the linoleum with her heels clicking intimidatingly.
“They really think I was joking? Do they? Am I a joke to them?” Some particular floor plans and interventions had not gone too well—it was as if nobody truly wanted to escape the Hidden City and go topside! Had so much time passed that everyone was complacent with being moles, deep under ground, without a single sight of the moon big in the sky at night? Had they all become completely okay with never seeing the sun again? Y/n took—no, snatched!— a towel from its position on the wall and grit her teeth while trying to rub clean the irritation vivid upon her features. Her eyes glared at the reflection in the mirror, but just for a second as they then trailed down to the form-fitting ruby dress that draped her body. It was much too flattering, causing a blush to dust Y/n’s features and her nervous habit of spinning the wooden ring upon her ring finger—the signature ring banded with an arcanic red crystal that was poured into it.—to kick in. There was a heavy inhale as the thought of today's date resurfaced. She was going to be seeing him again today, her dearest Raph.
“Oh, please like my dress…” Y/n whispered, turning and posing to check all the angles. It was deserving of a gentle silence, the dress. As you soaked in the you in the mirror, so many thoughts whisked past. That’s me? I’m so beautiful. Will he be just as impressed? I could stare at myself forever.
There was a shy warmth whirling in your chest, so much so that the previous thoughts in your mind had been subsided. The operation had been all but forgotten from your mind, cleared by the thoughts of how tonight would go. You were in love with how you looked right now. Not a doubt in your mind, you were truly gorgeous for tonight’s date to the ball. Had your past self said, “Hey, you’ll be attending the ball with the kindest man ever,“ then surely you would have called her a liar, but here you were.
Y/n, otherwise infamously known as Cherrypie to both witches and humans alike for her fiery villainous deeds, dressed in a shimmery red dress with a split up the thighs, accentuating all the best parts. For a second, you felt less like a villain in disguise and more like a regular girl ready for her date. But…
Would anyone blame you if that’s what you truly wanted? Y/n bit her lip, trying to imagine for a second that she was exactly that—just a regular girl getting ready for her regular date. There was a bittersweet smile that subsided just as a ding came from her phone—Raphael!
。・゜・( pov change: raph )・゜・。
Raph had entered the building, slipping his phone back into his pants pocket. He was taking in the crowd that was before him as he took tentative steps forward. He blew out a breath, eyes scanning for the most beautiful girl in the world. He had messaged you to let you know he arrived, but sadly his searching was to no avail. He did spot April though!
He made a beeline for the only other person he knew there. Raph couldn’t lie, he was definitely nervous. He’d never been to a fancy ball before, the only other time he had dressed up in black tie attire was for the magic show that Leo had begged them all to attend. His brothers weren’t here this time, but his nerves subsided as April turned recognizing Raph’s green eyes.
“Look at you!! I’m so happy you could make it!” April was all smiles, giving Raph a crushing hug. “You haven’t seen Y/n yet have you?” Her eyebrows waggled with a promising look and Raph shook his head, looking around as if you would suddenly appear since your name had been said. No luck! “Do you know where she is?” Raph asked, a small smile forming on his face as he looked back down to April. “I don’t but you’re in for a treat, she’s wearing your favorite color,” April winked and Raph’s imagination went wild.
You were wearing red? He felt his cheeks flush, head whipping back and forth now honing in on all the different dresses that showcased hues of his favorite color. He was disappointed, huffing slightly at the fact that he still hadn’t spotted you. April couldn’t help but laugh at him. April loved how smitten Raph was, and April knew you felt the same way. She was so happy for the two of you. It warmed her heart to see Raph so happy, he deserved it. So she decided to help out, looking around the crowd wondering where you had wandered off to.
Maybe it was just pure luck, but it only took a few seconds, and April tapped on Raph’s arm. He immediately looked down to see April pointing to her left. His eyes followed, and he sucked in his breath. It was as if the crowd parted and he could see you, walking towards him. Stealing his breath away. You were drop dead gorgeous. Hair swishing back and forth in slow motion as if the world revolved around you. “Breathe Raph,” April teased, elbowing him in the side. His cheeks burned as he took in deep breaths.
。・゜・( pov change: both )・゜・。
Y/n held her phone in her hand, checking it over and over again while waiting for Raph to arrive. She had seen April already and received the most dramatic positive response for her attire EVER. All the whistles and shouts as her friend took photos from every angle had left you fidgeting embarrassedly. She hadn’t seen Raph yet either, so you settled for roaming the floor in hopes that fate would bring you both together!
And, as luck would have it, you both did encounter each other after only a few minutes of search. The sensation of a burning gaze on you had your attention. Turning on your heel quickly, your eyes locked with the warmest emerald pools ever, of which were currently taking in your silhouette in its entirety. In your chest, your heart was performing somersaults and leaving you out of breath. Why, he did dress up nicely. The suit just seemed so right on him!
From your pocket (after all, what witch-villain wears a pocketless dress?), you pull a small square matching your dress and tick-tack-tick’d on up to your love. “Raphie, you made it—eek!”Once Y/n was close enough, Raph wasted no time in scooping her up and giving an affectionate twirl.
“I gotta be dreaming, there’s no way the world’s prettiest Angel is smiling at me right now.” He gave a toothy grin, his signature snaggletooth pressing upon his bottom lip in that captivating way it always did. You melted as his hand brushed strands of hair from your face carefully. He leaned in, planting a satisfying kiss upon your forehead before pulling back to see what the handkerchief you held was for.
“This, this is to show we’re a pair!” Y/n cooed as her hands pushed it into his suit’s chest-pocket, smoothing it out neatly. Her hand patted it, lingering on his broad chest for some seconds until his bashful throat-clearing had stirred her out of the trance.
“Um, right, I hope you don’t mind that I planned out the night for us. Af-After being together so long , I was… I…” His train of thought seemed to leave without him as his gaze fixated on your dress. You could’ve sworn tears welled up in his eyes as his hands reached to rest on your hips, rubbing slow circles against the fabric. One of his hands lifted to take your hand, lacing together your fingers. He had noticed that even dressed as you were—fancy for a ball—there was still that special wooden ring sitting snug upon your dominant hand’s ring finger. It’s red band glimmered in the light just as your dress did, causing his gaze to just soften with all the love in the world. “Sorry, red just looks… breathtaking on you, Y/n.”
As the lights were dimming and music was beginning to play, Raph’s attention was brought to the couples forming on the floor’s center. His hold on your hips tightened snuggly as his eyes returned to yours.
“Raph…?” You breathed out, captivated in his burning gaze.
“Can I have this dance?” His hand rose, its open palm extended as a comfortable place for your smaller hand. Not wanting to miss a single second with him, you were eager to oblige. Your hand slid into his as you both joined the floor with almost literal hearts bobbing within your irises, pure love as the two of you swam through the sea of dancers, rocking with the flow almost as if it were second nature.
Y/n wasn’t some villain from the Hidden City and Raph wasn’t some mutant ninja from the sewers. For now, the two of you were the most ordinary couple swaying across the ballroom door with sweeping steps that almost traced hearts with each pat of a toe-tip. A shared welling-up in each other's chests, identical breath-holding, and just the same amount of tears glowing your eyes. Raph and Y/n were in perfect harmony, almost the stars of the dance so far as others would catch sight of your mesmerizing dance.
It would have continued being the most romantic song ever played by two bodies, had the record not been scratched by a distant explosion. Easily overlooked, if not for the second that followed. Then a third, fourth—hell, even a fifth. All inching closer and closer. In that moment, both your hearts plummeted in your chests, but for different reasons. Raph, fearing what those sounds meant for your safety, and you, fearing for having even dared try to pretend you were anyone other than Cherrypie, the villain to bring this city to its knees. Tonight’s attack had completely slipped your mind.
The last explosion rumbled the entire building and Raph’s hold on your hips moved to encase your whole body. Pulling you right to his chest, ready for if the entire room collapsed, he’d protect you. This was bad, Raph thought, he didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he needed to get you to safety and then he could figure out the rest. He was a hero after all.
“Y/n” the reverie of the dance and music was broken. Screaming started to sound around them as bodies were rushing this way and that, to get out of the building. Running towards the various exit signs in the room. “I need you to run and get to safety, find April and stick together.” His tone was serious and authoritative, his arms holding you at arms length to look into your eyes before squeezing your arms and letting go.
“Raphael! Where do you think you're going?!” Your hand shot out as soon as he turned to leave. In your mind, he was just a human. The safest place for him would be at your side, even if you were the villain of this story. Even though the surrounding explosions were your doing, you didn’t want Raph to get hurt.
“I’ve gotta go help baby! What if someone was caught in those explosions? I’m sure they are scared, no need to worry about me,” He gave you a rugged smile, sounding confident. So when your hand slipped away from his arm, watching as he ran to the front doors, leaving the ballroom, heading for the chaos that was ensuing outside, you knew you had to get back to business. After a few moments of cornering your resolve you booked it to the back doors. Pushing them open and immediately found yourself swarmed by the scent of smoke.
“Ready or not New York, here comes Cherrypie.” You mumbled a spell under your breath, your dazzling dress disappearing. As your dress vanished, it was replaced with a maroon wide brim hat, polished off with a green ribbon with long tails that would whisk through the hair behind you. Your clothes became green bell-bottom pants, flaring out to frame smooth red Mary Jane’s that made a familiarly intimidating click-clack with each step. Red magic crackled at your eyes as they embraced a deeper green hue. A sinister smirk found its rightful place upon your lips as the magic placed a finishing touch of a red blouse with a deep v-neck and flounce sleeves.
The wind danced through you, Cherrypie, swaying your clothes in an all-too perfect way. The crackling red magic enveloped your body, snapping to make your stature disappear and reappear at the scene of the explosion, right upon an elevated surface—just for that extra bit of power imbalanced in your favor. “Now, now, people of New York!” Your voice boomed, amplified by magic as your hat’s brim hid your eyes and only revealed the villainous smile you held.
“You couldn’t have possibly expected I was gone, could you? No, no, never would I have gone without such a flamboyant exit. And say, what would be the best of exits than a series of explosions to leave you all trembling at my feet?”With their spiel, Y/n found themselves working far too hard to feel the strength, the power—the fear-striking twinge. It had been a thought on the back of their head, especially since meeting Raph. A thought of, “ hey, what if we /were/ a normal resident? someone better, not villainous? “
Their smirk faltered at a passing memory, one of their younger self. See, you hadn’t always wanted to be a villain. Once upon a time you dreamt of being the hero of the topside. You dreamt of being someone that the people were so happy to see, someone they cheered for. You dreamt of being the person that struck hope in everyone, not fear.
But, you know what they say about villains. A villain is simply a hero that everyone failed. And the first to fail you was your own mother, ingraining her hatred for the humans and their having sent everyone underground, all into you. You became her conduit for revenge, and had long since accepted that as your fate. You just weren’t meant to be a hero, right? Especially not with the magic you had. You were just a tragic villain, simple as that.
But when you met Raph? Why, he awoke something within. He had made you remember what it felt like to be the reason for someone’s smile, for their happiness. He reminded you how much you longed to be good. For a second, you almost thought… maybe… Could you—
“Swooping in LIKE A BOSS!”
Y/n lifted her head to see a surge of red magic crackling towards them, forming a humanoid—no, turtle-like?— figure. Their fist was focused right towards them. Bracing themselves for the sudden impact, Cherrypie tried to hold her ground against the force but found themselves toppling over, plunging downwards. Thankfully, she was rescued by her magic softening the fall, but still she rolled across the ground.
“What the—?”
You looked up from where you had fallen, dazed and confused by just what hit you—or, WHO, dared to hit you. Standing on thé edge above you was the large frame of what seemed to be a … turtle? Is that a turtle yokai? No, you didn’t recognize their magic signature, it seemed something more… mutated?
“A mutant? But you seem different from the others…” Muttered Y/n under her breath before reflexively rolling out of the way of the second punch coming straight down as the red-banded mutant pursued her once again. It was almost as if this one hadn’t been a human originally—or even mutated recently. Almost like he was… born from it? Born as a mutant?
“Whoa! What’s with you?! We’re on the same team—against the humans!” There was a pang in your chest as that last part slipped your lips, just as a thought crossed your mind, “ but raphael's a human, too. “ For a second, you found your balance to be put off a bit as you narrowly dodged the tonfas lunging towards you.
“Against humans? No, I PROTECT the humans, against villains like you.” Raph jabbed a single tonfa in your direction, pointing accusingly with black eyes glaring daggers at you.
You almost felt like those eyes were familiar, but just on the tip of your tongue. Shaking that away, Y/n flicked her fingers to envelope them in her signature magic. Eating away at her was a quiet little voice in the back of her head, going, “ hey, his magic is kind of like ours. red, fiery—looks and feels destructive.. but, he’s a hero! `` Your eyes looked at your magic simmering, just a second’s look. “ maybe we can still be a hero, don’t you think? “
That voice… Y/n shook their head and let out a frustrated yell before lunging towards the mutant.
For a big fellow he sure was fast. With each swipe you made striking out violently, your magic resembled streaks of red lightning as they crackled around you both. But the mutant dodged each, and thus a dance began. While you tried to maintain the offensive, the turtle would gain enough momentum with each of your misses and parry back with his own weapons.
The fight was destructive too, each missed strike would ricochet off into a nearby building or car—resonating a loud crack of lightning around the two of you. Y/N gritted her teeth, growing tired of the endless dodging,
“You’re good, I’ll give you that, turtle, but you are no match for me.” Your eyes shone brighter as you called forth a powerful surge of your magic. It would take a lot out of you, but you needed to end this fight quickly. The longer it went on, the more favor swept to his side.
“I am sorry it has to end this way,” your tone teasing and condescending. As if your victory was all but assured now. The mutant watched as you powered up, his own stance becoming one of defense, his body turning into red and the red version of himself growing in size. But just at the last second, as if he had suddenly changed his mind, he lunged forward attacking you.
Your eyes widened as his massive figure barreled towards you at a speed that shouldn’t be possible. You yelled, throwing all the power that you had accumulated, though premature. Your magic burst from your hands—sparks, lightning, and flames alike shooting out in madness. You had your target locked in and just as the first met the mutant's skin, he apparated.
“NO!” Y/n screamed as the mutant disappeared from her line of fire. Most of the magic colliding into a university building, demolishing it entirely. You were seething, breathing heavily as the power drain hit you like a truck. It would take time for your magic to recuperate. You had to get out of there, not wanting to retreat but not wanting to get caught in such circumstances!
“You’re not so bad yourself,” A deep voice rumbled from behind you. And you cursed under your breath. Already feeling one of his weapons graze the back of your neck. “Don’t you even think about movin'.” He warned and you rolled your eyes, it would be so easy to get away, if only you had enough magic to do so. Why had you used so much?! Was it the anger? Was it because of your past? Because your head wasn’t in the game?
With your magic starting to dwindle and cave in on itself, your disguise was starting to fall with it. Raph had swept your feet during this, watching you fall and moving to press his leg just enough against you that you were unable to escape. There was a fear bubbling under the surface as you watched your clothes slowly fizzle and fade, gradually revealing the human “you” underneath it.
Raph’s expression contorted into one of an emotion you couldn’t recognize, though a nagging voice clawed its way through your mind, saying it was pity. You had lost, and he must have been all too aware of that! He would finish you off—or worse, throw you to the humans to determine your fate. Here would be where Cherrypie ended, right at the peak of her villainy. It would be here that your mother’s disappointment would fester. Would she even retrieve you or leave you behind, turning to someone else to train into her vessel of revenge?
Those thoughts never met their end, instead vanishing as his leg loosened on you. “Wha-?”
Y/n breathed out in confusion, barely able to raise her voice as Raph’s lips tugged downwards in what might have been a pained frown. He swiped his arm, pointing away. “Get out of here.”
“What?”
“GO!” He roared, enough that it shook you to your core. Away you went, not wasting a chance to return to the Hidden City. Your heels clicked on the ground as tears welled up in your eyes. Were you afraid? Sad? Relieved? Whatever it was, no matter how badly your legs wished you would stop running, no matter how your throat stung, you never stopped running until you got back.
As Y/N ran, her ruby-red dress flowing in the wind, glimmering as the moon’s light illuminated its glittery fabric, Raph watched with heartbroken disbelief. Upon the hand that shakily held out as if to be a puny boundary, protecting the villain from the hero, shaky black eyes rested upon a painstakingly familiar wooden ring around their hand. A suspicion rose in his head, and before it could ever be denied, the villain’s disguise dropped and revealed the worst plot-twist of this hero’s life.
The twisting in his chest, the clawing in his throat, and the stinging in his eyes as tears welled up. He didn’t know how to feel. For the first time in a long time, since Shredder, the Kraang, or Big Mama, Raphael Hamato was left out of breath and without a plan.
An unknown amount of time passed as he stood there, Y/n long since vanishing in the distance. All that was left in the air now was distant cries, shouts, and alarms from cars and buildings alike. That, and a sheet of paper that was stuck under a rock, fluttering violently in the wind. Raph stared at it for a few seconds before wiping his tears and reaching down to pick it up.
Raph & Y/N’s Date!
* Ballroom dancing! (make sure to practice your moves once more. It has to knock her socks off!)
* Walk to Star’s Pointe at the park (there are shooting stars tonight, and we know Y/N would love them.)
* Listen to the Bellman Fairy’s performance (they’re doing an impromptu concert at the same park at midnight! It’s Y/N’s favorite band, I don’t think even she knows it’s happening!)
* Finish the night off with Lou, Mike Tony, Tony's Pizzeria (We always told her we’d take her to my new favorite pizza place. Hopefully she doesn’t question DIGG.)
* Optional: Maybe walk her home and give her a kiss..
The paper ended up crumpled in the red-banded turtle’s hands as he turned on his heel and slid into the shadows, heading home after such a night. Later, he would receive a message from Y/n
NOTIFICATION
You have seven new messages!
♡︎ Y/N L/N 11m ago
Raphie! Are you okay? Did you get home okay? I was so worried about you the entire time.
♡︎ Y/N L/N 10m ago
Raph?
♡︎ Y/N L/N 10m ago
Please tell me you’re okay…
♡︎ Y/N L/N 5m ago
I…
♡︎ Y/N L/N 5m ago
Can I tell you something?
♡︎ Y/N L/N sent now
Never mind that last message.
♡︎ Y/N L/N sent now
Please be safe..
#rise raph x reader#rise raph x y/n#raph x y/n#raph x reader#rottmnt raph x reader#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#tmnt fandom#tmnt#teenage mutant ninja turtles#turtle bros#raph#raphael hamato#rise raphael#tmnt raphael#raphael#fan fic#collaborative#collaboration#writing collab#writing#rise tmnt oneshot#rottmnt oneshot#tmnt oneshot#oneshot#rottmnt x reader
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Penclosa (TEASER)
Summary: It’s been almost a year since Jonathan Harker made that fateful first trip to Transylvania. The monster that imprisoned him, that threatened his love, that died in a box of earth by two blades, has been gone for months. Yet Jonathan’s nightmares have never left. In fact, as the bleak anniversary nears, they have worsened. Van Helsing’s mesmerism has made no progress in freeing him from the nightly horror. But he has come from Amsterdam for a potentially fruitful visit to another professor.
Prof. Wilson is playing host to a mesmerist of singular and uncanny power, Miss Helen Penclosa. On meeting the troubled young man and his wife, she is only too happy to help...
For a version that isn’t in Tumblr format eye strain mode, check out the Google Doc version HERE.
Prologue
Over the course of May through early November in the year of 18—, events of uncanny and unholy nature swallowed the lives of multiple innocents. Some survived. Some died. Some did worse. A monster was slain, victims were lost or rescued or both. The whole of these remarkable happenings and the horror therein were compiled into a single manuscript under the monster’s name. It was bound and stored behind the lock of a safe door. Not to be forgotten, but to have the nightmare imprisoned, if only in spirit. This manuscript and the monster inside it are finished.
The nightmares should have followed suit. For most of their valiant number, they did. Slowly. Stutteringly. Yet they had ended as life’s clockwork ticked on and turned the heartbroken and the harried forward into the future. Grief still exists, of course. Its melancholy tides ebb and flow and drown and trickle. But the fear is gone.
For most.
It has been nearly six months since Jonathan Harker brought the steel of the kukri blade down through Count Dracula’s neck, reducing the vampire to his dead elements.
It has been nearly seven months since he woke to find Mina Harker screaming in terror and violation with the monster’s blood in her mouth, her neck still running red from where the monster had supped on her; all while the demon’s trance had frozen him in sleep.
It has been nearly eight months since he lay bedridden in a hospital he thanked as much as dreaded for fear that the nuns would detain him as a madman as they nursed him through illness and ravings they took for ‘brain fever,’ the climax of which ended with Mina Murray exchanging the marriage vows with him there in his sickbed.
It has been all but a year in full since the night Count Dracula locked him in the plush and bloody nightmare of his castle for two months of idle torment, teasing his cadre of inhuman women with the promise of the young solicitor’s throat, of his undeath, of eternity spent forever in those stone walls, a Thing feasting with them on the squealing fodder of humanity.
Jonathan Harker has killed the inventor of his nightmares. Yet those terrors churn on and on without their maker. Even with the anniversary of last year’s madness about to overtake the calendar, still his sleeping hours are so rarely his. It takes its toll on him. This he can allow.
But his wife has suffered his suffering too long, and this he cannot. Something must be done. Something will be done.
And in doing it, fate proves once more that monsters remain a reality.
Some of whom crave far more and far worse than the theft of blood.
I
The 14th of April. The first day Jonathan took his journal with him to work.
There was something too mortifying in the act of writing about the particular topic that needed purging to scrawl it with Mina in the next room, still scouring exhaustion from her eyes. Not solely for the subject matter, but for how shamefully repetitious it had become. So much like a child bleating for help over the same imaginary devils in the room. It was bad enough to have turned her sleep into an endless lottery game in which she could count on fair sleep only half the time while the other half was devoted to breaking him out of the cell his traitor mind dragged him to with gleeful malice.
The castle, the Count, the Weird Sisters, the damned October night of Mina’s bloodied lips, and his own red hands in allowing the monster to inflict himself at all. All had their encores in his dreaming theater. Some nights were bad. Some nights were worse. His best nights, so abhorrently rare, were ones in which he did not dream at all. And now, now that they were creeping through the thick part of April, inching towards the full fruit and pleasant air of May, he’d realized…
No, why say it? Why bother? He would spit it on the page and be done with it. Ink turned to bile. Jonathan held off until the majority of the paperwork was muscled through and noon threw its golden shine in the window. He took the volume out of his breast pocket with care, feeling a twinge that was as much grim recollection as unexpected nostalgia. How often had this slim little traveler’s journal with its packed pages and creased cover slipped the notice of his jailor by dint of its hiding place?
Now here he was, hiding it from his wife, from his employees, from the whole of his world. Jonathan swallowed new bitterness under a tide of fatigue and brought out a pen. He wrote:
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
14 April— Another night, another visit from the ghost of the Count.
He was as he’d been when he first drove me into his mountains. Only I knew it was him, lucid and afraid and without the kukri at my hip. When I tried to run for the coach that had brought me, it was gone. There was only the night and the cold iron of his grip dragging me into the caleche. The mountains did not take us up, but yawned wide as a stone maw, the horses driving us down, down, down into a shadowed hollow where those Powers exist that allowed a Thing like Dracula to manifest himself in the first place. Hell itself could not match the chthonic press and terror of that descent.
So I was convinced in the dream, made worse for the fact that the descent seemed never to end. There was only more down, more plummet, more drag, as though Dracula were merely a grinning fishhook and I was being reeled ever deeper, down to a place older and further than any of Dante’s circles. Thus I went, thus I cried out, thus Mina discovered me, all cold sweat and shuddering. Again.
Again and again and again. I do not understand it. How have the others moved on so freely when I am left still struggling in a mire of my own invention? Even Mina has moved past the need for any of my own ministrations to bring her out of sour dreams. It’s only me now. Always me. Now, inexplicably, I find the visions have grown not only worse, but more frequent. I expect it is the turn of the seasons that has stirred them to their peak. The calendar declares I am not far off from the day I first left for that trap of a business trip and set the whole horrid mess in motion.
What an evil thing to have even the dull plodding of the months turned into a menace. And for what? The mere memory of late spring tied with the coming of the Count? It is a miserable joke to play on myself. Worse still to have it affect Mina well after she escaped that unthinkable fate and survived the brunt of the demon’s greed. I must fix myself. Or, despite her pleas against it, I must resign myself to the guest bedroom for the sake of her own sleep.
The nightmares will come regardless. Better that at least one of us can take some rest in a night. But this is only temporary. The nightmares themselves must be addressed. Jack has already made the suggestion of a prescription. It would be a decent stall, or at least enough to permit me some blessed hours of blankness. Yet I don’t wish to grow reliant on erasing dreams altogether when I merely wish to join everyone else in the freedom of natural fantasies. I want rest, not a chemical concussion. But what other options are left to me?
Jonathan finally closed the journal when an answer failed to come after a quarter of an hour. The volume went back to his breast and his attention went out the window. Pastoral beauty peeked out in its sequestered places along the street. Birdsong rang out even amid the murmur of human life flowing down avenues and around corners. Living blood in angled veins. He pressed a hand to his eyes and pinched at an oncoming headache.
A year. Practically a year, and still his brain ran these incessant ugly laps. What a thing of glass he was compared to how Mina and their friends stood today. Dr. John Seward and Lord Arthur Godalming had climbed over the mourning of both the girl and the man they had loved. Van Helsing, at once weathered and sturdy as an ancient tree, had returned to his myriad works in Amsterdam and, on his occasional visits, had proven solid as ever.
And Mina.
Mina, Mina.
He thanked whatever gods or angels there were who guarded dreams that she, at least, had slipped the vampire’s gifts of regurgitated fear. Even if Jonathan’s own childish languishing jolted her into action, she did not suffer any similar horrors at this late stage. Spectral visions of beloved Lucy, of old Mr. Swales with his broken neck, of Dracula’s leering death mask face, and of the beckoning coven that were nearly her Sisters under his thrall—all these wraiths had come and gone months ago for her. Now there was only her husband left to coddle.
“It has to stop,” he told the air. “It has to.”
His mind ticked back to Van Helsing. To Mina’s own peculiar drowses as the condition bitten into her continued its steady creep. Down by day, up by night. But there, at the cusp of dusk and dawn, when her mind was entirely hers…
Jonathan frowned and went to his hanging coat. He took a small pocket mirror from its interior. It was one of many trinkets and tokens their band had all come into the habit of carrying. Just in case. Even the kukri remained fixed to his hip, still whetted and blessed, just as Mina kept the revolver and its sacred bullets drowsing in her reticule. For now, he satisfied himself with finding his face in the little glass.
The former deep brown of his hair still grew in its new silver-white. Clean-shaven, the shelves of his cheeks and the shadows under the bloodshot eyes stood out. A strange contrast to what the cheekier of his fellows had once called his elfin looks. Between the fringe of his lashes and the fetching slant of his features, there had been more than one reference made from old classmates about him taking side work in the style of Boulton and Park.
But in the present, almost as he’d been during that hellish month of October, he had become an optical illusion. From one angle was the winsome youth, from another the sleepless apparition both haunted and haunting. This he did not care for one way or the other…but the eyes. The eyes were what mattered, for they might be as susceptible as Mina’s gaze had once been. Enough to open the door of her mind and welcome Van Helsing’s careful mesmeric passes to the senses she could steal from Dracula in his traveling box. Considering how dangerously pliant Jonathan had been under the trio’s influence at the castle and, worse, beneath the psychic thumb of Dracula’s pressing him under an unbreakable slumber while he preyed upon Mina, there was surely a chance the Professor could find a foothold in him too. Assuming such suggestions fell within the man’s ability.
Jonathan had not done any real reading into the subject of hypnosis as either a practical profession or an amusement. That it was effective in some form was undeniable, as Van Helsing had proved. It had been enough to help Mina along to exercising her own sensory abilities, enough to carry something of a dialogue. But that had been only conversation. There had been no attempt to instill a command or perform the equivalent of removing a tumor from her dreamscape.
He pried at an eyelid and scrubbed crust from his lashes.
Do you expect to see a welcome mat and a valet pointing to the room where all the nightmares are put together? Right this way, sir, the Count has been toiling away at the things all day so he can have them ready for you by the evening.
He could almost laugh. Instead, he made a small coughing noise, like that of an animal with a sprain. God, but he was tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of being tired, tired of leaving Mina still playing nursemaid to a husband who was man enough to slay the monster and now boy enough to cling to her for fear of the bogeyman in his head. Tired.
“At least try,” he told the glass. His reflection looked unsure. “Try.”
It was by luck that Van Helsing had been called down from the Netherlands for an invitation that was as much business as holiday in his itinerary, but it was by the sight of Mina’s fatigue-glassed eyes that Jonathan worked up the nerve to part the man from his warm patter with Jack and Art. Mina kept his arm and he hers. He was less than surprised to find the old man’s cobalt stare had a sort of prophetic shine to them.
Just like old times. If one can call a year ‘old.’
“I think perhaps, there is something you wish to talk of in private?”
“There is.” Even as he said it, he would have had to be blind to miss Dr. Seward and Lord Godalming’s gazes trailing after them. There were only five people to the parlor, after all, and three of them now in their own whispering cluster. Discretion was moot. “But I suppose it matters little either way. Secrecy has never been an ally within our circle as much as out of it.”
At that, the old man bristled.
“Secrecy on what point?”
“Nothing terribly dire,” Jonathan began, and was not sure how to finish. Mina found his hand. Her hold was still so warm against the chill of his fingers. They gripped each other as she stepped forward.
“Important regardless,” she insisted. “It’s a matter that might have a solution in your talent with mesmerism, Professor.”
At the mention of mesmerism, there was a curious shift in the air around Van Helsing. Jonathan swore he could almost see it. A tilt from apprehension to bemusement.
“How is that, Madam Mina?”
“We wondered if it was possible for such a process to,” a snugger grip upon his cool hand, one he returned, “aid with sleep.”
“Nightmares,” Jonathan offered under his breath. In his peripheral, he caught Jack putting his tumbler down untouched while Art turned to the former, his face a question. Jack offered a tellingly concerned glance back. “The ones that have stayed with me since,” his throat worked sharply, “last year. They have not left or lessened. It seems the nearer I get to the anniversary of that first stint in Transylvania, the worse they’ve grown. I can nearly set a watch by them.”
“I am sorry to hear such, my friend. Sorrier still to say I have not great practice in matters of tailoring dreams. Still, I will make my best attempt for you, and if it should fall short, there may yet be another option. Yet this I will not lay upon the table before we exhaust what we have before us now. Come, we shall make use of the couch.”
Bidding privacy an unceremonious farewell, Jonathan let himself be led to a chaise. Art made some comment to the next member of staff to try the door, informing her the room was not to be disturbed for the rest of the hour. Jack drew the drapes shut against the sunshine while the lamps were set aglow. Mina took the spot beside him, their hands now a woven knot of fingers.
“The trouble is, of course, that there will be no knowing if we are successful here in the present. To do as you hope me to do, it would not be so simple as bringing forth talk or suggesting an action here in the present. What is desired is hypnosis that sets the mind as one sets a clock. A susceptible mind will tick-tick-tick along, hit a certain hour, a certain stimulus, and then the command, if it is instilled right, shall be committed. This alone is a most difficult task even for those with the highest talents in mesmerism, needing the hypnotist to be canny and the subject to be pliant. There are cases where such effects have only been carried halfway, following some smaller impulse or other rather than bowing totally to the order given in the trance.
“And this is only to speak of acts attempted while the subject is conscious. Even Madam Mina, drowsy as she was in her trances while seeking out the senses of the Vampire, was not asleep or merely in the somnambulist’s state. To set a mind to perform a task—to outthink or to cut short a nightmare—requires not only the hypnotist’s skill and the subject’s susceptibility, but the sleeping mind’s compliance. It is a feat I have not come across yet in news of such budding sciences. But as we make the attempt now, we must have a manner of defining whether success is had or not.”
Here he looked pointedly at both Harkers.
“I take it you still keep to that so wise habit of filling your journals?”
“We do,” Mina answered aloud as Jonathan traced the lines of the book at his chest. “Do you mean for us to record the next instance of a nightmare or of a peaceable sleep?”
“Both,” Van Helsing said, now digging in a pocket for a notebook of his own. “And, should the attempt be successful, the third potential result. That is, the happening of a nightmare which is cut short.” All eyes turned to him as he scratched out the three possible points in his pages: Nightmare, Sleep, Nightmare Blunted. “This would only be for the sake of proof, of course. The most desired result is that Jonathan should drop into sleep, either dreamless or unvisited by grim visions. In such a case, a report of nothing is the best report to have. Failing that, but still of good portent, would be the recording of a nightmare begun, but then felled by the order I am to feed his mind by mesmeric suggestion. It will be a cue that his dreaming thoughts are to act upon, the better to subvert its unhappy impulses in sleep.”
Jack puzzled over this with one of his more hawkish looks.
“Is that not a precarious attempt to make, Professor? It seems a rather broad spectrum to program a mind to. If you say something in the line of, ‘If your dream is a bad one, stop dreaming,’ how is the sleeping mind to differentiate between nightmares versus a dream that is simply odd? The lines between what is fearsome, what is strange, and what is fantasy are blurred enough awake. Could this not tamper with his subconscious mind on a too-wide scale as he dreams?”
“You speak right, friend John. Success in such a way would also carry risk.” Van Helsing turned to face Jonathan alone, the callused pad of his hand finding the young man’s shoulder. “It is the echo of old fears that still find you, is that right?”
“Yes. It is.” The hand not holding Mina drifted to the handle of his kukri. He thought miserably of a babe grasping his blanket. “Even now.”
“Then that is the culprit to set your mind against. The fear of those monsters long vanquished by us. I say again that there is no guarantee that my own prowess is up to the task, just as I say again there is another possibility to attempt should our own fall short. But for now, we make our try. Arthur,” he said, turning to the lord, “we should, perhaps, douse more of the lamps and bring near only one.”
All was prepared.
The mesmeric passes were made.
And made.
And made.
Almost half an hour passed before Jonathan sighed. Notably not from any lethargy brought on by a trance. Everyone with a pen made their notes of the anomaly before them. This being that for those thirty minutes, Jonathan would seem to droop and settle into the trance for a moment. Maybe two. Only to then shudder and jolt back into full awareness. So it went on and on, down and up again, until Jonathan put a hand to his eyes.
“I swear to you I’m not doing it on purpose. I can feel myself succumb in bursts, I recognize the change and lull of the process. Consciously I strive to throw myself into it. But reflex yanks me back.” He dragged his hand from his eyes, feeling as if he had been awake a hundred years. “I think it is because of how I recognize it. Even if so much of me knows the truth and trusts you, there is some rankled animal where the rest of my mind sits. A riled thing that can only recognize your attempted trance as being like his. Like theirs.”
There was no need to name the parties in question. They of the hypnotic mist and lips lacquered red in babes’ blood and slumber inflicted like a cudgel. Yet Mina’s small hand was joined by its sibling in clasping his fingers. Jonathan could not quite bring himself to meet eyes with Art and Jack. Van Helsing wore concern mingled with something like the human translation of whirring clockwork.
“If that is the case, then the alternate route is the only other I can think of within the realms of this practice.”
“What route is that?”
“One that will require permission and confidences of persons I am to visit within the month. It happens, my friends, that I was contacted by a Professor Wilson, a man who teaches psychology as his trade, but who pursues the more fantastical roads of hypnotherapy, clairvoyance, and yet more outré psychic happenings as his passion. I have received summons from him before—last year, when we were all so deep in our dire works—and had to rebuff him outright. Now he sends for me again most ardently, to witness the work of an adept he has found in the field of mesmerism. Should his adulation be based even in a fraction of truth, this party might be able to lend some aid. If only because she seems to have mastered a form of hypnosis wholly of her own making when compared to what professionals and skeptics alike call the ‘standard’ of the process.”
“She? Wait,” Jack turned fully to him, now balanced between wonder and disappointment, “you do not refer to Miss Penclosa?”
“I do. You have reason to doubt the lady’s credentials, my friend?”
“I would not know her one way or the other, but I know Professor Wilson has grown no small reputation amid those who work in such circles as ours, and even those who neighbor it. There is not a single sanitorium, clinic, or traveling physician who has not at some point received some letter from the man, always to the tune of having some fresh discovery to tout that reveals itself as no more than a trifle or the poor man’s falling for a charlatan.” He looked up as Art hummed.
“Is this the same Wilson you say spent a month trying to find documented cases with a semblance to that Poe story? The one with the hypnotized dead man?”
“The same. Though I will grant him credit enough to say even he admitted it was a mere curiosity. Even so, his history of so-called proof does not bode well for Miss Penclosa’s supposed talents. I received the same summons, Professor, likely only for nearness’ sake, and duly binned it.”
Jonathan caught the prophetic gleam in the old man’s eyes again. The specter of a smile carved new wrinkles around them.
“And when did you receive your letter, friend John?”
“Two months ago. Why?”
“Because mine was received only last month. And that with documented sessions of remarkable new feats that were performed on a fellow professor who once counted himself a skeptic. While that subject has since quit himself of the sessions, Miss Penclosa appears to be able to reproduce similar examples upon total strangers in most routine fashion. That Wilson’s latest message is saturated with all the high joy of a child receiving an entire toy shop on Christmas morning suggests that there is at least some observable truth in the results as opposed to past dull findings.”
Van Helsing turned again to the Harkers, his gaze soft as gauze.
“For honesty’s sake, I will say there is, obviously, a chance that even if this Miss Penclosa is so very talented, it is possible she may not penetrate this new reflex of the mind that has grown to lash out at such powers. It is a good reflex to have in ordinary circumstances, I should think! But if you do wish to make a last try with the opportunities of hypnotism before turning still elsewhere, it cannot do harm to try with this seeming prodigy. At worst, she will fail as I have. At best, she might make a dent in the echo of old horrors. If you wish to come with me to Professor’s Wilson’s demonstration to endure a session with her, I shall be making my arrangements to visit in a week’s time. We can travel together.”
Mina looked to Jonathan and Jonathan to her. As had been the case before, and even more the case after the hell of last year’s trials, he felt sure he sensed something of Mina’s presence falling through his eyes and over his soul. It did so like a balm. Even if there were no words shared in such gazes, they never lacked for the delivery of a message. No more than she ever failed to grasp whatever he wished to say in his own glances. It was a joke between them which was really not a joke: that they could carry whole conversations with their eyes alone. A handy pastime for lighter moments and a relief in instances where no word could meet the task, either in speech or shorthand.
And so they looked. They spoke. They turned to Van Helsing.
“Might we have a day or so to think on it, Professor?” Mina asked. “If we joined you there would be matters to attend to for work and home first.”
“So long as you are decided before the week is out, all will be well. This Wilson lives in a small town not far outside Exeter and there shall be time enough to write and ask if I might introduce friends of mine to the talented lady in question.” He held up a hand before there could be a protest. “I shall make no mention of your particular situation, of course. Though I trust this Wilson enough to believe he has some truer proof than any he peddled before—he would not have sent so far for me otherwise, or been twice over so giddy in this letter than his last, which lacked any mention of Miss Penclosa—I must trust good John and Arthur when they say he is prolific in hunting attention. Even in his few messages to me, I can read he is too eager for his name in print.
“All this is to say, Miss Penclosa is the point of any visit from you, not her host’s studies. To her you bring your troubles, if she is seeming of good character, and she I will visit with you for the week I have set aside for the visit. It is to you both that the choice falls to, if you seek to ask her aid. Should she not be as we hope, or should this Wilson be too much the gnat at your side, wishing to make Jonathan a subject more than a patient, then I will make my whole apologies and seek for better avenues with you.”
All this the Harkers took home to mull.
It was mulled over dinner, over books, over bath, over bed.
Even now, with Peter Hawkins’ dear Mrs. Mary Bentley still on staff, the habits of sparse living still locked them into the thin-pocketed efficiency of childhood and adolescence. They turned down their own covers and drew their own baths and had to be shooed out of the kitchen whenever mealtime demanded they make and wash the dishes themselves as they’d always done.
“I cannot tell which of you is worse,” Mary would chide them both. “You, Mrs. Harker, for trying to put a lady out of her situation, trying to balance a whole house on top of your work with that hammering typewriter. Or you, Mr. Harker! You, who’ve been dear Mr. Hawkins’ shadow and mine since you were scarcely out of the playground, studying up on law books and housework as if you meant to be your own husband and wife. I shall go positively spare with you two.”
As it stood, Mary had duly banished the Harkers from tidying anything but the master bedroom, its adjoining toilet, and their shared study, if only for courtesy’s sake. The kitchen remained an uneven battleground in which Jonathan and Mina might get away with preparing a small bite or a picnic, but they would ultimately be sent scattering away like cats otherwise. Tonight they’d made off like thieves with a tea service they had arranged themselves whilst Mary was distracted by a load of linen. Having lost the coin toss, Jonathan was the one to risk leaving the lady her own cup and a plate of biscuits waiting at the door while her back was turned.
“It’s only fair,” Mina insisted over her cup as Mary made her expected noises of disgruntled noises of discovery downstairs, muffled only briefly by the likewise inevitable sip and chew. “You are the one with the cat’s feet, darling.”
“Good enough for castle walls, cliff faces, and properties in Piccadilly.” He smiled as he said it and it almost made the words into a joke. That his hand drifted to his hip as he said them, and that he felt a brief flutter of anxiety until he remembered taking it off to don his nightclothes, dented the mirth.
Mina set her cup aside and went to him by the window. Here she joined him in another nightly ritual; judging the sill. To Mary’s bafflement and surprised delight, the Harkers had insisted on setting up box gardens to try their hand at aiding the kitchen and the flora. The chief crops being carefully tended garlic blossoms and certain wild roses. The latter were due to be handsome bouquets once in season, while half the blossoms of the former were harvested too soon—their petals graced the bedroom windows alongside dashes of the rose. A strange potpourri, and stranger still to use as a ward against potential invaders.
For anyone else, at least.
Jonathan set his cup gingerly down on the sill without disturbing the floral border and used both hands to overlap Mina’s own. She had folded her arms about his middle and the embrace left her chin just at the level of his shoulder if she propped herself on tiptoe. They simply stood there a while, holding and being held. After some minutes of this, Mina finally breathed against his back:
“It’s just a matter of your mind catching up, I think.”
“Mm?”
“Most of you knows the objective facts. Dracula happened. Dracula was put down. You and Quincey made dust of him.”
“Mm.”
“But Dracula did not strike any of us in the way he did with you. Not even Lucy. Not even me.”
His hands tightened over hers just short of clamping. They might have trembled.
“He did worse—,”
“No. He only did to me in person what he intended his Brides to do to you on his behalf. You were meant for the same fate, Jonathan. You were meant to be taken first. Before Lucy, before me, before anyone else who crossed his path by chance rather than machination. If such a fiend as him had one virtue, it was that he could be an admirable planner. And if he had but one truly human flaw, it was that he did a terrible and craven job of improvisation. It took only the smallest pinholes in his plot to dismantle the whole thing. The very smallest was that he preyed on me with his swap of blood, seeking some trite trophy and a spy who wound up spying on him in turn. But the largest, the very worst thing he could have done, was make Jonathan Harker his prisoner.”
Jonathan made a hoarse noise that wanted to be a sigh or a laugh but could manage neither. He turned in her arms so that she had to look him in the eye as she spoke. The bloodshot glass of them seemed to dare her to paint him as a hero rather than the fool whose job was to open the door for the monster in the first place.
Said self-loathing found no ally in her gaze now any more than it had in the year before. This was old ground and Mina knew the terrain better than any of his demons did. Gratitude and guilt swam in his throat.
“I know what haunts you,” she pressed on, “because it is the same thing that haunts me. ‘What else could I have done? Why was I not canny or quick or strong enough to do it?’ The answer to both, the answer that helped dislodge so much of my own poison dreams, was Dracula. A centuries-old monster holding all the cards, all the secrets, all the little tells and aids that might have unmade him sooner. He was superstition itself, hiding behind the guise of declaring his reality impossible. Even when you had the spade in your hand, ready to end him on instinct well before you knew what damage it could truly do, he had a trick to play in his freezing basilisk gaze. God knows poor Renfield suffered under its power. Between this and the swarm of his men coming to take the boxes—and even the elements which conspired to slam shut all sane exits from the fortress—you should have been doomed.
“You should have been left trapped in that stone box with his thirsty housemates, waiting on death at dusk and undeath forever after. That was his plan. That was what should have sealed his victory. Yet you made it out, darling. You and your journal and all the blessed knowledge that helped us draw the noose about him before he could swallow England itself and who knows how much more of the world from there. Don’t you see it?” Her hands had moved up to the cool sides of his face, trapping it in the small heat of her palms. “Any other man sent in your place, he would have been dead or worse and Dracula would have carried on unimpeded. He was always going to inflict himself on the people beyond his mountains. But you ruined it for him. That first vital flaw. And his last, with your steel in his throat.”
Her hands pulled him down until his lips were level with hers.
“You did not cause his evil. You and Quincey put it to an end. He cannot do anything more to you, to me, to anyone else. And I will tell you so a thousand times more until the spiteful traitor of your imagination gives up on spinning nightmares that insist otherwise. Alright?”
In answer, he pressed his mouth into the place it always fit upon hers.
In bed, he fought sleep until he couldn’t.
In the latest hours of night, he woke to his screams being stifled against Mina’s breast, her hands holding and stroking in their accustomed routes on his head and back, hushing and murmuring the memorized coos that always fished him shaking and sweating from the pit of his mind.
In the earliest hours of morning, when she had drifted thinly back into sleep, he took himself to the study to fall into his own narrow wisp of slumber. Frail but bottomless hours too deep to produce a dream. These were all he could rely on for rest.
In daylight, he and she called upon Van Helsing who sent his letter to Prof. Wilson the same day.
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
18 April— All’s been arranged.
Hawkins and Harker will do without me from the 27th of April to the 10th of May. Even if Miss Penclosa cannot make the progress we hope for, Mina and I shall at least have leave to take in some quieter respite. Tuppeton sounds like one of those blessed towns on the edge between the congested bustle of true a city and the idyllic softness of a village. It is stately enough to produce a potent university, and that usually comes with an array of good distractions for students and faculty alike. I hope there are at least fine views to collect. Mina talks of seeking out a photographer’s shop and taking home a camera of our own for a souvenir. It's a nice thought and a genuine one, though my mind is addled enough that I think I can scent an underlying motive.
She wishes to steer me back into the cheer that was my wont before the whole mess. I’m certain she misses the Jonathan Harker who could fall in love with a vista for hours as surely as he’d be enthralled by the stories on a stage. He still exists, I think, but he is so much diminished under the weight of this shock-haired usurper that he’s smothered whenever Mina or a friend is not there to look for him. I want so badly for him to take back the throne from me even when I am alone.
God, let him have his life again. His days and his nights of peace. Let me fall asleep and never wake again, so that he can give joy and be joyous without so much creaking effort. I am still the frightened and frightening Thing that crawled out of the castle and hunted a man-shaped monster like a rabid hound. But even with my task fulfilled, Jonathan Harker has not come home, has not awoken, and so I am left to pantomime him in such a shabby manner.
Ten days, ten days. That is all that’s left until we see if Mina has longer to wait for the husband she deserves. It feels so long.
Now she calls and it is time to leave you. Art is taking us all upon a theatre spree for all the good shows we can find before the week is out. There will even be an illusionist or two in the mix.
Perhaps if they impress enough, I will dream them into the next nightmare and all the fiends within can disappear into their hat.
19 April— Nightmares again. As I only pretended to predict, they were given a new tint by the aftermath of last night’s visit to the stage. It featured one of the illusionists; pardon, a magician. He had some fairly stunning acts to do with vanishing assistants and volunteers, making impossible items appear in impossible places and the like. For the larger part of the show, we found ourselves most grateful to have a box, courtesy of Art. Mina and I have suffered a performance too many that was cramped by hecklers and snorers in adjoining seats.
And yet I might have been grateful for a snide skeptic nattering about how it was all a hoax when it came time for the hypnotism act. I should not have been as surprised, and certainly not as anxious, when I saw the performance. The poster outside was one of those garish sorts with pinwheel eyes and floundering hands that parody the far more mundane mesmeric passes employed in less theatric backdrops. Still, even knowing what I myself am planning to request in a week’s time, even believing that it was likely to all be staged, I felt a sickly tightness in my chest and ice turned over in my stomach.
Though I flatter myself that I gave nothing away to the others, Mina kept trying to catch my eye throughout, as though she could hear my thoughts pacing their frantic circles. I only met her gaze when the act took its turn from the humorous to the frightful.
The first subject, a stout man near the front, was the comic setup. Chosen because, as the magician insisted, he had read the man enough to know he was a skeptic. Perhaps even impenetrable to hypnotic suggestion! Would he like the chance to throw a sour note in the performance by being proof positive of the man being a shameless fraud? Yes? Then do come up, sir, and if he fails, the man shall have his refund for the trouble.
The stout man was put under a trance. We saw his face go from set in its aggression and smugness to a laxness deeper than mere boredom. The magician set him up with the command:
“What will you do if I ask something of you now?”
“Anything,” said the stout man.
“Do you know any songs? We are lacking for music here.”
The stout man’s first response was a nursery rhyme. He was ordered to sing it with gusto, and he did. Laughter from the audience. The magician silenced him.
“But that is too simple. Any man can sing, however poorly. Is there something you would not admit to the world for love or money, my friend?”
“There is.”
“Whisper it to me.”
The stout man whispered. The magician nodded, smiling.
“Very well. In a moment, I shall wake you from the trance. You will come to your senses assuming all you did was nod off out of boredom at my antics and rightly demand your refund once the show is up. You will return to your seat to wait out the show, baffled, again rightly, that all these fools in the audience would swallow this drivel when you just proved me a fraud. But then!” A look from him to the audience, conspirators all of us. “When you hear me say the word, ‘arachnid,’ you shall jolt up from your seat and shout out the secret at full volume. Hopefully with a better pitch than you butchered the poor Muffin Man with. Now, all of you,” addressing the audience again, “you are my assistants in this! Not a word or wink to give it away! I am trusting you!”
And so the stout man was roused from the trance and no one gave it away.
Then came the next half. One in which he paraded out his assistant, a girl who might have been young enough to be his daughter, shimmering and flouncing in her costume.
“Now,” said the magician, “my dear Angela here has been my accomplice in nigh every act you have seen on this stage. After this one, I fear there is a very fair chance she will quit me on the spot and leave me to slave over the finale solo.” Here he threw a simpering look down at Angela, “Oh, do say you won’t leave me, dear. You know that gawking lot out there in the rows frighten me terribly when I’m up here alone.”
“I shall have to think about it,” said Angela. “It all depends on what trick you mean to pull.”
“A dastardly one, I’m afraid. Quite insidious. But for a good cause!” After another minute or so of such patter, Angela inevitably consented to the hypnosis. Once under the trance, the magician turned again to conspire with we onlookers. “Now comes a secret about the fair maiden for you, ladies and gentlemen, one that I am certain a good deal of you poor girls can claim ownership of yourselves. Not a small amount of the fellows either. Miss Angela has quite a monstrous fear…” Here the magician lifted his hat off his head. There were a number of squeals, shrieks, and choked curses in the audience as something huge and spindly clambered down over his forehead. “…of spiders.”
The magician scooped the crawling thing off his face, frowned, then shook his hat over his open hand until another spider fell out. A third. A fourth. His whole sleeve was moving with the creatures.
“Ah, I see a few of you turning colors out there. There’s one poor gent getting fanned by his wife in the back row, I believe. But fear not! These little friends of mine are quite tame. There are precious few spiders whose bite can do the human body real damage. And yet, like so many of you, poor Angela cannot bear the sight of them!”
This he said as he dropped the first of the spiders upon her half-bare shoulder.
“If she sees so much as a bundle of thread on the ground, she takes off running, lest it get up and crawl after her.”
Every spider was delivered from him to her. All the while Angela stood in place, staring vacantly as they crept along her arms, her neck, her face, her hair.
“Which is a shame. Spiders are vital to keeping the world around us free of worse pests. Frogs can hardly handle them all. We owe our very air to the creatures for trimming the numbers of flies and gnats and bloodsuckers. I do wish Angela would see the value in them and, more importantly, see firsthand how harmless they are to her person. Let us see if she will. In three, two, one…awake!”
Angela woke. Angela saw. Angela screamed.
This she did with such convincing terror that her pitch struck a vein of memory in me just as sharply as it did in Mina. It was of a very particular key, that shrieking. The sound of horrid realization piercing the ear and the heart with its unwanted knowledge. Here I finally met Mina’s gaze as our hands locked hard within the other. Again, conversation was had without a word.
Did she want to go? Did I want to go? Was she alright? Was I?
Yes and yes, no and no.
But we were both of us nailed down for our friends’ sake. Art would have paled to know our reaction to the show while Jack and Van Helsing would have many a padded word to spare as we were herded out like skittish toddlers. No, we sat and we smiled and both quite missed whatever it was the stout man wound up bellowing once the magician said his magic word buried in a sentence along the lines of, “You see how she squawks and flails? All this over an innocent introduction to the arachnid family.”
Whatever the stout man stood up and shouted was half-lost in Angela’s diminishing screams as she ran off stage and the hysteric laughter of the audience, goosed as they were into the respite of humor to wash away the eight-legged shock. Angela did come out to bow with him. There was no telling whether she was merely a fine actress or simply boxed in by circumstance, but she smiled and bowed easily enough. I hope it was an act.
But whether it was true or not, the whole scene followed me to bed.
I will not pour every detail here. Some cannot be remembered. Many I simply would rather not. But the whole of it occurred back in Castle Dracula. The castle was on a stage and the Count had me march out to sit across from him at his carved table. Magician and assistant.
“When I say write, you will write your letters with my lies. Write.” I did.
“When I say work, you will clear my way to England. Work.” I did.
“When I say bleed, you will provide my draught. Bleed.” I did.
And, even with his teeth sunk in my throat, I heard him speak again:
“When I say sleep, you will let me and mine play as we like. Sleep.”
The dream ended with my sleeping myself awake, the sound of a laughing audience in my ears. They sounded like the tinkling of glass. Hands far colder than my own swarmed and crawled on me like spiders. Somewhere, Mina screamed.
And then I was in bed.
Rather, on the armchair I had tried for my bed in the study. By pure luck it was not a wretched enough dream to end with my crying aloud. Otherwise, Mina or Mary would have been through the door and at my side, playing witness to my latest miserable display. Though misery is still very much present without witnesses. I hate to slink away from Mina’s side, but I cannot win even a scrap of rest without fatiguing myself half-dead, and even then I damage her sleep each night with my own failure. But I repeat myself.
I write this here only to rid myself of a feeling of another sort of repetition. A repeat sensation or seeming portent; the same which haunted me in the prelude to my arriving in Transylvania. My dreams were bruised with fear well before Dracula had me in hand. Flickers of demons and spirits that whirled and dragged me on. Similar phantasms shadowed me as I made my escape from the castle. None were vampires, strange enough, but those elder others who Dracula must have taken scraps from in the unhallowed hollow of the Scholomance.
There was something of that alien quality to this latest dream too. Something about the change in Dracula’s eyes, about the odd alteration of castle to stage to…I don’t know. If not a stage, then some manner of diorama? A dollhouse? Something one step removed from living theatre. Even as those cold familiar hands scrabbled on me at the end, I knew they were nothing compared to the phantom grip that held me by the bones and brain. The one that nodded and walked me along, jumping the vampire’s hoops. If he was that vampire. If any of them were. Their eyes were not red, I know. Such an odd thing to strike me in the midst of all that surrounded it. Why should it matter what tint their eyes were? Ruby or emerald, wine or absinthe. Yet this gnaws at me too and I can’t tell why.
The whole mess comes from the stain of the show and the kneejerk worry of the visit to come. All I have on my mind is ‘What if it does not work? What if it goes awry? What if, what if?’ My thoughts gnaw themselves to shreds. Enough.
It will work or it won’t.
That is all there is.
Good-night.
The Tuppeton Journal, 29 April
BANK ROBBER TO BE CAUGHT GREEN-HANDED?
As spring rolls on and students hunker into their studies, all should be at its most sedate in our snug corner of Devon. But as of the night prior, it seems Tuppeton has reason to rise off its laurels and be on alert. This morning, the 29th of April, it was discovered that our own Bank of England had an unexpected visitor or visitors in the night. The bank’s groundskeeper, a Mr. Franklin Worth, spotted the signs first, though he tells our reporter that he first mistook it for mere animal vandalism.
“Tell the truth,” declared Worth, “I had a minute where I was madder than anything, seeing the windows like that. The sills had all just gotten a fresh coat of evergreen paint only the other day. Still damp and setting, not to be touched. My first thought was that I was looking at the work of some blasted cat or nightbird perching on the sill and ruining the job. Only when I got up close, I recognized the chips and grooves of someone working at the wood with a chisel.”
It was then that Worth contacted the bank manager who called upon the authorities. An inspection has since been made of the scene and an investigation is underway to trace the route of the suspected person or persons involved with the attempted break-in. Citizens are advised to be on watch for any suspicious activity in their area, to keep all lower windows and doors locked, and to please pass on to the police whatever applicable information they may have in the way of narrowing the search.
II
Prof. Wilson’s home was a charming brownstone box set back in a frame of trees all frothing with blossoms. These boughs were only slightly more crowded than the interior of the building. From the parlor on, there were many a scholarly shoulder and erudite elbow to dodge as, much to the host’s delight, his discovery’s legitimate successes had apparently drawn enough of a crowd to merit his second party within a month’s time.
“Though I do regret to say my initial partner in the examination of Miss Penclosa’s skill has, ah, found himself busy with other affairs,” Wilson could be heard lamenting at odd corners around the throng. “Even so, quite excellent progress has been made in our sessions. Ah, if only we had started sooner! My wife has been hiding a positive wonder under my nose all these years.”
From her own corners, Mrs. Wilson could be heard sighing in turn, “You know, when I hear other wives lament about how their husbands are only interested in other women, it’s usually something predictable. ‘Oh, he’s got a mistress! Oh, he’s sniffing after some well-to-do daughter! Oh, he’s eyeing my best friend!’ While I can at least somewhat identify with the latter, how am I to take this particular turn? ‘Well, he has not started an affair with her, but if he could run away and elope with the very concept of her mesmeric ability, he would be on the first train out of Devon.’ What am I to do with that?”
There was lilting laughter in answer to this and a general jostling murmur packing the space overall. Whoever Miss Penclosa was, wherever she was in the chattering sea, there was no guessing for Van Helsing or the Harkers. Her apparent throne-to-be, an overstuffed armchair standing apart from the couches, was currently vacant and aimed at by a harried photographer’s daguerreotype camera. The fellow was trying his best to focus the lens under the focusing cloth while also trying to protect his box of plates from tromping guests. It was such a packed scene that one stocky visitor gnawing a cigar nearly bowled the tripod over with a wave of his hand; a lecturer’s gesture that had the photographer turn white and green by turns as he rescued his device.
In the face of all this, Van Helsing turned an apologetic look to the couple.
“I had not realized Wilson meant to pack a country of academics under his roof. A few guests, he said in his letter, not a circus. If you should like to make good your escape, I can perhaps have him open the door to you another day, and say to him you are not yet—,”
“Professor Van Helsing!” Prof. Wilson seemed to manifest all at once from the herd, both hands trapping Van Helsing’s in his own to shake. “I recognize you from…well, there are very few published works of note I do not recognize you from. Oh, it is an absolute honor to have you here, my friend. And are these the guests you spoke of?”
He had asked the question before he looked fully at the Harkers, both of whom had taken a slight retreating step away. Mina, Jonathan saw, was perused only with an instant’s interest before being dismissed. But the man’s gaze froze and somehow stuttered upon looking at him. It was a reaction Jonathan had grown accustomed to upon that final return to England. Perhaps one time out of three, he would find himself being gawped at rather than simply seen or, in certain blushing cases, ogled. This one-in-three phenomenon was almost always a result of his own mistake in failing to school his demeanor.
A failing that always came when he seemed to recognize something of a deriding edge in any glance in his wife’s direction, as was the habit he saw mirrored anyplace where the fairer sex dared to loiter where men with titles of education milled.
A failing that likewise always guided his hand to rest on the kukri’s handle.
Yet Mina gripped his other hand and anchored him back. Jonathan duly reset his face into a more cordial mask and turned his pinching of the blade’s handle into a lax gesture. It did a little to return some pallor to the gawking professor’s face.
“They are my friends, yes,” Van Helsing interposed, stepping forward and seeming to half-herd Wilson back into the clutter of people. “They have some passing interest in these so-intriguing fields of the natural and the more-than-natural sciences. Their holiday overlapped handily with my visit and so here we are. But I am a greater glutton for introduction. Please, do show me to what others there are in our learned fields. I am thinking I recognize Professor Gregg, the great ethnologist, orating in the next room…”
Within a heartbeat, the Harkers were left to their devices as their friend tossed a look of mingled apology and desperation back over his shoulder.
En sotto voce, Mina murmured, “‘Run while you can, go on without me!’”
“He is truly a man of sacrifice. Let us make our escape toward the table.”
For the host had indeed opted for a table rather than subjecting servants to the obstacles of winnowing through the rooms with over-heaped platters. Jonathan’s reach was longer and so he filched a suitable sustenance of canapés and two full flutes for them both while Mina led the way to an unburdened divan. They tucked themselves in at the far end to nibble and sip and try not to catch the other checking the time. Both failed and this jabbed a little laugh from them.
“It is bit much, isn’t it?” Mina smiled over an expensive and dainty offering that lasted only a bite and a half.
“I foresee us having quite a wait before the party thins. If even a quarter of these people are here for Miss Penclosa to put on a show, we may as well be back in the theater for them all to gape in comfort. I can’t even guess which of these ladies might be her. You would think she would have the run of the room rather than Wilson.” Jonathan frowned at his flute. “He speaks so much of his discovery when the discovery is someone else’s talent. You’d think he personally excavated her out of some mystic vault on expedition.”
“For courtesy’s sake, we’ll say he’s just excited at having living evidence for his pursuits.” Mina regarded him from under her lashes, her hand finding his once again. “We are neither of us strangers to the joy of having ourselves proven right on outlandish realities, after all.”
“True. I don’t mean to throw stones. Only we also have our fair history with dodging the risks of spectacle. Whether done in earnest or not, I’d rather not approach this Penclosa with the toll of being made into an exhibition.”
“Of course not. We can wait until all’s clear. Though, truth be told, I’d rather we had a less congested space to do the waiting.” Jonathan leaned in as she dropped her voice to a whisper of illicit intent. “I smuggled in two books.”
Jonathan feigned a gasp.
“Anthology for me, one of the new world guide books for you. Found it at the station when your back was turned.”
“Mrs. Harker, the hedonism of it all. I am aghast.”
“We could be especially daring and read it in full view of the assembly, Mr. Harker. But I would just as soon be a coward and take our rudeness outdoors. It really is too fine a day to burn cramped inside.”
This change in mind, the Harkers signed to Van Helsing from across the room and made their exit to the rear yard. It was a handsome view and mercifully lacking for fellow escapees, not counting the woman reclining in a floral alcove set in the garden. Jonathan might have mistaken her for a true sculpture for how well and still she was placed against the arch of trained vines. A lady tipping near the midpoint of life, she sat with the subtle but knowing posture of wise women of myth. An oracle or a sage who had swapped her robes for a swaddling high-buttoned ensemble of faded green. There was a washed-out fragility in her look that likewise brought old dressmaker models and abandoned toys to mind, as though she were a cracked figure left too long in the whitening sun.
It was all a canvas to serve the shock of her eyes.
Though they remained half-closed, the great size, the sharp slant, and the surprise of their misty jade stood out with all the power of a single stained glass window set in an empty house.
That she did not look up, and that her chestnut brows were knitted in some far-off concentration, suggested she had either not noticed their intrusion on her solitude or else she had no attention to spare for the couple if she did. The Harkers took a stone bench for themselves on the other end of the yard and fell to their pages. Engrossed as both were, it was still a short matter of time before their tongues fell loose as was their constant custom at home or abroad.
Mina spoke of the ghosts and mysteries scrawled into being, Jonathan gushed over foreign panoramas made vivid with their painted reproductions. They spoke of where they wished to go in Tuppeton once the attempt with Penclosa was made, what sights there were to see, what activities to try. Again, the novelty of their own camera was brought up. The topic turned on its ear to what a boon a photographer would be to Hawkins and Harker, having pictures present with whatever file might be laid before a client on this or that estate. This slipped into talk of the latest models that Remington had put out, trying to lure her in through the shop windows in Exeter.
Talk of which turned another corner into news she had been sitting on a while, waiting until a more buoyant moment to talk about it.
What news was that? He was as buoyant as he was likely to be for the day.
She had had her work accepted! Twice! True, it was only a little cozy interview with a train engineer for a local paper here, and a smaller ghost story for one of the penny dreadfuls there, but still!
He mirrored her thrill and the thrill was reverberated back by her, and so the better part of an hour was spent in alternately hearing the details pour from her in a jubilant flood or, for his part, dropping a goading comment or query to make the deluge to continue. The sight and sound of her delight was worth a ticket price in his opinion and he felt no need to hinder himself from taking advantage of her glee to help himself to her arm to make them lean against each other and the sturdy fence at their back. Had there been space enough on the bench, he might even have tried his luck at wheedling her to mimic a pose from home with his head in her lap and her voice overhead. Lacking the opportunity, he settled for bending himself enough to rest his chin against her thick crown of hair.
In this way he did not quite slip into the trap of sleep, but permitted his eyes and mind to rest against her and the balmy day.
“See that, Daniels? Picture proof of my point. This modern age has got girls so backwards they can’t bring themselves to realize when their prattle isn’t wanted. Have to jaw a man’s ear off and the rest of him into the grave before they can catch on. You can hardly think for all the squawking that goes on in streets and parlors these days. This New Woman twaddle has gone and broken the sensible lock that keeps a woman’s gossip shut in with her tea parties and sewing circles. Soon they’ll come marching into campuses, Diogenes in a girdle, trying to talk over the greybeards mid-lesson. Wretched state we’re coming to, I tell you.”
Jonathan Harker’s eyes opened like slow shutters.
Though he felt both of Mina’s hands fly to his, neither their grip nor their warmth were enough to keep him from standing.
“Jonathan. It’s alright.”
“It isn’t.”
His words went to her, but his line of sight remained unblinking and unmoved from the two men who had come out with their cigars. The one who had spoken gave him an appraising look from under a bushy duo of iron brows while Daniels pretended to adjust his spectacles. Jonathan recognized him as the one who had nearly swatted the camera over indoors. He had moved to a new cigar since then. He raised a slate brow at him.
“Is there some issue, young man?”
“There is, I’m afraid. The severity depends on whether your affront was meant toward women as a whole, or if you intended to be overheard by, and explicitly insult, my wife.”
“Hardly an insult, young man.” His cigar pointed idly at the flax of Jonathan’s hair. “Assuming you are a young man. You’ve got a face like the greenest upstart in a class, but a mop whiter than my own teachers. I must assume youth for your ignorance or addled hearing on your part. No, there was no insult. Merely a statement of fact for our times. A woman’s voice is meant for women’s ears or a music hall if she’s got a good tune in her throat. That’s how it was in a better time. I know, for I was there to enjoy it. I cannot speak for you or whatever nonsense your girl’s been putting you to sleep with, but that is the simple truth.”
Jonathan shared a look with Mina—
We may have to leave early after all. I apologize in advance if this trip was for nothing.
—and gave her hands a squeeze.
Then he was closing the distance between himself and his fellow conversationalist. He did not sprint or stalk. It was an almost leisurely pace. Yet it was leaden in a way that, this time, was not a matter of accident. In the corner of his eye, he saw Daniels abruptly retreat back indoors. The speaker stood his ground. If half a pace nearer to the door. Perhaps two. This close, he could now see the long accessory at Jonathan’s hip.
“Do forgive me, sir,” Jonathan hummed. “It is most rude to carry on our chat at such a distance.”
“Ah, you are a young buck after all. You truly think a discussion can be won with a puffed chest and a weapon you cannot even brandish without consequence.”
“What weapon, sir? This is but my letter opener and we are only having a conversation. A debate, even. I have evidence for my own side, you know. I have lived it. The greatest bliss of my life came from the Mother Superior who saw over my wedding and from every day and night that I’ve been lucky enough to hear my wife’s voice. I see you wear a wedding band, sir, and must wonder whether you have a wife or a mute housekeeper you’ve chained to your side with an empty act of matrimony. I must also wonder if she is privy to your insights regarding her and her like. Or worse, does she talk, sir? Does she read words and say them in proximity to your poor tender ears? My deepest condolences if so.”
Jonathan would have closed the distance already had the other man not retreated up to the door and made a pretense of merely leaning near its knob.
“She has her business as I have mine. It’s the drift of husbands and wives as they get on. You cannot know it yet, for you’ve not a speck of tarnish on your own rings, but the hour of Romeo and Juliet rots fast to Macbeth and his Lady before you know it. The moment you face a real trial and see each other in all your ugly colors—oh, yes, there’s ugliness aplenty under even the bonniest faces, do count on it—the truth starts rusting all the shine off. You…”
But the last of the man’s words dried at the sight of Jonathan’s smile. Though Jonathan could not see it, he felt the familiar shape of it. He knew it as keenly as the fear in Daniels’ face as he scuttled back inside. That fear had been with him up in the snow of Transylvania as he closed in upon the wagon and its cargo in the earth-box. The smile had been with him far earlier, when they had first gotten word that the Count’s ship changed course to flee. He’d read Dr. Seward’s own words on that instant and puzzled at them once before.
The dark bitter smile of one who is without hope.
He hadn’t known he was smiling then. No more than he had properly registered the retreating terror of the men Dracula had ordered to convey him back to the castle. All he had known in the moment was that there was an evil in existence and that he wanted it gone. So it was now, albeit with more cognizance in play. He knew the awful smile was on him again just as the grotesque radiation that had chased a flock of men away was hanging about him.
“You would not know a trial if it slapped you in the face with a court summons,” he heard himself say. “I suspect you know even less of the point to a marriage. Whatever self-gratifying lies you choke on, a marriage is meant for partnership. For love. Not a business deal or a trap to have some warm body filling out the bed and keeping the house tidy while you turn around and complain about the very person you chose to bind yourself to. Even so, I know the perfect woman does exist for you and your wise taste. To meet her, go to any dress shop on the street, pick out a mannequin, and you shall have the ideal mistress ever after.”
“Jonathan.”
Mina’s hand was on his arm. Jonathan turned to her. In the same instant, the man with the cigar tapped the neglected ash off its end and sidled hastily inside where he nearly collided with Daniels and two other onlookers crowded at the door’s ornate window. Through the gap there was some muttering in a worried tone and more muttering in a lilt that was curiosity pretending to be worry, then the door was shut. Jonathan swallowed a sigh and felt a belated rush of heat come to his face.
“Well. I do believe I’ve soured things quite thoroughly.”
“You don’t know that.” Her free palm floated up to his cheek. “Though you did worry me. You weren’t really about to come to blows over so petty a thing, I know. But why..?” She indicated the whole of the last few minutes with her eyes alone. In answer, Jonathan let something of fire and ice turn over in his own look. He boxed both her hands in his own, siphoning out their warmth as she gripped their cold.
“We did not risk Hell itself and battle its horrors just for mundane villains to get their unctuous way because it would be impolite to counter their rudeness with barbs rather than a turned cheek. I do not doubt that I survived as much as I did by dancing on eggshells at the start, nor do I regret the opportunity it gave me. But that was merely my risk then. More, by doing the ‘proper thing’ and leaving you wholly sealed off from our affairs and vice versa, you were left alone in the dark when—those nights when…”
“I know. We have gone over that.”
“Yes. But what all has been learned from it? Circumstances made it prudent for us to condense ourselves to be the least obtrusive, most benign caricatures of ourselves all our lives. Childhoods of charity and scraps and always bowing to what we were told was proper. Rules we did not dare break for fear of being burdensome. Rules that nearly destroyed us when powers that reigned outside those civilized borders used them as a noose. We would not have succeeded in the end if we had sat and waited and nodded our heads to what was proper start to finish. So it is even within these softer aggravations. Even if it wasn’t? I am not about to let any wretch, however great or small, take their venomous shots at you while I sit by.”
At this, Mina could not withhold her own small sigh. No more than she could resist resting her brow against his front.
“Ever my knight.”
He spoke down into her hair.
“You were mine first. And I admit you remain the cannier of us two cavaliers. I don’t foresee a warm welcome once the man goes flying to Wilson’s ear.”
“We aren’t here for Wilson. We might still approach Penclosa, whoever she is. And Van Helsing will surely take your side if it comes to pointing fingers. In any case, Miss Penclosa is the star of the show. It would be quite something if he suffered a supposed friend like that to insult her sex while coming to see her work.”
Jonathan almost replied, but a voice cut across the garden in a mellow tone.
“Supposing he was not already a skeptic of her, dear. The only members of an audience who are more adamant onlookers than admirers are hecklers.”
Both Harkers jumped as if pricked and whirled to spot the woman still sitting in her flowering alcove. Whatever musing concentration she had been steeped in was thoroughly broken, with all the light and life of her now consolidated in the great gems of her eyes. Jonathan found he could not avoid comparing them to that of some hungry housecat spotting a plump mouse. Nor could he avoid how wholly that gaze seemed to be latched onto him. He worried for a moment that he might have tripped himself and Mina into the verbal pit of a sermon. Sedate though much of her mien was, there was enough of time and gravity about her that suggested the potential of a tongue lashing similar to Mina’s more caustic fellow-teachers of etiquette.
Yet the woman allowed herself her own contrite smile and fluttered her hand as if to swat away Jonathan’s suspicions.
“Forgive my playing eavesdropper, both of you. Only, your show has been the most engaging part of my day since this latest pageantry began. I am only here for duty’s sake and could not suffer the crush in there any longer than you. Yet it seems the rabble have tried to leak out after us.” Her smile increased the smallest increment. “It is a most heartening thing to see it properly chased back from whence it came…did I mishear ‘Jonathan?’”
“You heard right, madam.”
“Alas, no madams on this side of the yard,” she lifted her left hand, barren of a band. “You may call me Helen, Jonathan. And you, dear?”
“Mina.”
“Engaged or wedded already?”
“Wedded,” she allowed her own plain band to flaunt its small shine against a sunbeam. “Fortunately.”
Helen smiled at this too and nodded, “Most fortunately. Whether that carbuncle of a lecturer wants to admit it or not, yours is the treasured status over any tawdry sham he’s trapped his poor wife into. I would wager even his mistresses must suffer, should he have them. Although, and I do apologize for prying, may I inquire if there was some manner of unhappy shadow in your lives of late that might want for hypnotic aid? If such is your case, I am certain you shall have your way regardless of any stamping of feet from your new friend.”
The Harkers regarded each other cautiously for a moment. Mina flung her message up into him as he passed his gingerly back. This had become something of a routine for them. While Jonathan had taken the lion’s share of shock on his head, even Mina had some threads of early silver cutting through the dark cloud of her hair, and there were times when one or both of them let slip a trace of the haunted months in their eyes.
Something had happened to the Harkers.
Something had left its mark on them.
In answer to inquiries, the Harkers always scraped only the top crust of truth off the larger story and repackaged it as the tale in full.
Thus they came to sit on Helen’s stone bench, for it was wide and she had beckoned them, and husband and wife held to each other as they recited the meticulously vague trials of the year before.
First, Jonathan had been struck with a terrible accident while on a business trip in Europe. The sort of accident that comes shaped like powerful persons with dark designs. He had scarcely escaped it, and had to do so while stripped of his property and papers.
Second, when he finally made it to civilization, half-dead and boiling with fever in a hospital, Mina had fetched him home and nursed him back from the brink. This should have been the whole of it.
But then, third, Fate had gone and afflicted Mina herself with a far more dire illness that had put her at the very knife’s edge of life and death. Jonathan had championed her then, and had his turn to pull her back to health. This, coupled with a long chain of morbid tragedies that saw too many friends going into their graves around the same time, had stained them over the course of only a few months.
“It was more than enough to weigh upon our minds for some time after,” Mina allowed. “Neither of us slept well even after the worst hours had passed. Yet Providence has taken a kinder turn with me, it seems. I have gotten past my nightmares and can allow myself simple dreams or wholly blank nights. But Jonathan…” Her lips pursed around the truth.
“I do not fall asleep anymore,” Jonathan said to the ground between his shoes more than either of his listeners. “I fall into nightmares, wake in terror, and then, when exhaustion grows too heavy to fight, my mind allows me to black out. It is a poor enough state on its own, but worse for forcing my bedmate to return to the drudgery of playing caretaker over some imagined—,”
“Stop,” Mina cut in. “You know that isn’t fair.”
“Nor is it a lie.”
“And your aim,” Helen hummed, “is to undo these nightmares? Have them banished by mesmerism?” Her eyes seemed nigh illuminated at the prospect. “It would be a trying attempt, even for a practiced hypnotist. One who practices in the ordinary manner, at any rate.”
“Does Miss Penclosa not operate in the ordinary manner?” Mina asked.
“No.” Helen’s smile at last showed teeth and a stray sunbeam fell in such a way on her eyes that they seemed to burn away half her face with their vibrance. “Not at all. I have seen many hypnotists make their attempts.” She fussed with the high collar of her dress, kneading at it as though it chafed. “Some are quite impressive. But none so far have shown the method or the ability that Professor Wilson has been so dedicated to making a display of. If it were otherwise, he would only have yet another lookalike act to be shrugged aside by his peers. I know firsthand that the ‘Performances of Penclosa,’ as I have seen him titling his observations, are undertaken with a method quite alien to anything else he or his peers have witnessed before. The how of it seems lost even upon the performer. All that’s known is that it is strange, but undeniably effective.”
“You sound as if you’ve witnessed her before.”
“I have. I can attest to her ability and character enough to say that, regardless of any opinion of Wilson’s or his poor choice of compatriots, she will undoubtedly be of a mind to assist how she can. Now, might I ask another question of you both?” Despite the last word, her gaze slipped pointedly to Jonathan and the watchchain glinting at his side. “How near are we to noon? I can tell the pitch of their clamor inside has changed and so it must be nearly time for the spectacle.”
Jonathan checked his watch and saw it was ten past twelve. As they all moved to rise, Helen sighed. Jonathan saw her craning around on her spot, frowning at a cluster of roses.
“What is it?”
“Oh, my crutch. I set it by me here and it fell back in the rosebushes.”
She had scarcely got past the third syllable before Jonathan had circled around to fish the thing out of the thorns. It was a striking piece fashioned from a well-worn length of oak. Though Helen took it in hand easily enough, he let her have his arm as a brace when she got to her feet. It took her a moment to actually release his sleeve, and then only because Mina gathered his other arm. Helen made a small noise close to a laugh.
“Goodness, but you are a sturdy one. Between your bearing and your choice of accessory,” she nodded to the kukri, “a charlatan clairvoyant would feign that they ‘read’ you as an ex-soldier. As I am neither, I must instead determine that you are a solicitor by trade and that you operate out of Exeter.”
That brought Jonathan and Mina both up short.
“You determined that from my arm?”
“From your seat. Rather, what you left there.” Helen pointed them back to the bench where Jonathan’s card case sat open on the stone. As Mina gathered it up and Jonathan set it more securely within a front pocket, Helen went on, “Before we head into the noise, a last question: Do you also live within the Exeter area? If so, I should like to know your judgment on the city and available living quarters in the area. I believe I am overdue to seek out new housing.”
“We can both vouch for it being something of a busy city, but it has its comfortable corners. In the event Mina and I get herded out the front door as soon as we enter the back,” he handed Helen one of the cards from his rescued case, “I should be happy to have you call on Hawkins and Harker to see about quarters in the area.”
“If I may ask, for I cannot guess it by your arm or your card, are you in the firm’s employ, or are you the Hawkins or the Harker in the title?”
“Harker,” Jonathan admitted.
“A pleasure then, Mr. and Mrs. Harker.” She favored them with a last flash of her half-lidded stare before she turned them all toward the door. “I do hope we all enjoy the show.”
Inside, a number of guesses were quickly proven right.
Jonathan’s new friend and some comrades gave him furrowed sideways glances. Daniels, seeing Jonathan see them, appeared to stutter some excuse before vanishing into another room. Others, clearly ticking off the minutes until Penclosa would appear to astound or confound, followed first this retreat, then the line of sight that had sent him running. Jonathan wished he had his hat to duck behind. Doubly so when his new friend—he decided to refer to him as Professor Carbuncle, lacking a better title—and his friends murmured their own asides to the gawkers. He pondered keeping his watch out to see how many minutes there would be between himself, Mina, and the hailing of a cab.
Before he could do so, Van Helsing filled the couple’s view, looking very much like a man trying his best not to look like a castaway frantic for an island to clamber on. His smile very nearly groaned with the effort to stay in place.
“My friends, I would risk many things for you. Life and death and worse. Yet if I must battle with Wilson’s voice another hour by my own self, I fear I shall try to do as good Jonathan did in time of action and make my exit by the nearest window. Have either of you seen this Miss Penclosa? Wilson only departed from me and my ears because Mrs. Wilson could not herself find the lady in the crowd.”
“Not yet—,” Mina began, but cut herself short when Helen laid a light hand against her shoulder.
“I’m afraid I lost track of time,” Helen said through a slight smile.
“Ah, then you are that Miss Penclosa? A pleasure to meet you,” he clasped her hand gently with a half-bow of the head.
“Likewise..?”
“Professor Van Helsing.”
“If you are a friend of the Harkers, then I will trust at once that you are of a fine character, sir. I do apologize for keeping them away. Please, might you tell me where I can find my poor Wilsons?” Van Helsing pointed the way, offering to take her arm to better break through the throng. Helen, Miss Penclosa, declined. She followed her crutch into the fray with ease. The Harkers could only stare after her.
Once her back vanished in the crowd, they divulged all that had happened in the garden to Van Helsing, starting from Prof. Carbuncle to meeting Miss Helen Penclosa on her bench. As they spoke, Jonathan spotted Prof. Carbuncle striding towards Prof. Wilson’s bobbing head as the latter entered to the room, now thoroughly incandescent with enthusiasm. This visage redoubled its glow when Prof. Carbuncle came upon him, though the cigar-gnawing man’s expression seemed to aim for stormy while landing only on puckered. Carbuncle seemed no match for Wilson’s patter either, for whatever words he had for the other man seemed drowned in a flood of exhilaration.
The hand Carbuncle had lifted to point Jonathan and Mina out was trapped in an instant as the gesture was mistaken—perhaps forcibly—for an agreeing handshake. Then Prof. Wilson must have gotten something out that caught Prof. Carbuncle’s interest more than revenge. His expression altered in a way that suggested not only doubt, but an eagerness to have that doubt proven right. Something near to a smile appeared on him as he gave Wilson a curt shake of the hand. The cool countenance was fractured a bit when Wilson abruptly turned to the parlor to announce:
“Attention my friends! I thank you for your patience. We have delayed some while in the hopes of not shorting any of the invited guests by beginning the display too soon. As it stands, it appears all are present and my guest and friend, the inimitable Miss Helen Penclosa, can now rescue you from my stalling.”
Miss Helen Penclosa made her official debut to general applause and a smattering of surprise as the room opened up to see her clearly. She had taken a spot on the overstuffed armchair with her crutch standing to one side. A soft smile turned to the guests.
“Hello. I must say I recognize very few of you this time around. The last get-together Professor Wilson was kind enough to throw had only a third the number. I must then assume that the two new thirds are comprised of one third those with some belief in what I mean to display and one third looking to pull down whatever mental chicanery is surely at work. The better to spare the latter’s time and get on to those here with genuine questions or desire to volunteer in earnest, I have submitted to Wilson that I should like to make my first demonstration upon one of the sincerest disbelievers present.”
The foggy green eyes slid unblinkingly to Prof. Carbuncle. There was a new cigar in his teeth and a sharkish bend to his lips.
“Professor Richard Atherton has obliged to fill the role. My thanks, sir.”
“You’ve mine back, madam,” Carbuncle, who was Atherton, spoke through his smoke. “How is it done, then? Do you need a pocket watch to swing before my eyes? Shall we have a staring contest until I’m dulled to sleep?”
“Not at all. Merely take your seat and we will begin.”
Penclosa nodded to the chair Wilson himself had dragged up to stand across from her own. Atherton took it with a laborious settling that suggested the showing of immense patience to amuse unruly children. As he sat, Penclosa stood. She did not make use of her crutch. Whatever injured wobble she might have in her faulty leg seemed to undo itself as she rose. Later, both Harkers and Van Helsing would agree that it looked almost as if her eyes were their own empowering force; as though they were what drew her up like a string raising a marionette. Her gaze certainly seemed to pump some notable new life into her tired countenance.
All watched as her look set into that uniquely feline expression of an animal centering its attention on an oblivious bird. Her arms raised and gestured in a series of swings and shapes that appeared almost like those of directing signals. It had none of the gentle sway of hands from an experimenting doctor or the theatric waggling from a stage performer. More than one witness would point out how very near it came to something ritualistic; the sort of motions seen in rites of religions or archaic dance.
Whatever their purpose, the motions and Penclosa’s stare had an effect on Prof. Atherton. A remarkably brisk one. His apparent confederates in the crowd seemed to take this for some act at first. Likely playing dim from the outset only to spring up and call the woman a fraud. And perhaps this had been Atherton’s goal as he took his seat. Yet as one minute ticked into another and into another, the man’s face seemed to become unstitched from within. Expression slackened, eyes glazed. The still-smoking cigar drooped in his teeth until it finally dropped and fell in his lap, flinging ash as it went. Thankfully it was no longer smoldering; he had stopped puffing on it some while ago and the thing did not have heat enough left to burn through his trousers.
Still, he did not startle at the drop. Nor did his hand move to clear his lap. Penclosa stopped her arms but still did not blink. She regarded the half-murmuring room, then silenced it by holding her finger to her lips. Once all was quiet, she turned her full attention back to Atherton’s drooping head. It was not the look of a woman or a cat now. Here was a high empress idling over the means of an execution.
She folded her hands before her and smiled.
“Professor Atherton, I have wonderful news. The hypnotism failed. Attempts were tried for hours and all the guests have left. You are free to speak honestly without fear of eavesdroppers.”
Atherton’s head raised an inch and something of his former expression drifted back into his face. He grated out a chuckle.
“Knew it,” he said in a dreaming voice. “Knew that crippled crone was all talk. All Wilson’s talk, anyhow. By next year the fool will be clamoring about some tart with a crystal ball and a deck of cards claiming she’s the next Oracle. Where’s my cigar?”
“A new box is being fetched. While we wait, let us talk. First, the crippled crone. How old would she say she is, at a guess?”
“Damned if I know. Has to be half-past forty.”
“And yourself?”
“Fifty-six as of last month.”
“And your wife?”
“Forty-one, alas.”
“And your mistress?”
“An even twenty-two. A springy dear, she is.”
“I imagine she must be. Is she at the party?”
“Lord, no. Nor the missus. One of her few virtues, not having any care for twaddle like mesmerists or spiritualism. Pity about the rest.”
“What is the rest?”
“The face, the gray, the days out with those harpy friends she meets with to talk about that American woman, that Bascom with her degree in bloody rocks and—,”
“I see. And this mistress, what is she like?”
“Blessedly quiet. A fine change of pace and a finer help in a man’s odds and ends. Good enough girl, though I fear it may be near time to break things off.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s been acting squirrely in that way women do when they’re working up to simper for something big. Money, a wedding ring, your solemn oath you’ll stay for the baby. Some headache or other. I do hate stepping away while things are sour. Better to cut things while they’re still sweet and she won’t think to get up to anything foolish.”
“Like telling your wife?”
“The wife scarcely matters. It’s telling the university that’d pull the rug out. Just look at that mess with Professor Gilroy. Ha, ex-professor, I should say. That debacle shows well enough how quick a position can be cut out from under your feet. I’d bet money he got hit by some brain bug or other, some undiagnosed fever, but just a few days of him playing eccentric killed his station. If little Ellie Daniels goes tattling it’ll be my position on the fire just for starters.”
Somewhere in the back of the room, a man’s voice drew sharp breath. Other voices muttered and shushed. There was a scuffle and rustle as someone was held back. Penclosa showed no sign of whether she noticed or cared about what colors the man named Daniels was turning and pressed on:
“That does sound serious.”
“Between her brother and the state of affairs with the soft-hearted and softer-minded infecting the realm of logic, it is infinitely serious. I tell you, it would not be half so precarious if it were not for all this New Woman claptrap infecting the mentality of our times. The next generation of men will live their lives bowing to every little infantile fancy of women and go hollering around on their behalf to intellectual betters, wailing the same tunes of false equality.”
“Most distressing. But that all sounds quite vague, if you don’t mind my saying. Mere hypotheticals all. Can you think of any recent example of such a thing?”
“Oh, yes. Not half an hour ago, as a matter of fact.”
“Goodness. What happened?”
“Some pup wrapped around his wife’s finger felt the need to come puff his chest at me over a little idle comment or other—,”
“Stop.” Atherton stopped like a cylinder plucked from its phonograph. “To this point, you have spoken as if there are no witnesses. You may continue to do so, Professor Atherton, but now you will do so without bluff or obfuscation. You will speak only the truth aloud until I tell you to wake. Tell me if you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now, to the best of your ability, repeat exactly what you said when you stepped out the back door into the garden.”
Professor Atherton repeated what he had brayed to Daniels, nigh verbatim.
“Why did you say so?”
“Because it’s true.”
“Why did you say so right then?”
“Because of the girl nattering to her young man. I wanted her to hear. It heartens me to see them caught out of line. Especially the young ones. You have to nip them while they’re young and sponge-headed and susceptible to all the rubbish that wants to mold them out of what they ought to be.”
“And what ought they be?”
“In their place. Otherwise you get things like her husband.”
“And what thing was her husband?”
“Some—some tetchy little Prince Charming, huffing about insulting women and his wife and whatnot when I was just—just—,”
Atherton was turning somewhat purplish.
“You are struggling, Professor Atherton. That’s you trying to shake off the command for honesty. Tell the truth about her husband and you’ll be fine.”
The man seemed to chew his words another moment. Then, finally:
“The truth is he scared me. Truly, properly scared me, getting as close as he did. It wasn’t just the blade on his hip either. There was something wrong about him. Meeting his eye made my bowels turn to jelly. I felt certain he could hurl me against the brick like a porcelain doll hard enough to break me like one. Like he could take my head off like you’d pop a daisy from its stem and that he was considering doing just that, with or without that massive bloody Gurkha knife. That moment was the closest I’ve come to soiling myself since I was six years old. If his wife hadn’t made him look away, I don’t know that I wouldn’t have still been standing there, soaking my trousers because I couldn’t unhook myself from those awful eyes and all the black promises they were making.
“But he did look away and I got inside, thank God. He’d not lay a hand on me before witnesses. Certainly not in front of ones of actual importance versus the girl holding his tether, anyway. I have to talk to Wilson about him when I have the chance. If I can get a name out of him, I can see about seeking some proper recompense later. At the very least I can see the snow-headed bastard and his keeper are tossed out. I took him for some sort of young officer. Perhaps I can nettle things higher up his ranks.”
Penclosa nodded coolly at this. It was the first time she bothered to spare a glance for anyone other than Atherton, glancing first in the direction of Professor and Mrs. Wilson who had been turning alternate shades of cherry and chalk throughout, then at the Harkers. At Jonathan. For the moment he was bookended by both Mina’s grasp and Van Helsing’s heavy hand at his arm. Whether this was to support or halt him, he couldn’t guess, but he was grateful that they provided some small insulation between himself and the increasing number of inquisitive eyes steering his way. He now ached for a hat to hide under and an overcoat to mask the scabbard.
He felt fires burning inside his face as murmuring rose on their side, on the Wilsons’, and on the irate Daniels’. It was the sound of an intrigued audience before a stage play rather than a scientific demonstration. Jonathan could see there had even been a refilling of glasses and a fetching of concessions from the table as the show went on. Penclosa seemed to note this as well, finally retreating from her looming stance and retreating to her armchair.
“This has all been very enlightening, Professor Atherton. I give my thanks for your being so candid. Your last instruction is this: If or when news of these revelations leak out of this room and reach ears ‘of importance’ in your campus’ alumni—those few which are not already present—and you are called to elaborate on the features of it all?” Her eyes flashed like dim jade and her next words carried the intonation of a tolling bell. “You will tell the whole truth without any withholding, any muddying, any twisting of narrative for your benefit. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good.” She snaked out one hand to grasp the crutch. This she lifted just high enough so that it would make a resounding crack as she struck the floor. “Awake!”
Prof. Richard Atherton blinked blearily for a moment, like a man swimming out of a thick sleep. In the next moment, consciousness snapped fully into him as his teeth clicked shut. This confused him for a moment. Then:
“Damn! My trousers.” He snatched up the cigar and wiped at the ashes. “I will give you some credit, madam, for at least getting me halfway to the so-called mesmeric sleep. Or sleep alone, anyway. Though I’m afraid you’ve got your first poor mark for the hypnotist act. You may yet find a niche as an in-person sedative, however. There’s a number of colicky babes in the world who could use a nanny with that trick. You could…” Atherton was on his feet now and finally aware of the sharp looks thrown his way by the group at large, as well as the downright acidic glare coming from Daniels. Even Prof. Wilson, who had kept his notebook out and open, was scratching at the pages with a significantly strained shade of enthusiasm. “For God’s sake, what is it? Don’t tell me she actually got anything out of me. What, did she have me butcher a tune? Insult someone’s mother?”
“Ellie.” All heads turned to Daniels. Narrow man that he was, he seemed to quiver like a livid tuning fork. “My baby sister, Eleanor, has spent the last year and a half dancing around the name of a scholar she claims to be smitten with. One she has admitted to playing both secretary and editor to for numerous manuscripts; such that she has practically been penning the things herself. Our family has assumed it was just some unscrupulous student or other taking advantage and have tried numerous times to have her divulge the young man’s name or to break it off, to no avail. But it occurs to me that it has been roughly as long since you started crowing about what a loss it is to the modern man that he cannot flaunt a mistress with impunity, what with the advent of divorce gaining its little toeholds in the world of marriage. Adultery is no longer a sport, but a vice, you’ve said. You wouldn’t happen to be sharing that vice with little Ellie, would you, Dick?”
Prof. Richard Atherton suddenly lost all pallor under his beard. Something near to epiphany seemed to bring a hint of color back to him as he registered the mass of disapproving stares before turning wholly to Miss Penclosa in her chair. A glass of claret stood on the same end table she’d rested her crutch on. She met his gaze placidly as she lifted the wine for a small sip.
What came next was as paradoxically abrupt as endless.
Revelation had come to Atherton in the way of colliding dominoes. Daniels and little Ellie, the horde of glowering fellow faculty and distant strangers, witnesses all to some bleak secrets he could not appear to recall. Was it just the mistress he had spoken of? More? Whatever was said, it had even the men who’d been his allies a quarter of an hour ago either turning away from him or glaring at him with such disgust he might have rolled himself in sewage. Things had been said. Damning things. Worst of all, it would be speculated, was that he had said things he did not recall. He had been mesmerized and the whole of it had been erased from his memory as neatly as chalk lessons rubbed off the board.
He had been made a fool and he had done it to himself.
Because of her.
The docilely gloating little figure sat by her crutch.
Later it would come out from his former friends that he had, in fact, gotten a drink too many in him beforehand. He was many things by nature, but violent was rarely one of them. Not without a pond’s worth of inebriation in him. If not an excuse, it was a reason for what he attempted to do there in plain view of the parlor. He was the nearest body to Penclosa, after all, in that snug gap between the armchairs. It was quick work for him to dart forward, snatch up the sturdy length of oak, and raise it above his head with the heavy end aimed squarely at Miss Penclosa’s head.
It happened too fast for gasps, for shouts, for reaching hands, for jolts, for steps. Too fast even for Penclosa to do more than widen her bottomless eyes in shock.
The crutch came down—
Snick!
—and lost half of itself on the thick nap of the rug. Atherton made a high strangled sound like that of a boy a third his age yelping over a twisted ankle. Something was twisting, but it was a higher limb. One that dropped the remaining half a crutch as his forearm shrieked in Jonathan’s left hand. Jonathan’s right still held the bared kukri while his eyes held Atherton’s attention. Some would remark, in varying states of hyperbole, how suddenly cold they had felt in the white-haired fellow’s presence. A man of ice freezing the churlish other in place.
A whiff of ammonia hit the air. What Atherton had avoided since the age of six now went trickling down his leg.
“I think, Professor Atherton,” Van Helsing’s voice broke gently in, “it is wise for you to apologize to Miss Helen Penclosa, and then to sit in the foyer until police come to have their words with you.”
“To hell with the police,” Daniels grated out. “I’ll pay you a pound to give him a new elbow, Officer.”
Jonathan released a small breath and eased his grip enough to keep from fracturing the other man’s wrist.
“I’m not—,”
All parties within the odd tableau were alerted by a tell-tale sound to the westward side of the room. The soft capping of a lens and the scrape-slide of a plate being taken out of a daguerreotype camera.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” sang the photographer as he stowed the old plate and prepped the new. The sun seemed to be shining through an otherwise nebbish grin. “Just need to reload, is all. Glad I packed double.”
Atherton seemed to choke on either an abundance or an utter deficit of words at this. He looked for all the world like a body waiting for the final beat of a bad dream to finally dump him awake and free in his bed. Instead, a small entourage of guests, Van Helsing included, guided him away. First to the toilet, then the suggested foyer. Prof. Wilson had already passed along to the first servant he could get hold of to send for a smattering of authorities. If not for an arrest, then for the inevitable explosion of circulated word that would ensue after. Mrs. Wilson had flown to Miss Penclosa’s side in the meantime, gushing apology and worry at such a rate that she appeared nearly to skip her breath.
“I’m fine, Gloria, truly. It was all far too quick for a proper scare. Rather, our friend was.” Penclosa had to look down to find Jonathan now, as he had sheathed the kukri to pick up the two halves of oak. “I could barely follow you, young man. You must have practice with this sort of thing.”
Jonathan tried to smile around a noncommittal sound. His line of sight flicked between her and Mina who had caught a woman who’d toppled in a faint over the whole scene. She flicked her gaze back, mirroring his reflexive thought. Speak no evil.
“Not in this particularly, no. Solicitation is not quite so competitive a field. At least not yet.” He rose with the crutch’s pieces in hand. “I’m so sorry about this. I’ll pay for another.” Penclosa wrinkled her nose at this and seemed to swat the notion away.
“Better it be in half than in my head. I have spares, Mr. Harker.”
“Harker, is it?” A jaunty hand clapped him on the back. “What regiment, son? Look as though you’ve seen the far end of Hell and its backyard.”
This voice came from the first of many strangers who would approach Jonathan and Mina at intervals during Penclosa’s less dramatic demonstrations. Between softer displays—everything from comical impressions to impromptu dance performances to heartening instilled commands to inspire confidence or to regale with an old warm memory the subject had thought forgotten—the Harkers had to lose flake after chip after crumb of secrecy in dancing around the barrage of queries that found them, even with Van Helsing trying to play buffer. In order, the Harkers divulged the following:
No, he was not of any country’s military. Yes, he was just a solicitor. Yes, his hair was real. Yes, he had suffered a sizable shock in life. No, he would rather not speak of details, though illness was the least of it. Yes, she was the reason he made it through with mind and health intact. Yes, they were married. Yes, he was and remains quite adamant that she never be shown anything less than respect. Yes, she was adamant on his behalf in turn. …Yes, really, just a solicitor. Hawkins and Harker.
Jonathan found himself with half his cards gone before the afternoon was out.
“Perhaps you should have new ones printed,” Van Helsing ribbed. “You could perhaps stamp a small kukri on each one. It appears to do good for your business.”
“It was just for politeness’ sake. Honestly, I’m just baffled at how,” Jonathan fluttered his hand uncomfortably as if to encompass the whole of the scene, “all that bluster translates to such friendly interest. I am more than a little stunned that I’ve collected more cards today than I manage in a week by way of day-to-day courtesy within the firm.” Mina found his hand again and drew circles over its knuckles. When he looked to her, he could not help reflecting her smile.
“Everyone loves when a hero gives a show. It’s such an assumed thing that evil acts can be gotten away with, the damage done without any hindrance. So it is a rare and happy thing when people get to see the stalwart knight appear with sword in hand to cut it down.”
“Yes, well. I still posit that I married the knight. I’m far better suited to being her faithful squire. Polishing her pauldrons and all.”
“Jonathan.”
“Mina.”
“My friends,” Van Helsing turned both their heads with his tone. “I believe the room is nearly thinned enough for our purposes. At least, so thin that we have become the most conspicuous of guests remaining. We, and the man with his iron grip upon the camera.” The Harkers looked up and found he spoke true. The herd had shallowed out to a few parties circling the Wilsons and the photographer going over something with Penclosa.
The latter man, a Mr. Greg Westman, had been almost as busy as Miss Penclosa and Prof. Wilson combined. There had been the images captured of Penclosa and her posed subjects, talks with the police who had arrived, both as a witness and a man who might have an impressive shot to share once all was developed, and with the inevitable circling fly or two of journalists who’d come sniffing at the sight of the authorities’ wagon. Westman was one of many rising amateur photographers inching their way into the professional field and, supposing his shots developed well enough, his daguerreotypes would find their way into print to better illustrate what might be pitched as, ‘The Misadventure of the Madam Mesmerist.’
“Mr. Harker, sir?” Westman approached them now, the two halves of the crutch under one arm. “Might I bother you for just one last shot? I’m down to my final plates and it would make a lovely closing piece for the paper if you could just come this way?”
While he spoke, he herded Jonathan toward Penclosa’s chair. Mrs. Wilson had brought down one of her spares from her room, a thing of ash wood, and it rested against the table where its predecessor had stood. Jonathan sheepishly held up the kukri as Penclosa smilingly presented her two pieces of oak.
“Perfect, thank you! Now if I could have just one more of—,”
“Pardon, Mr. Westman,” Mina said as she drifted to his side. “Might I ask what model this is and where we might find one? We have been going back and forth on picking up a camera for our own use and you seem to be quite natural with this.”
Jonathan sent her a silent thanks from the corner of his eye into the corner of hers. Of the sundry traits the Harkers could find reflected in the other, the ability to dislodge monologues from even the most reticent speaker was a most useful one. As a result, Greg Westman had duly pivoted into a history lesson on M. Joseph Nicéphore Niépce. Jonathan might have gone to join Mina but for something brushing his side. It was Penclosa, tapping him lightly with the tip of the halved crutch.
“Do sit. You’ll make me tired looking at you.” She nodded at the armchair still across from her, the subject seat. Her voice lowered an increment to keep from traveling too far. Say, to the Wilsons’ side of the space. “It is my turn to apologize, I think. I see I must have made an error in dropping even your surname to the crowd. I’d not realized your visit was so clandestine as to remain hushed on names as much as purpose.”
Jonathan did not sit, but hovered at its side. He kept his furthest edge of attention on the rambling patter of Mr. Westman for the duration that Mina had to withstand it and on Van Helsing who had moved with calculating nonchalance into the shrinking circle of visitors still caught in the Wilsons’ orbit. The rest he reserved for trying to parse the nature of Miss Penclosa’s stare. For she did stare, intentionally or otherwise. Her blinks were rare and slow and seemed almost unnatural in the backdrop of her mild face. As the day had worn on toward the late afternoon, he’d lost count of how many times he’d felt a sensation of being observed roaming on his brow or back, only to look up and see the mesmerist was in the middle of some pause between performance or discussion to look at him. Nor did she ever drop her gaze when caught.
With everything that’s happened between the garden, the guard duty, and the hypnotic gamble to come, you can forgive her wanting to keep an eye on you.
“It’s no trouble,” he said aloud. “We simply don’t wish to be obtrusive, and that much is our own foible. And again, I owe the greater apology for costing you your property. In hindsight, I’m sure I might have caught it if—,”
“It’s a glorified twig, Jonathan, not a family heirloom. It’s a better thing to have you end its career as a weapon with one hand and seize that lout with your other. The fact is you saved me from a most abrupt and ugly injury, if not an ending outright.” Here the windows of her eyes performed their slow shutter of a blink. “The least I owe you is my best attempt to assist in the internal injury that troubles you. That in mind, I believe we have come to the point where we must cajole our host into setting aside his notebook before he—,”
“Ah, Mr. Harker! Were you interested in a session yourself?” All heads swiveled as Prof. Wilson nearly bounded to the sitting area. Mr. Westman had mercifully taken his leave at that point, Mina having lured him towards the door by insisting she help carry his things along to wait for his hansom, him insisting back that he could carry it all, and so forth. Van Helsing had held Prof. Wilson back as long as possible, but the man’s gaze had landed on Jonathan leaning on the chair and the man had all but flown. He was already thumbing to a clean page in his book. “Where is Gregory? Gregory, wait just a moment if you have a spare plate!”
“Bradford.” Wilson glanced down to see Miss Penclosa frowning up at him. “You have already gotten more than your fill of successful examples, on top of the nigh guaranteed publicity of the police report once it turns to newsprint. Doubly so should my implanted command that Atherton speak the truth before his colleagues have reason to be set off. Mr. Harker has done more than any service a host could dare ask of a guest. More, a guest of a guest. The least we owe him is the dignity not to set him up as a prop twice in the same day.”
Wilson fidgeted with his notebook for another moment. His gaze bounced between the one sitting and the one standing.
“…So he is interested in a session? Is that so, Mr. Harker? I only ask for the purposes of tallying! These sorts of things live and die by records. How many successes, who the successes were, references on references. You would be astounded how stringent any credible journal is when it comes to such fascinating realms of science as this. They demand the most fantastic list of feats and yet will tear a work to pieces over the slightest fault. It is why I most earnestly insist on recording as much in the way of detail, you see, so if I could perhaps—,”
A tawny and callused hand landed chummily on Prof. Wilson’s shoulder. Van Helsing’s smile was at once buoyant and stiffly chiseled in place.
“Professor, I am most familiar with the trials of expressing the reality of the strange to stubborn audiences. Such is the case both within and without the precarious wilds of academia. Yet this is not the case of the present. For your purposes, you hunt for evidence, evidence, evidence, using volunteers and compatriots for the so vital need of the impartial proofs. But my friends, they are not volunteers. They are not for the consuming by even the wisest audiences. If it were so, there would be no need to wait for privacy. Good Jonathan, who has done a good service today and so much more before, he comes to Miss Penclosa seeking assistance, not to your peers for his name pulled across a heap of articles. Which is all to say, in plainer words, this is a matter of help. Of health!”
The cobalt gaze twinkled in its nest of crow’s feet. His hand tightened an extra chummy increment on Wilson’s shoulder.
“To spy upon or share the details in such a case would be to court the dangerous place where the confidences of doctors and patients lay. But I ramble so much. You are a man of ethics, Professor Wilson, and I would swear upon every title to my name that you would not err in such a way over one single session out of dozens.”
Prof. Wilson opened his mouth.
“Of course not, Professor Van Helsing,” Penclosa hummed over her glass. It was nearly empty now. “I know my dear Gloria would not marry a cad any more than I would stay under the roof of one. I certainly wouldn’t agree to be at the center of a study that would seek to abuse the trust of the sort of people which proof positive of my skill intends to aid. Which is the point under it all, isn’t it? Not just proving the full reality of mesmerism, but proving its usages beyond making people do tricks. If that were all these displays have been for,” a small smile flared up and vanished, “likewise our early work with Gilroy, then I would be most shocked. I believe I would have to take myself out of the study entirely if it were so.” She sipped the glass dry.
Prof. Wilson shut his mouth. Cleared something out of his throat. Fumbled with his notebook before ultimately, painfully, closing it.
“Yes. Well. I suppose if this is a matter of a, ah, therapeutic nature, I suppose…” He seemed to almost visibly wilt. Jonathan thought inexplicably that he might be looking at some distant uncle of Dr. Seward’s. Though Wilson’s manner was notably more excitable in his pursuit of examples, there was no missing the similar duo of hunger for fresh results and disappointment at slipped opportunity.
Jack had resigned from his role as asylum head not long after Quincey Morris’ funeral in America. He’d not given himself more than a week before he turned to the neglected matter of R. M. Renfield, paying for a plot in a proper cemetery and a new stone. A day after this ceremony, he had begun the work of disentangling himself from the sanitorium—a process that had been met with equal parts entreaties to stay on and older detractors urging him out the door—which ultimately ended with him founding his own psychiatric practice. The shift in work and its purpose, hearing and working toward solutions of a patient’s ills versus merely detaining and observing violent extremes of mental havoc, had gone some way toward tipping the man out of a stranglehold of depression. In fact, it seemed to fire him into a new tier of thrill over possibilities for treatment. Not merely in the matter of pharmaceuticals or enforced methods, but skills a patient may hone for themselves.
Though Jack never dared drop patient names in earshot, he had bounced ideas, successes, and frustrations off his friends on several occasions. The despondency seen when he was stuck upon a case that had been snagged in its progress was shown in flints upon Prof. Wilson’s face.
He wished to prove not only that he was right about the power of mesmerism, but that there was a point to him being so, and that it was not merely an amusing parlor trick. A hard thing to manage when the only real evidence he had was a stack of Penclosa’s demonstrations which did indeed take place in his parlor. Jonathan withheld a sigh.
“Professor. It’s true I would like some privacy for Miss Penclosa, myself, Mina, and Van Helsing. I do not wish my name to flung about any more than it’s already set to be with the issue of Professor Atherton. But supposing my own trouble finds a solution with Miss Penclosa’s help, I will at least consent to go on record as an anonymous example of successful hypnotherapy.”
Emphasis on anonymous.
But even this was enough to rekindle some of the light in Prof. Wilson’s face. The notebook speedily snapped open again and the pen resumed its giddy scratching.
“Oh, that is more than amenable, Mr. Harker! And quite right for such delicate work as this, of course.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Have you a pseudonym in mind? It will be a clunky thing to just place you as Mr. Anonymous or Mr. Patient.”
Mr. De Ville, Jonathan thought in a lilt so bitter it burned.
Mina returned to the room with Mrs. Wilson in tow, her line of sight floating to him. Jonathan stopped himself just short of beaming.
“Mr. Murray.”
Prof. Wilson gave them his library to use and passed on his solemn oath that no staff would blunder through the door to interrupt. Mina and Jonathan took the wider of the couches while Penclosa claimed a chaise and Van Helsing settled himself in a chair. Van Helsing had his own notepad on hand and had given likewise solemn oaths in both the Harkers’ and Wilson’s direction that he would record only the most pertinent bullets of observation. This pointedly did not include Jonathan’s description of the following:
“There is not much more that can be told beyond what we explained in the garden. Last year, I suffered an experience of singularly horrific proportions. The sort which are on a scale of literal nightmare; utterly unbelievable to anyone of sound mind. Yet it happened. And though the physical shock of its aftermath is over, though the second and far more despicable illness of my poor Mina has come and gone, though all has been dealt with in the waking world that can be dealt with and healed…” His throat worked against a jagged stone as his hand trembled inside Mina’s. “It was two months that this event lasted for me last summer. All of May, all of June. This, combined with the illness that boiled my brain and body upon escape, on top of the very real, very dire threat to Mina that followed it—a threat I-I should have never—never let—,”
“Don’t.” A shadow of a whisper. But Mina’s voice gave it power, made it a salve. Her cheek pressed his shoulder while her other hand overlaid its twin in holding him. “The nightmares may lie to you, but don’t you dare do it to yourself awake. We are well past that.” Mina turned to Penclosa who sat once more in statue stillness, her own gaze intent. When she spoke it was still soft, but with an edge that bordered on brittle with its enforced calm. “Last year was one of suffering for us and for loved ones. There were many losses, great and small. Yet taken as the most unvarnished sum of time and effects, Jonathan found himself the winner of a most cruel lottery. Miscellaneous torments were all passed his way, and for far longer than myself or our friends had to endure. They have damaged his sleep ever since, but now, as the anniversary makes its return—,”
“How frequently?” Penclosa asked. As she did, she performed a blink. “Forgive my curtness. I ask because I already find no way to doubt the sincerity of Jonathan’s trouble. For a history to haunt him so deeply even as he throws himself between villain and victim like a wall suggests that whatever monstrosity inflicted itself on him before must be of a great scale. The only issue for us now is the timing. Before I can attempt to plant a countermeasure to his nightmares, if and when they next arise, we must define how often they occur at present. For example, Jonathan, do you expect you will have one as soon as tonight?”
Jonathan dipped his head in half a nod.
“I do. What used to be every other night is now almost routine. Last week I did not have a single night free of bad dreams.”
Penclosa grinned.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Pardon. I fear some of Wilson’s scientific thinking has rubbed off. I say ‘good’ in that we have good odds of defining whether it will be my mesmerism that helps parry your nightmares or your mind merely deciding to quit the assault of its own volition. Of course, it would be most welcome if the latter were the case. If these grim dreams are truly tied to memories of what befell you a year ago near the same period, it could be they might reach a crescendo around the anniversary, then peter out to nothing as it passes. Only for them to make a return next year and around again. In truth, it seems as if your mind has conditioned itself in much the same way I might set a particular stimulus to make a subject react later.”
Penclosa raised her hand as if to illustrate a scenario:
“‘When the clock strikes ten o’ clock tomorrow, you will hop on one foot. The next time you smell fish, you will decide you must write a letter to someone.’ It all comes down to ‘When you notice X, then you will do Y.’ For you, the recall of the turning seasons to that soured period is having the same effect, albeit slowly. Subconsciously, you are reading into the calendar’s creep the same portents that led up to last year’s horrid experiences, and your dreams prey on you for it as if the events themselves are coming for a repeat performance. Now, I will not make promises as to how far my reach can extend in terms of permanently blunting the nightmares for good. Really, I can’t even say if this initial trial will bear fruit. But the trial is what matters before we attempt anything more extensive. To that end, I would like to ask how long you all intend to stay in Tuppeton.”
“We have two weeks planned out,” from Mina.
“And I shall be gone by this Sunday,” Van Helsing put in.
At this, Penclosa smiled anew and nodded, explaining, “That shall be enough to confirm things one way or the other. What I propose is this: I shall mesmerize you,” a look to Jonathan, “to see if I can prevent the nightmare you expect is inevitable tonight. Rather, and I apologize for this, to let the nightmare come upon you for just a moment, and then be banished by the command I place today.”
“I don’t believe I follow,” said Mina as she gripped Jonathan’s hand a little tighter. “Why not just halt the nightmare entirely?”
“Because,” Penclosa soothed back, though she frowned now too, “if the nightmare is not registered and then observed being thwarted by my countermeasure, we shall not know if I was effective or not. A wholly peaceful sleep might be written off as a fluke. Nothing to record, nothing to show one way or the other if the session had any positive effect that couldn’t be written off as a kind accident. Though I do swear to make sure it only exists long enough to be noticed, then quashed.” Her gaze returned to Jonathan. “It is imperative that you record all you can remember of tonight’s sleep. Every detail you can spare. And it is just as important that neither Mina or Professor Van Helsing let slip the description I will give you during the trance state. I trust you to be an honest fellow, but we cannot risk anything skewing your description after the fact.”
“That seems sound enough,” Jonathan agreed even as an unhappy crimp came to his mouth as he added, “though there is a last obstacle that we have not gone over.”
“What is that?”
“Me,” Van Helsing put in. “I am practiced in mesmerism myself, Miss Penclosa, and have succeeded in many cases. Jonathan, however, has proven a subject most hard to maneuver. I have gotten him near to trance, but his mind snaps out at me at the last moment and shoos the influence like a dog chasing out an intruder. And that with him all willing and trying with full consciousness to accept the hypnosis.”
Miss Penclosa’s brow did furrow for a moment at that. Her hand drifted up again to her high collar, scrubbing thoughtfully, or perhaps only itching. But her expression smoothed again as she turned back to Jonathan.
“I have had my hard cases in the past. Let’s see what happens. Mina, could you please give Jonathan the whole seat? When I begin, there can be no one to distract either of our lines of sight. Stand by with the Professor, if you would. Thank you.”
Once Jonathan was alone on the couch, Miss Penclosa stood herself up. Her strain in balance seemed somehow even less than the sudden strained vigor that had taken her in her demonstrations at the party. She stood erect and staring as her arms began their strange arches and swoops. Jonathan found each sweep sent a feeling of warmth gusting into him. A drowsy pulse that seemed at once to dull, to waken, and to pull him from himself. Yet all this was secondary to the new shock of her eyes.
As instructed, he had begun the session by focusing his gaze on her face. But in moments her face had burned off like steam to leave only the growing pools of her gray-green eyes behind. They were pools, were ponds, were a single merged mountain lake over which he found himself flying—
No no no the Sisters the Brides they are here in the room—
—falling—
—this drowse is not by choice, not playing dead, they want you still on the couch, want you wanting—
—falling—
—fight it fight their sound their mist their maws because after them—
—falling—
—after this—
—sinking below the surface like a flailing stone desperate for the surface—
—comes him. You feel it you know it he is here in the room he is there in your eyes in your neck in your head you let him do it let him into your life to eat and own and swallow whole he is coming to take it all and have you worse than dead get him out get away please please please not again please—
—and shuddering all the while.
—please…
Down, down, down he went into so dense a gloom that all light was thinned to a faint dancing glimmer on the water’s surface. Still he kicked, bucked, clawed at the water that sank him without drowning, crushing him down as if Poseidon’s own hand were dragging him below. He shuddered again, and seemed to gain a lap upwards; then was shoved down again. Back and forth, kick and foam, until he was sunk just deep enough that he could scarcely make out the surface’s light as a twinkling pinprick.
Which was the same instant that the water reversed its verdict. The moment the darkness turned complete was the moment he was rushed suddenly back up towards the light. He lunged to the surface as swiftly as a fish caught on a powerful line. As he breached the surface, he heard Penclosa’s voice call out:
“Awake!”
Jonathan came to with a jolt. Awareness returned to him with several announcements. One, that a faint glaze of perspiration had formed on his brow and that his hands had bent into claws within the cushion he sat on, almost tearing it. Two, that Mina was flying to his side with a look that could not decide between relief and anxiety, while behind her Van Helsing made a last hasty scratch upon his notes and followed her example from his other side. Three, that Miss Penclosa still stood, albeit by using the chaise as her support rather than the crutch. She too had a dew of exertion on her temples and her wan cheeks were flushed, but she smiled proudly just the same. The victor of some unknown duel.
“You were not overestimated, Jonathan Harker. If I had not had some little way in by the aid of your conscious mind, I don’t know that I could have gotten past the violent usher of your subconscious. But it has been managed and the foothold has been made. Should we have need to try again for greater measures—as I hope and expect we shall attempt tomorrow afternoon—the way in shall have its metaphoric door still chocked open.”
Jonathan blinked at her and at Mina and Van Helsing now bookending him.
“Was I really so resistant when I went under? I’d thought I was fairly calm as it began.”
“Only at the beginning, darling,” Mina took his hand and seemed to scour his face as if for signs of injury. “You quite worried us once the trance started setting in.”
“How so?”
“You seemed to be locked in a fight, my friend. An imagined battle in a dream. And you spoke.” This came from Van Helsing. While the weathered face was steady enough, Jonathan was less than heartened at the wild worry flaring in the man’s gaze. Fruitlessly, but instinctively, he lowered his voice to add, “You said, ‘Don’t let him in.’”
A nauseous chill flooded through Jonathan, blooming out from his core until he wondered if he might actually be sick right where he sat. But Mina squeezed his fingers in hers and he steadied.
“You were distressed for some time,” she admitted as one hand drifted up to his shoulder. Holding. Holding. He leaned into her and hooked his eyes to hers. “But it fell off as she went to work. The session was completed. She’s set something up in you. Something to trip up a nightmare should it come around.” Then, lower, “Tonight’s all arranged.”
They’d discussed said arrangement before ever arriving in Tuppeton. A small repeat of the lopsided nights of the year prior, in which days and nights were broken into shifts of uneven sleep to keep watch. Van Helsing had volunteered to be a conscious observer of the couple following Penclosa’s first attempt and to note whatever there was to note by way of triumph or failure in the battle between hypnotic command and dreamt assault.
“Remember,” Penclosa broke in, settling herself down again on the chaise, “record all you can recall on waking. Honest specifics.”
“I will. Are you alright?” He asked for the mesmerist seemed far more winded than she had appeared when working on the guests. She had ticked through those sessions with supreme ease. Now she sat wan and exhausted against the cushions. Even so, her smile redoubled at his question while she daubed herself with a handkerchief.
“This? Just the payoff of a most exerting day. Wine is fine but for these little spells,” she fluttered her hand at herself, “brandy is better. There is a decanter in the window…” Jonathan was already up and fetching it, likewise a tumbler. “Thank you,” she hummed, taking the cut glass as gratefully as if she were handed the Grail. A sip later she sighed and sank into the pillows. “I do sincerely hope to see you all tomorrow with good news. If we succeed in this small step, then the way towards greater leaps is possible. But whether it does so or not—,”
“Three o’ clock tomorrow afternoon,” Van Helsing assured. “We shall arrive with our news, whatever it may be. Deep thanks again for your aid regardless, Miss Penclosa.”
And there was little more to it than that, barring the necessary parting talk with the Wilsons. Yes, Van Helsing and ‘the Murrays’ would record all diligently. Yes, tomorrow. Yes, three o’ clock. Yes, yes, yes. Professor and Harkers parted ways in separate hansoms. Van Helsing headed back to the hotel to ensure he had a good heavy sleep to see him through the night watch while Mina pointed out how it would be a shame to waste the last of the day on heading back to their room when there was plenty of light left to enjoy the town’s little High Street, wouldn’t it?
It would. So they found a petite restaurant and took a late lunch that satisfied far better than what they’d nibbled at the party. They found a table that looked out on the windows and high old trees lining the tranquil avenues that were such a refreshing sight compared to Exeter’s clamor. Between bites, Mina nudged his foot under the table. Jonathan looked up from his cup to see her grinning in a way that spoke to her owning a secret that was only unknown to him because he had looked it full in the face and not seen it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am.”
“So what is it?”
“Just thinking to myself that we shall have to add another address to the long-distance holiday pile when it comes time to send cards. It seems the good Sisters of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary shall have to share ink with Miss Penclosa.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You never do when you’ve gone and charmed another heart around your finger.”
“Said the pot to the kettle. And what charm? She was no more than sympathetic and professional—,”
“As sympathetic and professional as a mother learning that her child has scuffed a knee or caught cold for the first time. I got the impression she was only hindered from inviting you to lay down for a nap and broth because Van Helsing and I were there. If nothing else, her freedom with names shows an informality that I’d not have expected in someone with so moderate a demeanor, not counting her fire against Atherton. ‘Jonathan, Mina, Helen.’ There is a slight accent to her tone, same as Mrs. Wilson’s. Wherever they hail from, perhaps forenames come more freely.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps you’re reading too much into someone who takes courtesy and defense of the wronged as seriously as you do.” Jonathan batted his lashes and laid a hand to his chest. “Unless you mean to say you would not dote on a cause of mine even if I saved you from being struck with a heavy stick?”
“I suppose I would consider it. Idly.” She hid in another bite, another sip. Jonathan watched her and waited. “It’s just odd to me.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know. Even calling it ‘odd’ seems too tame for what I felt. Seeing it.”
“Seeing what, Mina?”
“You going into the trance. It was like watching the reverse of how you’ve been in your throes with the nightmares. On those occasions, I see you in distress and I can wake you out of it. You’re afraid, but then it breaks. I can always break it. But having to sit and watch you sink into that fear, or something so near to it—it made me want to jump up and shake you out of it. Or,” her words thinned out to a noise too small and ashamed to even count as a whisper, “or even knock Miss Penclosa off her feet to stop her work. It was an awful way to feel, but a worse thing to watch. I felt so strangely like a traitor sitting with Van Helsing as you sank into that horrible state before she finally won out and you went slack.” Jonathan’s hand went across to hers. It was her grip’s turn to tremble. She pressed on, “And somehow that was worse.”
“Worse how?”
“Because you looked just the same. Even before you said, ‘Don’t let him in,’ you looked just as you did that night. When he—when he had pushed your mind under and he—,” Jonathan stopped just short of crushing her hand in his. Her hold returned the favor. “You were limp, but you were struggling in your head just as she was struggling without, as though you two were fighting. Like you knew something was wrong and were clawing against it on the inside.”
“That is not too far from the truth,” he admitted. He told her of the lake that grew from Penclosa’s eyes, the fight he had made against the pressure of her hypnosis with animal reflex. “But it was not what he did to me. Likewise the Weird Sisters. Whatever irate creature lurks in the cellar of my mind, it read Penclosa as a threat even greater than Van Helsing’s softer attempt, and it fed fear up into me. Not that I can blame it any more than I can deride you for your concern. It was frightening for how unmoored I felt. She really does have a method all her own. Certainly one wholly alien to the mild haze that Van Helsing tried to push on me. But you saw yourself that she did no more than help. Or try, anyway. We shall see tonight.”
The tight grip had softened both ways to a mere cradling. Then Jonathan brought her knuckles up to press the gold band to his lips.
“I thank you either way for your concern. And for not tackling her.”
“Yes, well. No guarantees if tonight is unsuccessful. I should have to thrash her with my train guide in revenge.” Her attempt at a dour look cracked on the fourth word in and she batted his ankle with her shoe when he laughed. With food and drink now gone, they resumed their walk. While they’d not yet come by a shopfront with cameras in the window, they did find something smaller and sweeter in a jeweler’s display. Two somethings. Mina feigned a moment that it was a silly trifle, a saccharine one, really, and anyway it was more proper for a soldier and his wife, and…
“Oh, but haven’t you heard? I must be an officer of some kind. Witnesses all agree.” He slipped in the building before she could stop him. The unspoken warning sent by his look said that he would pick both if she did not choose her own. Chasing him inside, she saw him edging perilously near a pair of gold—
“I like the silver better,” she got out in a rush.
—then stood with her as the seller behind the glass cases came puttering up to point out every example in silver there was in his collection. To the man’s mild disappointment, the Harkers settled on a matching set with simple designs devoid of even a single scanty gem.
“We most definitely require a camera after this. We haven’t any photographs small enough for these.”
“We have this.” Jonathan tugged on a white lock of hair. Mina muttered again about soldiers and sailors.
But then, as Jonathan bowed so she might latch his chain on, she confessed, “Though I suppose we have risked as much as them. More than.”
“So we have,” Jonathan agreed, fastening her necklace at the nape. Back at the hotel they made their small snips before the toilet mirror, tying the cut locks with thread before tucking each in its locket. Jonathan sighed at hers. “This was a mistake after all. Yours looks as though you’re courting someone’s grandfather.”
“First, no one shall see inside but us.” Mina snapped the lid shut to punctuate as much. “Second, even if someone did see, it would not matter. They are not the one lucky enough to be your wife. If it’s someone especially young who saw, I could get away with telling them it came from some prince of fairy gentry.” She looped her arms about his neck. He hugged the small of her back in turn. “He courted me since we were small, better and sweeter than any ordinary man of England, wed me in a faraway land, and saved my life from a monster. With all these Grimm essentials out of the way, we are set to live our requisite happily ever after.”
“That is certainly a way to tell it. But my face is all wrong for it.” He tapped his cheek. “Too much of umber, not enough pearl.”
“Likewise for myself. But we can always say you were dreamt up by Scheherazade. The point is you are very much one of a kind and worth far more than the color of your hair. In any case, I wager you have more of jealous onlookers than anything. There are girls who would dunk their head in lime for a shade of blonde half as fair.”
“If I grow it out, perhaps I could make a new career by shearing it all off and peddling it to the wigmakers.”
“No.” The word was anguish.
“Oh, or I could go in for those rococo ringlets without having to bother with powder.”
“No!” The word was dismay.
“Or I could just start making off with your pins and ribbons every morning.”
There was an affronted gasp as he tossed his head and she played as if she meant to hide away her pin box. Laughter bubbled. Then there came a knock at the hotel room’s door with Van Helsing’s voice on the other side.
“I am rested and I see you both are restless,” the Professor announced as he made ready his post in the far corner facing their bed. He decorated it with books enough to bludgeon a man and a flask full enough to revive him. “If you need aid in dropping off, I can always practice my next lecture upon you. Dear John can attest there is no better soporific aid apart from chloral.”
It was an odd scene that unrolled through the evening. Though both Harkers were appropriately swaddled in robes to bar the sight of nightclothes, there was an unavoidable air of being overseen by an uncle with a heap of tiresome family stories to impart in lieu of nursery tales. Van Helsing himself grew bored enough of his own topics that he gave it up and plied husband and wife for talk of their day following the visit with Penclosa. That rambled on pleasantly before snagging on the topic of the mesmerist’s winded stance following Jonathan’s session.
“Ah, you made note of it too? Yes, she did greatly, truly struggle as I have not seen any mesmerist do before. Perhaps she is right, that it was just something of a long day’s fatigue and great focus on her task that so tired her. Yet I wonder. Professor Wilson, he shared with me his notes taken in interviews with himself and herself and the former partner, Professor Austin Gilroy.”
By now he had abandoned his chair and moved up into his habitual stance and pace of the scholar before his staring rows of pupils. He seemed to ache for a chalkboard at his back, for his hands kept stopping just short as if to gesture at something written. The Harkers sat with drowsy raptness as best they could.
“To them,” Van Helsing went on, “ she claims that her method is much, much different than the hypnotist who has only his eyes and voice and hand as his tools. Miss Penclosa, she claims that it is her own mind she uses as the sole instrument; that her will is a thing she may use detached of herself to enforce a command. This takes some toll upon her physical self, coming as lethargy in good moments and true exhaustion in bad. Wilson, he said to me that this must only be an offshoot of the hazy land of clairvoyance. But that there is some truth in her description seems to have credence, I think we cannot doubt. She did wrestle with your subconscious, my friend, and it was a hard battle won.”
Mina paled as she listened. Jonathan more so.
“So she claims it is a psychic act rather than a standard trance?” Mina ventured with only a slight treble. “She sent her mind into him?”
“That is the claim. And yes, I too would worry, but for our playing witness. We saw and heard ourselves how difficult the matter was for her, and how careful her implanted instruction. More, an instruction meant only for his unconscious mind to undertake against the nightmares it manufactures. It is not an easy thing to trust those of extraordinary skill, I will grant, but in this case it seems we are all of us reacting with the suspicion owed to another party. One who had his reasons to do harm. Miss Penclosa has known all of us less than a day. That she would exert herself to such an extreme, risking her own well-being to breach the barrier Jonathan’s mind bricked over to stop any influence at all, shows a character more prone to aid than mischief.”
“Not counting the show with Professor Atherton,” Mina parried. She was now sitting straighter on the bed’s edge. “While I cannot say the fellow didn’t deserve a little shaming for being so shameless, she quite thoroughly gutted him of all his secrets on a whim. Considering Jonathan’s and my own experience with such powerful wills overriding our own, I cannot say I approve of only discovering the whole of the method now, after she’s already been and gone from his head.”
“Wilson did not see fit to tell me so until after the session as we escaped to our hansoms. But your point is fair, Madam Mina. We should have known beforehand.”
“She should have said—,”
“We should have asked,” Jonathan said, trying not to let it grow to a yawn. His eyes were beginning to burn even as new nervousness twisted in him. “We were so occupied with my trouble that we skipped over any inquiry or interest in her. Regardless of whether tonight works out or not, we should still give her better due for,” he stifled another yawn, “her efforts.”
Though perhaps adhering strictly to that track would only be another heap of tedium, he thought but did not have the energy to share. He imagined she had spent most of her time in a guest or gawker’s company alternately doing tricks or regurgitating interviews that only scraped the professional interest of her ability. Jonathan’s mind floated into a hypothetical world of people only ever asking him about the handling of properties, every day, every week. Intolerable.
He would try to make a better effort tomorrow. He would. He would…
Think on it later. Let him lay back and rest his eyes a moment.
Ten minutes of rested eyes later, Mina signed to Van Helsing to lower his voice. Carefully, they took some spare blankets off a chair in lieu of jostling him to get him below the covers. Mina departed from the bed with a last gentle squeeze of his hand before getting up to keep watch with her own books and journal at hand. When Van Helsing whispered that there was no need and that she deserved her rest, she whispered back that she could not rest if she were rolling in Morpheus’ own poppies. Besides, better to have two on watch than one, wasn’t it?
Memory flickered in the man as he opened his mouth and shut it again. Perhaps he smelled garlic blossoms again, perhaps he saw another resting body upon a different bed, waiting on awful dreams. If he did, he did not say. Only agreed that Madam Mina raised another good point. They settled in to wait.
Only two other rooms in Tuppeton were more pregnant with anxious anticipation than theirs.
In one, a man sat with his journal, scratching miserably at it to force some small half-page of a record into existence. He paused with every other sentence to look despondently on his toils of the last few hours: a coat and a screwdriver assailed mercilessly with turpentine. These had been crusted with a rich green paint earlier in the day. Earlier than that, even. No doubt as early as midnight.
He had cried upon seeing the stains that afternoon. Just sat on his bed and wept as he had thought only assailed women and babes capable of. Even now, pen in hand, his eyes carried a traitorous wet burn. Still, he wrote. Still, he waited. Still, he doubted now more than ever that his tormentor would be quit of these turns of the screw. First his professional status was laughed to pieces. Now his freedom as a law-abiding citizen was left balanced on a knife’s edge. Ah, no! Upon a window’s ledge.
Even as he wrote to the page that he had taken only five grains of antipyrine for his storming headache and that his fiancée was all that kept him from taking fifty, his thoughts strayed again and again to the bleak mercy of the bottle. His life would not be his until one or the other of this damned link was dead. He knew it. He took his knowing to bed where he dreamt of bottomless feline eyes and a future full of miserable waiting and worse revelations.
“Be done with me,” he whispered to the dark. It might have been plea or prayer. “Be done with me, you parasite. There is nothing for you here.”
The dark did not answer, but he bit his tongue all the same. No, it was not done for his enemy was not done. The screw would turn and turn and turn until…
He fell asleep on the mental picture of a screw turned so far it had drilled through the virgin wood until it splintered and the screw vanished into some inner void on the other side. Even there, he knew it was turning still.
In another room, a woman stood at her window. The moon fell in and pooled on her eyes. Even as a girl she had been wont to stare without realizing. Since her adventure up at the Suttons’ she found she could forget the chore of blinking for hours at a time. Many small things had changed since that trip. Oh, what a difference an evening could make. What a greater one could be made in a single afternoon.
Other eyes watched on behind her. Some glass, some porcelain, some wood, some cloth. They belonged to an accumulated crowd she had not been able to part with in childhood or adolescence. There were newer ones still in storage with the rest of the goods delivered over from Trinidad. She did not play with them, of course. But these old friends still went where she did. Her heart was soft in that way, as she would demurely admit. One of the very few but very deep sentimental touches she permitted herself in life. She supposed, quite rightly, that if her fancy was for shrunken heads or naked skulls, her friend’s husband would be no less accommodating to their presence.
He saw nothing about her beyond the potential anatomy of his future gloating before the disbelievers of his academic world. This was just as well.
The stargazer turned briefly from the moon to regard the dolls along their shelf and the puppets hung mid-pose on their coat hooks. All stared, all smiled.
She stood with one hand upon her crutch while the other gripped a card. The label of Hawkins and Harker was stamped on its front with the litter of address and business information below. On the other side were new additions.
Exeter.
Letter address.
Locale tour with Gloria (?).
Old furnishings from storage.
New furnishings with J.
The last was underlined twice. Circled. Underlined again. She turned the card gently in her hand and brought it up again to look over. After a moment, she held the slip of heavy paper to her lips.
“Not to worry,” she murmured to the print. “I’ll take care of everything.”
#in which the stage is set for a most romantic escapade with our good friend Jonathan Harker#hope you all enjoy the pile o' text#while I'm still working on this ^^^ I've also got another surprise cooking#I may or may not drop a little hint later this week :3#but in the meantime#happy valentine's day#helen penclosa#jonathan harker#mina harker#abraham van helsing#austin gilroy#jack seward#arthur holmwood#the parasite#dracula#arthur conan doyle#bram stoker#crossover#my writing#horror#hypnosis#mesmerism
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*cough*Are you sure that’s me stalking and not my doppelgänge?? / jk
Am doing great, besides the fact i am only going to be here until 3rd of April. WHY AM I IN MY ARCANA PHASE AGAIN AT SUCH A LATE TIME HHH.
Also, I might request some angst headcanons. Maybe someone being dead? Idk shha
Okay 1. ITS OKAY I joined late too, welcome to the club sis 💕
And 2. You. Are. Evil. But I will definitely do some angst for you. I secretly hope you CRY when you read this angst.
What the M6 do, when you die
Heads up: gender neutral pronouns for reader, M/C is yellow, very angsty, read at your own risk, mentions of mental health issues (anxiety, depression, etc…)
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"not... again..."
absolutely distraught, can no longer sleep, eat, think for himself, walk, breathe... etc.
Half his heart has gone, for good. Many times he contemplates sacrificing himself or other people in exchange for you to come back.
"I can bring them back again, right?"
shop closes for an extended amount of time, the baker starts to worry about him, the others regularly check in on him. He spends most of his days in his gate and the realms in hopes to contact you.
It takes him almost a year to leave the shop and care for himself again.
He curses everything and becomes pretty hostile for a while. Trust issues, anger, depression, everything sky rockets in the worst ways possible, and you aren't there to bring him back to his old self.
Asra needed you all the time. He missed your laugh, your touch, your aura. Living life without your presence made him feel like there was no point to living.
forgets how to function, in the worst way possible.
"Julian, when was the last time you ate?" "I can't remember...”
Walking disaster. He gets drunk more often, there isn’t a moment when he’s sober.
Asra checks in on him at least once a week since he knows how bad Julian can get.
He closes his clinic and tries to stay hidden from the others. He pushes everyone away, in fear of losing someone else.
This isn’t the first time he’s lost someone but, this one hurts the most.
You were the air he breathed. He missed giving you dramatic, romantic speeches and other little things.
He tries to tell Asra to teach him magic, in hopes of contacting you again through the magical realms, “maybe the fools realm.” “The realms are dangerous without-“ “I’ll take any risk to see them again.”
He looks at the collection of love letters, paintings, drawings, photos, anything to keep your face engraved into his mind.
Vesuviua mourns with her. Nadia has been such an incredible leader and so the city mourns when she loses you. I’m a way, the city lost you too, you did a great deal of good for the people of Vesuviua.
“I’ll find you in another lifetime, my dear.”
Like Asra, she knows how the magical realms work. Instead of sleeping each night, she travels to the realms to try and find you. She swears, she's getting close.
Everyone around her is understanding. the entire city saw how incredibly happy you both were together.
She is back to being alone again. Truly alone. Yes she has the others but you... you were there for her every moment of every day. Every breath she took, you were beside her. She had almost forgotten what is was like to be alone, thanks to you.
She dreads waking up and is always in a bad mood after another unsuccessful night of trying to find you.
Has a memorial statue of you in the gardens, facing her private balcony and she cries every time she looks at it.
"I need you back..."
Sobbing for weeks, never leaving his wing, punching holes through his walls, not taking care of himself...
He’s not angry after a few months but sad. He was very angry in the beginning, when he felt like he could have done something, but you can only convince yourself you’re useful so many times.
6 months after your passing, he treks to your home town to hold a proper burial for you.
The people around him in Vesuvia find it hard to see him like this. He could be a threat to anybody but they understand how much you affected him, so they all offer as much support as they can.
You taught him how to be a better person and without you reassuring him each day, he can only hold onto your words and do things he thought was right
he tried his hardest to stay strong in public but it was hard. He wanted to look strong always but the first few weeks were rough.
"Me and Pepi miss you... so much."
She buries you around her cottage, in a secluded corner. She watches every day, the tree you were buried under, grow and prosper. Little white and yellow flowers bloom in the spring and last the whole year.
Nadia gives her as much time off as she needs.
Now, Pfeels completely useless without you though.
The little things hurt the most. Waking up to you changing Pepi's litter, cooking only for one person again, not having any help in the garden, seeing all your clothes in the closet...
"It's okay Pepi..."
Julian visits almost every night for the first few months. He always comes ready to tend to Portia and make her feel as well as she can feel.
"This isn't happening"
he spirals into a long, very angry stage of denial. He can't accept the fact that you're gone when it feels like he just got you.
He makes a vow to himself, to never get attached to another person again in fear of losing them.
he blames himself all the time. "Muriel stop..." "I could have done something.
He can never go back to the person he used to be, because you changed him for the better but now you aren't around to see him anymore. And that kills him inside
Asra is over almost every night.
Inanna has had to pull Muriel out of bed for weeks on end.
He knows you would want him to continue living but its too hard without you there.
He and Asra venture through the realms to try and find you. Muriel is determined.
#the arcana#the arcana game#the arcana asra#the arcana nadia#the arcana julian#the arcana portia#the arcana lucio#the arcana muriel#portia devorak#julian devorak#arcana julian#lucio montag#muriel#asra alnazar#doctor devorak#the arcana angst#nadia satrinava#asra#portia#lucio morgasson#count lucio
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NEW ENTRY ON MY BLOG!
On October 29, 1996, Demri passed away of acute intoxication caused by the combined effects of opiate, meprobamate, and butalbital when she was only 27.
Demri and Layne in the Spring of 1990 by Krista Kay.
Her last few years, since around Thanksgiving 1993, her health began taking a turn for the worse. She told her mother she had been having fevers in excess of a hundred degrees. Austin told Demri the next time it happened, she should go to the hospital. The first of many hospitalizations happened shortly after. “She came in to the hospital for the first time at the end of November of ‘93. She was in until January of ‘94. She got out and was back in in March of ‘94 and at that time put on life support,” Austin recalled. “When she would be in, she would come in to the emergency room. They would admit her up into a medicine floor; then she’d go from the medicine floor to the Intensive Care Unit and life support, and then she wouldn’t die. So she’d go back to the medicine floor – she’d be on IV and antibiotics for a month. This went on and on and on. She had her lungs operated on twice. She had her heart operated on twice [she had a heart valve repaired and another replaced and the pacemaker implanted age 26]. She suffered miserably.” [1]
Jacque: “She was very sick in the end. She’d had open heart surgery and had nerve damage to her feet which were mostly numb. She had no body fat at all, and was cold all the time. Often the car’s heater would be on full blast, even on a nice day, everyone would be sweating and she’d be shivering and wearing a sweater.” [2]
According to Amber Ferrano, Dave Navarro was the one who brought up the endocarditis . They had the doctors check and found it on the back of Demri’s heart valve.
Demri with Dave Navarro ca. 1994 in a medical facility.
Amber Ferrano: “Dave was my go-to person as someone who had kicked to help Layne and Demri when various things came up with them regarding drugs because they had used with him in the past when Jane’s Addiction came through town and now clean. Dave was their inspiration. He was in AA, and though they didn’t believe in AA they loved him, he was non-jugemental and kind. They really wanted to show him they could get clean. Bob Timmins helped too. They thought if lifers could get clean because of him there was hope.
Dave was the one who brought up the endocarditis, asking if that is what she had. It was the first time we heard of it. All those times in the hospital. They ended up finding it on the back of her heart valve.”
While in the ICU, Austin said Demri was conscious but intubated – she had a tube inserted down her throat to help her breathe, which she despised. She would tell her mother, “I hate being fucking intubated. I can’t talk, and these people come and they ask me these fucking questions, and I can’t fucking talk, and I feel like a fucking fish in a fucking fishbowl.” She communicated by writing on a small blackboard with a piece of chalk. [1]
Despite the multiple hospitalizations and brushes with death, Demri continued using drugs. She had seemingly accepted that her addiction was going to kill her.
Amber Ferrano: “I brought mortuary books in to Demri at the hospital when Layne got back from New York in April of 1996. I, of course, shocked Demri and said I thought we could go coffin shopping. Of course when Layne got there she told on me. When she first saw them she was balling saying she didn’t want to die. Layne talked about all the issues. I said you have to be clean to fix those issues and they get less and less. The thing with them was people waiting outside their home with drugs as a way to befriend them or mailing it to them. It killed Layne when he got letters about people using. He didn’t write to glorify it, it was cathartic to work his way through it."
Barbara Dearaujo: “She was in and out of the hospital for months at a time before she actually passed away. I would go visit her and she had all the nurses going crazy. She put up all her drawings and flowers all over the walls and did things she wasn’t supposed to do like take off with her IV and go out and smoke. She was a wild child... My heart goes out to her mom. She was a good mother and she tried so hard to help Demri, but Demri was her own woman and she lived in the extreme always. She was a broken child. Grasping for something to relieve some deep pain that no one but her knew.”
One of the last photos of Demri alive, as far as her mum knew. Demri and her mum Kathleen on September 1996. Kathleen sent this photo to Memories of Demri instagram (no longer exists).
Donald John: “I was very close with Demri Parrott, knew her during her last year of life. I met her at the hospital through a friend and became very close to her. I used to visit her a lot while in the hospital, and we had some very deep spiritual conversations about everything, including her relationship with Layne from the start to the end. She even gave me a pair of sunglasses that was his. I used to read books to her and let her borrow a lot of my books, especially art books, to keep her busy. I used to hold her while she cried and watched her while she slept. I used to go outside with her when she wanted to smoke and when she was feeling better to walk, and met her mother. I even got to check out her mother’s home which had a lot of pictures of Demri of her modeling days and stuff. Sometimes on her breaks she would come to my apartment that was like 5 min walk away from the hospital. She would come over and we would do heroin together and paint pictures with my art supplies, sitting Indian style on the floor listening to music. Then when she was released from the hospital she stayed with me for a while in my place and even slept in the same bed with me, we never had sexual relations but were deep friends and something more. She and Layne at the time were pretty much over even though he visited her while in the hospital. Sometimes we would cuddle in bed and she was so skinny. When she would leave to do her errands around town she would sometimes come back with gifts, like one time I got a cool wallet from her and a necklace with an angel on it – at the time I had my first tattoo of an angel on my forearm. When me and Demri first met I was just smoking heroin, then I started shooting and when she found out she was very upset. Time had passed and I saw her frequently. Then I found out about her death.” [2]
The other of the last photos of Demri alive, as far as her mum knew. Demri and her mum Kathleen on September 1996. Kathleen sent this photo to Memories of Demri instagram (no longer exists).
Ryan Kalsbeck:“Demri was staying for a bit with me at my old apartment off 45th and Lake City Way, we had been friends for years by this point but her addiction was sad for me to see. We had long serious conversations about a lot of things. Personal, to say the least. But she always carried her Leather Modeling Portfolio with her everywhere she would go or where she was staying, but she made me promise to please hold on to this portfolio for her and don’t let anyone around it or in it and she would eventually have a solid place to bring it to and for safe keeping. I never let one picture wander off into anyone ever. I promised Demri I would guard it and I knew how important this was to her fading life. She was so afraid of loosing this or someone stealing it, probably swiping rare as f*ck photos of her and Layne, stacks of the two in different vintage clothing. But I had her portfolio in my possession for at least 1 year, and one day like normal she left my apartment and I was still sleeping. Said, ‘I’ll see you at the Off Ramp later tonight.’ I wasn’t surprised to not run into her that night, and this was one of the last times of her disappearing, no one hearing from her for months at a time. But she always popped up at someone’s place eventually. The story is deep, and thick, and personal for me to speak of.”
Terri Brannon: “Last time I saw her, I went over to Carolina Court to say goodbye because I was moving back to Arkansas. I had a very sad feeling when I hugged her. I knew in my heart I’d never see her again. She was so full of life back then. A wild gypsy child. Reminded me of myself many years before. It’s been years and years, but you never forget Demri. She is unforgettable.” [2]
Demri's graveyard at Miller-Woodlawn Memorial Park, Bremerton, Washington, USA
During her final days, Demri was staying with an older man named Tom, the father of a friend of hers, at his place in Bothell. According to Amber Ferrano, he was a drug dealer, Demri was staying with him because he had klonopin so she wouldn’t have seizures. Demri had lived something of a nomadic existence, staying with different people for periods of a few days to a few weeks at a time. Toward the end of her life, it became very difficult for her to find a place to stay.
On the afternoon of October 28, 1996, Tom drove Demri into Seattle. She told him she wanted a few things from a Fred Meyer grocery store. When he arrived at the store, Demri was unconscious, and he couldn’t wake her. He went into the store to pick up her things, leaving the car engine running so she wouldn’t get cold. He came out of the store, drove home, and still couldn’t wake her. He left her in the car unconscious so he could do his laundry. He eventually realized something was seriously wrong.
Demri was eventually brought in to the emergency room at Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland at 7:30 P.M. – two and a half hours after she first lost consciousness. Her mother got a phone call from the hospital, telling her Demri was there.
Kathleen asked the doctors if Demri could hear her. The doctors told her they thought she could. She clutched Demri’s hand and said, “Dem, if you have a choice to stay or to go, you don’t have to stay for me anymore.” During previous hospitalizations, she had always told her to fight, to to survive. This time was different. [1]
Jack Plasky: “The first time I met Layne was when he came by my studio after Demri passed. We hung out for about six or seven hours. We went through Demri’s pictures. We did not talk much, it was more like sharing with me his pain. He was not a rock god that day, just a regular person who wanted to share the loss with each other. We had a very strong bond based on our love and caring for Demri, and her feelings for us. I got a strong true feeling from him when he looked at Demri’s pictures, that life held nothing for him anymore.”
Ariel Layton: “Demri used to spend a lot of time with my girlfriend, Jana. She actually passed away in my friend Tom’s truck. I also ended up couch-surfing at Buddah’s around the same time as Layne shortly after she passed. He had photos of her everywhere, it was very sad.”
Kathleen Austin: “Derek loved Dem so much and nothing she did would ever change that. He spoke at her funeral, ‘If my sister got on the ferry in Seattle, she knew everyone on the boat by the time it reached Bremerton’.”
Clay: “Demri, it’s been 13 years [March, 2009] since you went to be with Jesus and I still miss you so much sweetie. I’m so glad we got to share all the time with each other before you left us. When we prayed and talked about Heaven and The Lord, it still makes me think about how I look forward to seeing you again and being with you forever. I hope all the world knows you are with Christ now and your faith in Him, so they can have the same hope we shared. I’ll always treasure your Bible your grandma gave me, until we are together again. Love you always, Clay.”
Brochure from Demri’s memorial service, which was held on November 2, 1996. Shared by Marisi Sojit and posted by “Comunidad Alice in Chains Chile” Facebook group. Found via Instagram: memoriesofdemri (no longer exists)
Carolyn Hart Gutierrez: “She was one of the most amazingly trusting, compassionate, openhearted persons I’ve ever known, albeit briefly. We went to the same high school, and she was a friend of my younger sister. I have often thought about her over the years. It broke my heart to hear that she was gone from this Earth. I always imagined that she grew up and became a happy little momma who would teach her children to believe in magic and that if you wish on a star your wish will come true, and to dance in the rain. That’s what I believe. Demri may be gone, but she is never forgotten.” [2]
Krisha Augerot: "She was like the sweetest, cutest, tiny hippie chick – just adorable and gorgeous. Never would I have ever imagined what happened to her happening".
Mara Whelan: “My dear soul sister, she extracted the truly beautiful parts of my soul and made me unafraid. She brought light into the depths of darkness from within. She loved all my ugliness and glorified my uniqueness.
Demri and I lived together, slept together as sister spoons, hitchhiked all up and down the coast and back and forth to Seattle from Everett a million times. We lived in Seattle together in multiple places. When we didn’t live together, even when the drugs came into play, we never lost each other.
She was the most beautiful soul that ever existed. What I would do to feel her hand in mine again.”
Barbara Dearaujo: “Demri was an artist herself, a model and someone who could always make you laugh. She was the type of person who when she entered a room full of people all eyes would be on her. She sucked the energy from the room and then blasted it back out at you and made you laugh and smile. She was so different than everyone else and everyone knew it who met her. Geeky, funny, caring, talented and unique girl who could of owned the world if she had not got caught up in what was going on around her. She was a star in her own right.”
*All the information has been collected from the "Memories of Demri" document shared on google drive*
Sources cited:
[1] Alice in Chains: The Untold Story by David de Sola
[2] Instagram: memoriesofdemri (no longer exists)
*VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO LITTLE QUEENIES AND MEMORIES OF DEMRI*
Some great Demri sites you MUST check:
Little Queenies tumblr blog - Demri info
Little Queenies' collection of Demri's photos hosted at Google Photos
Memories of Demri document hosted on Google Drive
Videos of Demri hosted on Google Drive
World of Demri on Instagram
World of Demri substack blog
Demri L. Parrott on facebook
Demri L. Parrott on Instagram
Demri Lara Parrott on Instagram
Demri Parrott Legacy on Instagram
Beautiful Demri Blogspot
#demri parrott#demri lara parrott#demri parrott murphy#demriparrott#demri lara parrott murphy#demri murphy#demri lara murphy#links#1996#rip#gone but not forgotten#gone but never forgotten#gone too soon#memories#like#join#follow#subscribe
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Star-Crossed Myth Fluffbruary Fanfic April Catch-up (14th Feb Prompt): Bubbles (Huedhaut/MC)
Title: Bubbles
Fandom: Star-Crossed Myth
Genre: Fluff
Rating: M (For implied sexual talk and taking a bath together)
Pairing: Huedhaut/MC (MC’s name left blank so you can fill it in with whatever you wish in your head)
Word Count: 1362
Written for Prompt: phone | bubble bath | doll for @fluffbruary
A/N: I guess a bath scene in an SCM Fanfic was gonna be inevitable eventually!
Bubbles (Huedhaut/MC)
Yawning a little, ___ tried to concentrate on throwing together a quick evening meal. The latest event at work might have gone even better than she had hoped but they had been really busy the past week. Perhaps she would just eat this and then get an early night.
It was at that point her phone beeped. Pausing to pick it up, her eyes widened a little as she noticed it had no number attached. She had been expecting it to be Hiyori but when she saw what it actually was she wasn’t sure whether she should be excited or worried. The message read:
‘Could you come over to the mansion tonight? I have connected the door already. Oh, but please have your dinner first, I know what you are like if you have not eaten. ~ Hue.’
___ rolled her eyes a little at the end of the message. She could almost feel Huedhaut smirking through the text. However it was also making her smile. Perhaps the last bit of the message was reassurance that there wasn’t anything wrong and she did really want to see the other.
The idea of an early night now mostly forgotten, she quickly finished the cooking and sat down to eat.
***
A little while later, ___ headed to the mansion as Huedhaut had requested.
“Evening, ___,” Teorus greeted her brightly.
“Evening,” ___ muttered back. “Um… where’s Hue?”
Teorus sighed. “Can’t you spend some time with the rest of us first?”
“Teo…”
“He’s in his room,” Teorus relented. He then smirked teasingly at her. “Actually I would get going. I wouldn’t want to keep you from him any longer.”
___ blinked, a little puzzled, but didn’t question Teorus’ further. Instead she mumbled a thank you to him, before heading to her boyfriend’s room.
Knocking on the door, ___ hesitantly opened it as there was no reply. “Hue?” She called out, stepping into the room. It was then that she realised the lighting in the room was slightly dimmer than usual, but the pool in the middle of Huedhaut’s room was shimmering and filled with bubbles. Moving over to it, she crouched down and ran a hand through the water, the bubble bath mixture feeling nice against her hand.
“Usually people get into baths to enjoy them…”
___ turned sharply as Huedhaut let out a chuckle after that comment. “... Was this what you called me here for?”
“No, I thought I would see how long bubbles would float for before disappearing.”
“Hue,” ___ snapped, but then reddened slightly as she looked back at the pool.
Huedhaut wrapped an arm around her from behind, his hair tickling her cheek as he leant over her shoulder. “Are you not going to get in? I thought you could do with a relaxing evening.”
“How ever did you…” ___ trailed off, recalling the odd way Teorus had been acting when she spoke to him. “You were keeping an eye on me in the reflecting pool weren’t you?”
“That is your own fault,” Huedhaut retorted, holding her close. “After all you spent all of today wishing you could go to bed.”
___ tilted her head upwards to look at him, smirking a little. “You’re supposed to be a Wishes God. You do realise by calling me here, you’ve stopped that from being fulfilled as I was going to go to bed once I’d eaten?”
“I’ve merely delayed it,” Huedhaut responded with a glint in his eyes. “We will get to bed eventually.”
“Hue!” ___ blushed profusely, knowing what he meant by that.
“Oh? Would you rather go back to your smaller bed? I thought you wanted to recharge after your long work week.”
“... I can never win with you,” ___ mumbled. Truth was she was really touched by all the effort the other had gone to, although now she was looking warily at the water once more. “If I’m going to get in, are you going to turn away?”
Huedhaut let go of her and took a step back, but did no more than that. He smirked at her as she turned around. “It is not as though any of you is unfamiliar to me at this point.”
“But, I…” ___ trailed off as she saw Huedhaut raise his hand. “Don’t you dare snap your fingers!”
“... Pfft.” Huedhaut beamed with amusement. His eyes glinted mischievously. “What’s it to be then? Are you going to get undressed yourself or shall I do it for you?”
“If those are the only options, maybe I’ll just go home,” ___ grumbled, heading towards the door.
Huedhaut sighed, looking down at the floor. “We have not seen each other for over a week and you are leaving already?”
___ paused and reached out to him. “Hue, I’m sorry, I…” she trailed off as he looked back up at her, a familiar smirk back on his face. “You’re being really mean tonight!”
“... Forgive me. I missed you.”
Hearing that frank admission, combined with the intense loving gaze the other was now giving her, ___ relaxed into a soft smile of her own. Hugging him tightly now, she stood on tiptoe to kiss the other.
Huedhaut bent down and met her halfway, sharing a kiss so intense anyone else would think they had not seen each other for months, not less than two weeks.
“I missed you too,” ___ admitted quietly as she pulled away from the other. “I would not really have left yet, it’s just…”
“You’re tired,” Huedhaut murmured in understanding. “If I got carried away I apologise.”
“Not at all,” ___ reassured. “But if you want to make it up to me, you can turn round whilst I get into the pool.”
Huedhaut sighed but smiled wryly at her. “Fine, but you better make it up to me later.”
Once he had turned away as promised, ___ got out of her clothes and quickly into the pool, sinking down into the bubbles so that she was completely covered apart from her face.
A few minutes later there was the sound of footsteps approaching her, and Huedhaut held out a cocktail drink for her.
Taking it from him, ___ took a sip of it, her eyes closing a little as she enjoyed the sweet taste of the alcohol it contained. “Mmm, this is an oddly relaxing drink…”
“Good, it is supposed to be,” Huedhaut murmured softly.
“... You not getting in?” ___ asked hesitantly as she looked up at him, her face reddening a little at the suggestion.
Huedhaut smirked at her. “You insist I turn around for you to get in and now you are inviting me in anyway.”
“Well… the bubbles do make this less…”
The other chuckled lightly. “Maybe I should fill this with bubbles more often then,” he teased. He snapped his fingers to get rid of his uniform, before quickly slipping into the water beside her.
Trying to stay relaxed, ___ took another sip of her drink, watching her boyfriend as he summoned a drink for himself. Looking around the room now, she murmured, “You know in such a lavish pool with all these bubbles and a custom cocktail in my hand, I feel like I’m in some kind of Hollywood romance movie.”
“If you want me to start calling you ‘Doll’ I’m sure I could oblige,” Huedhaut responded, his expression unreadable.
“... What makes you think I would like something like that?!” ___ responded, feeling a little flustered at even the suggestion of pet names. However she then splashed some of the water in Huedhaut’s direction as the other closed his eyes and beamed at her. “Hue! I thought you were going to lay off the sarcasm!”
“... I’m sorry but your expressions are just too amusing.”
___ sighed softly, unable to stop smiling despite her slight frustration at his teasing. However, they both knew that neither of them would have it any other way. Hesitantly she moved nearer to him in the water.
Huedhaut hesitantly wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “___ ?”
“Thank you for tonight, this is much nicer than just going straight to bed would have been.”
Huedhaut turned and kissed her briefly, before leaning his forehead against her own. “Anytime.”
#star crossed myth fanfic#scm fanfic#star crossed myth#scm#scm huedhaut#huedhaut x mc#fluffbruary 2024
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