I stared at the button for a long time. Clicked off the page and put it at the back of my mind for a time. Surely, there had to be something I could do other than obliterate my novel from existence.

I halfway sought solutions, looked at plot holes and threads I could tighten up and simply release a revised 2nd edition in the not-too-distant future. One of the perks of being self published is that we’re infinitely capable of upgrading our work.

Days came and went. Weeks. Now it’s been about six months. And I finally pulled the trigger this morning, and unpublished my novel “Blood from Stone”.

“But you’ll lose your reviews!” All 3 of them? 10 ratings in total? That’s fine. Easy enough to make up, some day. Or not.

Either way, this is about reflection and realizing that sometimes the best thing to do is to let go.

I fully intend to come back to that universe and tell the tale of the Winterbournes and the ones who love them, because I do thoroughly enjoy my weird take on vampires in that world. But for now, it’s time to put Liliana and Co to the side. I haven’t had any sales or KU reads of the book for several months, but we’ll ignore that largely being due to me doing zero marketing…

(I’m also using too many ellipses and someone’s going to think I’m AI, but they can suck a fat one. Thanks, ‘Stranger Things’ for bringing that phrase back into my lexicon!)

“Blood from Stone” was an important part of my journey back to considering myself an author. It was the first full length novel I managed to publish post-divorce. Without getting too into the mess of things between my ex husband and I, writing spicy fiction for fun and profit wasn’t something he approved of, nor allowed time for.

Getting that book out into the world, while being a single mother and working my ass off at my primary profession (licensed massage therapist) was my assurance to myself that yes: I could do this. I could fucking do this, and I would. If for no other reason than spite and to prove that I could make it happen. And I did it!

With my current circumstances, I can’t do rapid release. It’s just not feasible, at current. I’m working on a way to get closer to making that happen, but it’s in the formative stages in my brain.

“Blood from Stone” wasn’t RUSHED, per se, but it wasn’t fully formed when I kicked it out into the world and expected it to just float along and eventually soar on its own. No follow-up even halfway complete. No real executable plan for getting it in front of people. And as I’ve been attempting to work on the sequel, and plan out the rest of the series, that reality punched me right in the gut.

To err is human, but to admit you fucked up and do the work to correct it… That’s a big sign of growth and internal healing.

BfS is a reverse harem story with a heroine who ends up in a relationship with 7 vampires who are (mostly) brothers. The other themes in the book (found family, learning to love yourself, healing from trauma, finding your place and purpose in the world: just to name a few) are important. But in trying to satisfy the need for smut to be prevalent, anyone other than very discerning readers likely missed the other parts.

And don’t get me wrong: I love smut. Writing it, reading it. You can learn a great deal about characters through the way they interact with others in such an intimate setting, so I’m absolutely not trying to demonize the presence of sexual content in books written for adults. Quite the opposite, in fact.

However, after doing a lot of reflection, I realized why I leaned so hard (ha!) into the smut in this book. I’m a paranormal/horror reader, primarily. Before “paranormal” had to be followed by the word “romance”, and it wasn’t really called urban fantasy.

That being said, I’m also a big fan of action movies and anime and manga. I like fight scenes. I LOVE writing the choreography of a scene that has big epic battles. And you know what smut scenes are, at their core? Especially if writing multiple partners all interacting at once? Choreography. Keeping track of who’s doing what, and where, and making sure it all makes sense while painting an emotional picture of WHY it’s all happening.

Aside from a sparring scene or two, there aren’t any big fight scenes in BfS. But there are more than a few extremely involved smut scenes, which may occasionally go for more than a chapter. And that mostly satisfied my need for describing the way folks’ bodies interact with each other.

Re-reading my novel reminded me of the books that really interested me in becoming an author, back when self publishing was so new that it wasn’t an option quite yet. Rob Thurman’s “Cal Leandros” series, which is fully paranormal/urban fantasy/modern magical realism or whatever the hell you want to classify it as now. And Laurell K. Hamilton’s “Anita Blake” and “Merry Gentry” books.

Rob Thurman’s series, mostly told through the POV of Caliban Leandros, had a lot of introspection about being part monster, and external expression through fight scenes and a constant edge of danger. Whether the issue was local, or eventually a much larger threat to humanity, there were always big stakes. No “cozy” here. Quite the opposite, in fact. I loved it so much because it felt like the gritty, gothic punk setting described in White Wolf Games Vampire: the Masquerade (and all the other bits in the same vein).

Enter Anita Blake. Petite vampire hunter and zombie raiser. Absolute ass-kicker of a heroine. I think it wasn’t until book 8-10 or later in the series that she even hooked up with the ever present, immortally patient Jean Claude. Also gritty, badass mystery urban fantasy stuff. Until Anita’s weird paranormal affliction that feeds on lust energy resulted in her having a harem so large that I couldn’t even tell you how many people (I use this term loosely) she needed to bone to not go nuclear.

I think I was around book 20 when I finally couldn’t see the plot past all the whining about Anita being poly and nobody understanding that these were all her boyfriends. I re-read the first portion of the series regularly, though. Turns out the author, herself, is polyamorous. So I understand that a lot of things in this series are her working through that. And good for her, frankly.

The Merry Gentry series was buff, beefy elf/fairy smut right out of the gate. And I found that series with a book off the shelf from the local pharmacy, back in the wonderful heyday of mass market paperbacks, when I was a sophomore in high school. So anybody who says that ACOTAR was the beginning of muscular elves and fae in fiction… Wrong.

When I discovered Anita Blake, it was in the horror section at our local Borders bookstore(RIP). The themes of zombies, vampires, werewolves and the like very much belonged there. This was before “paranormal romance” was its own entity. And long before “romantasy” took over the industry.

I’m not knocking romance, because I enjoy indulging in it as both a reader and author. However… I miss when romance was the subplot. From taking the entire last year reading nothing but horror (from extreme to cosmic), and being totally unable to finish ANYTHING where romance was the primary genre, it’s made me rethink how I want to write and frame my own work.

And that’s why I’m shelving BfS for now, and doing a full rewrite of the story I’m referring to as “Project: Idol” until a good title slaps me in the face. I want the plot and the paranormal elements and the WORLD BUILDING to be the primary focus.

So much current writing advice, outside of swords and sorcery fantasy, says that world building is something readers just don’t care about. And I went with that. But when I’m presenting a world so different from our own, you know what? It IS important. And that’s a big part of the writing process that I truly enjoy.

On top of that, I like setting descriptions. The bland, sad greige-ification of settings and characters is something I will not abide by. You don’t want to know what a character looks like? That’s not me. I want every detail, about every damned thing, in dripping lurid technicolor 4k. If the scene doesn’t roll through your brain like a scene in a movie, then I’m missing something and need to tweak it.

I realize now that’s my style, and that’s what I’ll be doing going forward. Not everyone will enjoy it, and that’s fine. Not every book is for everybody, and I think a lot of weird reader entitlement has shaped the way authors execute their craft. Not in a good way.

If you don’t like it, you know the solution? Go read a different book that fits your tastes. I just turned 40 a few months ago, and I feel like it’s led me to a wonderful level of “my give a damn’s busted” that will help me move forward in my author journey and life. I’m done chopping myself, and my writing, into tiny digestible chunks.

If you made it this far, thanks for your time! Have you had any recent revelations about your life or craft that have been total game changers? Leave me a comment and let me know! And don’t forget to subscribe for more mildly unhinged blogs!

~Miranda K. Darq

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She swatted frantically at the cobwebs that clung to her face, cleaving to her flesh as though its weaver wanted to crawl through that barrier and merge with her soul. She had to stay silent. Resist the urge to scream.

Creeping through the dark, echoing, damp corridor, her pulse roared in her ears. The skittering, scuttling steps behind her were relentless. She didn’t know what the creature was, but the visceral urge to get away from it was undeniable.

Her lips moved as rapidly as her feet, and remained as soundless. She prayed to any god that would listen for her path to lead topside, to an exit. If she could just survive… she would never explore anything again.

Maybe you're just missing the right kind of noise.

As a mom, I'm used to always needing to keep an ear out for something. So headphones and loud music have largely been a no-go for nearly 13 years.

When the boys are with their dad, I'm usually at work, or so worn out from work that the last thing I want is noise. "We're overstimulated" is a phrase that's used so often that I think the word has lost all meaning.

I also live in an apartment with paper thin walls, so I try to be considerate and never have any devices over normal speaking volume (even if my neighbors don't return that kindness...)

I'm trying to get hyped up and clean the apt before an evening away. The boys aren't here tonight. I put on headphones and start vacuuming. The lyrics are barely loud enough to be heard over the drone of the machine.

Force of habit. Have to be quiet. Have to be on the alert.

I went to a concert 5 days ago, and getting to feel every note reverberate through my chest and every molecule in my body made me feel alive again, for a shining day or two.

These are pricey AF Razer headphones. Beasts have bass and good clarity. I literally stood stock still and closed my eyes, and gradually cranked the volume knob higher and higher. Went slowly enough that it wasn't even bothering me when it gave me the "danger of hearing loss past this point" beep.

Gave it a minute and decided around 75% is the sweet spot for me. And now I'm hearing all these layers and minute sounds in songs that I haven't noticed in years, because life has become so quiet. So still.

(Don't take up space, don't make noise. Just blend in and everything will be fine.)

Until it's not fine anymore. And you realize that those constant commands from all corners of socmed and media in general, to be still and shrink and not disturb anything, are sucking what tiny slivers of joy life used to hold from you.

So now I'm sitting here, taking a minute to pull myself together, because feeling the bass from these headphones and having the sound obliterate everything else is literally making me sob as I'm listening to a Stray Kids song that isn't even sad.

The happy chemicals from louder than life music in my ears outdo anything that doomscrolling ever can. So... maybe you're not overstimulated. Maybe you're just exhausted from always having to be quiet for the comfort of a society that largely pretends you don't exist, anyway. Maybe you just need the right kind of noise.

Make art. Make music. Make your own clothing. Make food. Make friends. Write poems. Write books. Be loud. Laugh fearlessly. Let the Universe know that you're here, and you're still alive.

Existence isn't meant to be quiet like the grave, and I'm done behaving like that's how it has to be.

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Chapter 10: Natalie

I roll the still very-full mug of root beer back and forth between my fingers, seeking guidance from the opaque brown depths.

“What’s something that’ll take a potential partner, single occurrence or long-term, from a total yes to a no-fucking-way?”

He doesn’t even hesitate with his answer. “Two things that tend to get wound to…

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Chapter 9: Natalie

Thankfully, the panic is only internal. But the way Valentine shifts gears so smoothly on the little loaner of a company car should be criminal. My mind keeps flashing back to the way he’d caught me, saved my ass from falling in the treatment room. His arms felt so natural wrapped around me, his thick muscles tensed up as I w…

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Chapter 8: Valentine

It’s been a month since I nearly had her. That tease of a taste, the barest brushing of the warmth of her lips against mine wasn’t enough. She’s been guarded as hell since that day, and all I can think about is finding the right bulldozer to topple those walls she’s built into nothing but rubble.

And now, knowing for certain…

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Chapter 7: Natalie

“Seven devils make Hell Heaven!” The crowd chants their signature phrase as Inferno finishes their encore and the guys all head backstage.

I’m on the move, backpack loaded and all my gear on a small trolley I can toss into the back of the shuttle van for the crew. We always work in tandem with whoever’s provided by any venue w…

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Chapter 6: Natalie

Haven is doing better than I expected. He seems to be recovering quickly, so whatever the issue was last night, it hopefully won't be repeated. Ryker and Sterling are the easiest bodies of the bunch, as always. They are the best at listening when I give them exercises and stretches to do.

I have to get my stepladder out to wor…

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Chapter 5: Natalie

My eyelids struggle to open as my alarm blares from my phone. I slap the screen a few times to stop the noise, laying back down.

“Just five more minutes…” I murmur, knowing there’s a backup alarm set and trying to get comfortable again.

The feeling of bare flesh that isn't mine startles me awake as quickly as a bucket of ice wa…

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Chapter 4: Dante

Everybody makes mistakes sometimes. But I've just fucked up so catastrophically that nothing and nobody will ever be able to take my “King of the Idiots" crown. Long live the king.

I’d just wanted to rattle her a little. Scare her for being so rough with Haven when he was already hurting. She can be a vicious monster with her el…

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Chapter 3: Natalie

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody is watching, Dante shoves past me into my room, shutting the door behind himself and throwing the deadbolt. “We need to have a word,” he says without any other greeting. “Or three.”

I take a step back, not liking the way I can feel his presence humming along my skin. It makes me b…

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Chapter 2: Natalie

From forcing my way through the crowd near the stage, I’m overheated like Satan himself has a blowtorch held to my feet. I fumble in my pockets as I finally reach an open bubble of space near the backstage area, sucking in a grateful breath of cool air before sprinting to my kit and table. I curse under my breath, realizing I…

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He had the strangest scar I’d ever seen. More like a tattoo than a scar. A tiny, detailed piece of art that had been painstakingly carved into his skin.

It was so small, at first. No longer than the bed of one of my fingernails. An unmistakable silhouette of a sakura blossom etched into the flesh of his muscular calf. It had to be an old scar, since the skin was shiny, smooth, and white. If the light hadn’t hit it just right, I never would have noticed it.

I did my best not to ogle men at the gym anyway, so I was sure that distracting myself with another activity would move my brain beyond it. I’d been so busy staring at the scar that I hadn’t bothered to look at his face, or the rest of him.

Embarrassing, honestly. Dehumanizing and unlike me.

And later that evening, I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. I wasn’t sure if it was the symmetry of the cherry blossom, or the scar itself that had me in a chokehold. There was something about it that I just couldn’t shake.

If it had been a tattoo, I wouldn’t have spared the flower more than a passing glance. So many people are running around with their entire bodies acting as a living canvas, it takes something truly extraordinary to grab me like that. But something about that shiny, fresh skin so stark in relief against the deeply tanned flesh surrounding it captivated me.

The only way to satisfy my curiosity would be to ask the man with the scar for its story. And maybe his, too.

The next day, I spent extra time walking around the gym, slyly stealing glances at any exposed male calves. Lots of pretty muscles, but no luck. He’d either opted to wear pants that day, or he wasn’t at the gym. I mentally kicked myself for not getting a good look at anything other than the delicate floral wound that was lovingly etched into his leg.

Que sera. Tomorrow was another opportunity.

…until it wasn’t. Neither was the next day. Or the next. Or even the day after that.

Three weeks passed before I came across the Scarred Man, again. At least, I thought it was him. But now, the number of scars had multiplied. If they weren’t exact replicas of the single one I’d seen before, I would have doubted it was the same man.

Before, there had been only one small flower. It was hard to be sure of the current count, since I watched him doing squats via his reflection, courtesy of the mirror in front of me. It looked closer to ten blossoms now, maybe more. They were all joined together, except for one, by a carving of a branch that marred his skin with scars that looked a bit more purple. The wounds were clearly fresher. The lone flower drifted away from the cluster on the branch in a steady descent towards an unseen ground somewhere below.

The steady, calculated flow of the lines had clearly been etched by the same hand. The level of detail in every aspect of the design was consistent, stunningly realistic. Transfixed by the artistry, it was a genuine struggle to force my gaze to move upward. I needed to get a better view of the rest of the Scarred Man, because I had to see him. It was no longer just a want. It was a visceral need to gaze upon the rest of him. Otherwise, I could drift away to the place where those blossoms filled the air with their delicate aroma and innumerable petals.

A fiery yearning to see the whole picture scorched through my veins. I wanted to know him. To touch those scars and ask their story. His story.

My eyes travelled north, skimming past formidable glutes and thighs that clearly never skipped leg day. A narrow waist was topped by broad, toned, sun-kissed shoulders that didn’t struggle with the weight of the barbell and plates that rested on them.

My heart stopped and my mouth ran dry. I nearly dropped the dumbbells I was using, fumbling and feeling a twinge in my wrist that warned me I should have just let it fall. If only my gaze had followed that advice.

His dark hair was tossed over one shoulder in a thick braid, but the bare skin of his neck and shoulders shot fear into my heart with the precision of a cherub’s arrow.

Sakura blossoms, linked with detailed branches that arched down towards what had to be a central trunk. Their petals all carved in patterns that flowed down his arms and beneath the plain black tank top he wore. I knew that any of his concealed flesh was littered with the beautiful flowers as surely as I knew the sun would rise tomorrow.

I’d been curious and intrigued before, but all I felt now was a fear and wariness that sank into my bones. I’ve always trusted my gut, and every instinct in my body was screaming that I needed to run. To get away from this man with his weird scars. A man who’d never done anything to me. Not spoken a word, and I’d never even seen his face.

Maybe that was what I truly needed to avoid. Making eye contact. The voices in my head reached a fever pitch, a frenzied froth of panic that had me hurrying to set my weights back on the rack. I watched him setting his own weights back into their places, and time slowed as my pulse quickened. Now was the time to scurry off, but my body felt sluggish, like any movement commands sent from my brain to muscles had a time delay.

I struggled, fought the immobility, screamed internally with frustration. I watched his reflection lean side to side, stretching his arms over his head. The light caught and bounced off those shimmering sakura blossoms, and my hands trembled. I ached to touch them, to see if they were as silken as the petals they were modeled after.

No! I had to resist it. I forced my gaze to the floor, off to the side from my own feet, and I could suddenly breathe again. I could move. I just had to keep my eyes down and not make the mistake of staring at him again. I hurried away and jogged into the locker room, doing my damnedest to look casual about it.

I had headphones in my ears, so it was fine. I normally showered at the gym, but I had no desire to do anything other than leave the building as soon as possible. It wasn’t just a want. It was crucial to my existence. I could feel it.

Even though he hadn’t been following me, I paused to look around the empty locker room. I pulled one of the earbuds free, suddenly feeling more nervous without the ability to hear what was happening around me. Obnoxious music played from the overhead speakers at low volume, but it was otherwise silent.

I prowled through the locker room, only satisfied after I even inspected the showers and bathroom stalls. He wasn’t hiding out in there anywhere. And neither was anyone else. Exhaling heavily, I retrieved my bag and keys from the locker. “Get your shit together…” I murmured to myself under my breath, embarrassed that I was so twisted over something so ridiculous.

When it turned out to be nothing, I told myself I could laugh it off. Maybe it was some sort of tribal scarification, and I was just a culturally insensitive idiot. Whatever meaning or reasoning was behind the wounds that the Scarred Man made no effort to hide… I told myself that curiosity was going to skin the cat if I didn’t just drop it and remove it from my mind.

Getting him off my conscious mind was a reasonable task. With a concerted effort, I finally rose to the occasion and distracted myself from thoughts of how much texture those scars would have as my fingertips skated across his skin. My subconscious, sleeping mind however… There was no escaping the Scarred Man in my dreams.

I was trapped in a hall of mirrors, growing more and more panicked as the moments went on. I tried to keep calm, to be logical, to follow along a row of glass until it led me from the room or bumped into another solid wall of glass and I had to backtrack. But I finally saw a space between the rows of reflections and made a break for it.

My shaky breathing was loud in my ears, and I could hear footsteps that weren’t my own. Heavier. Slower. Growing closer. I’d left the initial room of mirrors, but the walkways between them grew narrower as I continued forward. Before I knew it, I had to turn sideways to keep moving, my speed slowed almost to a crawl.

I paid no mind to the sweat and tears that stained my skin, focused only on getting away. From the mirrors, from whoever was behind me. And just like that, it was over. I was stuck. In a space just wide enough that I wasn’t physically unable to move, I’d come to the end of the path. A solid wall of glass blocked any further forward movement.

I don’t know what words fell from my lips, but an incoherent panicked babble bubbled forth. I started to slide back towards where the path was wider, but at the footsteps suddenly so near to me… I froze and fixed my gaze on the ground.

“Hey,” a soft, gravelly voice sank into my ears. “Why are you running? You shouldn’t even be here."

I tried to speak, only a breathy squeak coming out. I licked my lips and cleared my throat, sniffling lightly. The unused adrenaline in my system sank into my muscles like a poison, making me feel weak and exhausted. “Oh, um… I—I don’t know. I thought you were chasing me. And if someone’s chasing you, that usually means they want to hurt you.”

A disarming chuckle made me wince, my eyes moving to his boots. “If I was running and chasing you, shouldn’t I be as winded as you are?”

I snorted with derision. “Maybe, but my cardio endurance does really suck.”

We both had a little laugh at my expense, my fear of him starting to abate. I inhaled deeply, holding my breath for a few seconds before letting it out and sliding my gaze up to his legs. Bare, as I expected. Covered in tiny white flowers, as I expected. There was nothing I could do. He had me. Even if I tried to break through one of the mirrors to escape him, I’d be shredded by the broken glass and unable to run.

“I know this is just a dream, but… it feels like you’re really here. I’ve never heard your voice, but I know that when I finally do in the waking world, this is exactly how it’ll sound.” I murmured.

“Hmm…” The sound of contemplation that purred from his lips was low and soothing. “You shouldn’t be able to tell this is a dream.”

“Pfft. Exactly what a weird dream my brain cooked up would say.”

I didn’t look directly at his face, but the movement as he shook his head caught my attention. “Something isn’t right,” he said simply.

“No shit,” I snarked back. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind for over a month, and I don’t even know what your stupid face looks like.”

I felt his hand settle on my shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut. “I’ll bet you’d like it. Most people do. But it’s better for now if you don’t look.” Being humble was clearly not the Scarred Man’s strong suit.

“So if this is a sort of dream, why can’t I just wake up?”

“Because there’s more to it than that. But I’ll do you a favor, because you being here is a mistake. Can you follow my instructions, to the letter?” I nodded. “Then listen closely, and let’s get you the hell out of here.

“Firstly, no matter what you do, don’t touch my skin. Anywhere. At all. Not even for a second. …Understood?”

“Yes,” I replied softly, the weight of his hand on my shoulder through my shirt feeling heavier and menacing.

“Good. Second, once we leave this room, don’t say a word until I tell you it’s safe to speak. Then there’s just one more rule. Alright?”

“Mhmm,” I replied, my pulse quickening.

“Third rule: you cannot leave ANYTHING behind here. No article of clothing, not a piece of hair. Nothing.”

That sounded easier said than done, with the way I shed hair, but whatever. “Okay,” I said finally, feeling a tightening in my chest as I verbally agreed.

“Good. Now repeat the three laws back to me.”

“No touching your skin.”

“Mhmm.”

“I can’t talk once we leave this room.”

“Correct,” he said, lifting his hand from my shoulder.

“And I can’t leave anything behind.”

“Perfection. And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be here.” He replied, turning to face away from me. “Now… lift your eyes and grab on to my shirt. Both hands. When we walk out of this room, do not let go. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear. Just tell yourself that it’s a dream, and everything will be fine as long as you stick to the three rules.”

I grabbed two fistfuls of the back of his shirt, marveling at how much taller than me the Scarred Man was. Brushing aside my attempts to distract myself from the very real danger I was in, I took a deep breath to steady the nerves that made my hands tremble, and we were off.

The door opened and we passed through it, the aperture closing behind us with such a sense of finality that it made me wince. The Scarred Man walked along at a brisk pace. I’m not a short woman, but I almost struggled to keep up with him. He must have noticed me falling behind as the drag on his shirt increased, because he slowed his speed to compensate for my shorter legs.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “The sooner I get you out of here, the better.”

What I could see of the dream world around us shifted, the surroundings warping into the stuff of true nightmares. The temperature rapidly increased until the air shimmered and sweat dripped down the back of my neck. The stifling scent of sulfur and brimstone assaulted my nostrils, and I turned my head to cough into my shoulder. I could hear a multitude of screams rolling over each other in the background, some reaching a crescendo while others came to an abrupt end.

The ground beneath my feet was uneven, jagged and pitted, a matte black that could only be cooled volcanic rock. I bit down on my lower lip to keep from saying anything. To not ask questions. To refrain from pleading with him to confirm that we were literally in Hell.

I trusted my instincts, and I trusted what my senses told me. There was no other explanation for the dark shadows that passed over the ground while the sound of heavy wings flapped above us. I inhaled heavily through my nose, exhaling slowly to resist the urge to whimper. The heat was so intense that I felt like I’d have a tan from cooking in the ungodly atmosphere of this place.

The Scarred Man stopped suddenly, and I heard him muttering something under his breath. It almost sounded like he was… counting? But counting what?

“Shit… There’s too many of them. Run! Hold on tight and just RUN!” He had to shout to be heard over a suddenly rising cacophony of screeches as the winged creatures who cast those shadows descended on us. Our mere presence had rung the dinner bell.

I opened my mouth and almost replied, but my teeth clacking together as we started sprinting reminded me not to say a word. Cardio had never been my strong suit, endurance-wise. When it was literally life or death, I’d make it work. Limbs pumping, pulse pounding and drowning out the sound of the creatures pursuing us, I ran.

I could see a sparkling shape in the distance, outlined in bright light that stood in stark contrast to the all-encompassing gloom that surrounded us. “We’re almost there!” His voice was ragged, breathing heavy. “Keep going!”

As we got closer to the light, lungs and legs aching for oxygen and rest, I saw that it was another door. Hopefully the one to lead us out of this place.

The entire world tilted suddenly, and we were a few mere feet from the door. One of the creatures had barreled into the Scarred Man, and I had such a death grip on his shirt that it dragged me to the ground with them. We fell together in a tangle of bodies, wings, and claws.

I rolled to the side, the creature’s focus primarily on the entire reason I was here in the first place. The creature’s magnified bat-like shriek of triumph made me throw my hands over my ears, but I could still feel it reverberate in my bones. The Scarred Man didn’t move. Was he dead? No. I saw his chest rise and fall, but his eyes were closed and he didn’t try to fight the monster that hovered over him, maw dripping in anticipation. A joyful chittering noise rolled from the creature, and the sound made me want to rupture my eardrums to escape it.

I looked around me, eyes darting as I searched for something, anything that I could use as a weapon. I knew that hitting this thing with my fists would be useless and an instant invitation to be at the dinner table. As the main course.

Two large chunks of the same rock beneath our feet were close enough that I grabbed them both. Taking a second to test their weight, I threw the lighter one at the side of the demon’s head. It went silent at the impact, turning slowly to face me with fully black eyes, a sunken pit where a nose should have been, and a wide mouth filled with the type of teeth only made for shredding flesh.

Gripping the black rock firmly in both hands, I brought it down as hard as I could on top of the creature’s head. Its eyes blinked slowly, stunned by the force of it. I may have hated cardio, but I loved to hit the weights and the heavy bag. Not wanting to celebrate too soon, I brought the rock down again, feeling a satisfying crunch.

Another strike was met with a loud crack and a gut-churning squish. The creature tried to flail its limbs at me, managing to rake my arm with its wickedly curved claws. My blood spattered across the stones beneath us. One rule broken.

I hissed and brought the rock down one more time, halfway burying it into the cracked skull and brains of the monster. It fell limply to the ground, body twitching as it died.

Killing it didn’t give me the satisfaction I expected. It was really only an animal, looking for food. We just happened to be on the menu, and that thing was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I refused to go down so easily.

I hurried over to the Scarred Man. He was still breathing, but also still unconscious. He’d cracked his head when the creature flew into him, judging from the trail of red that ran from his hairline and down his temple.

He was a massive man… And I had to get us through that door somehow. Still afraid to touch his skin, I grabbed on to his sleeveless shirt and tried to drag him. The cotton fabric promptly ripped, and he smacked back to the ground. I gritted my teeth, wanting with every fiber of my being to scream in frustration. I could hear the other demons closing in, and I couldn’t just leave him there. One more thing to try…

I gripped the belt loops on his pants and crouched down, scooting backwards and managing to pull him a little bit. I glanced up at the dark shapes that were sharpening in detail. One rule had already been broken. I had nothing else to lose.

“Fuck it!” I roared, grabbing his scarred up bare arm and rolling his body over onto his back. I squatted low and hooked my arms under his, lifting him enough that only his feet dragged on the ground. His head lolled to the side as I practically ran backwards, and I had a spare thought that he did have a pretty nice face, as I built up momentum and crashed into the door with our combined weights.

There was a loud popping sound, the fabric of reality bursting like a bubble, followed by a second of the most all-consuming silence I’ve ever witnessed. Then we were standing in my bedroom, covered in blood and soot and God only knew what else. My entire body ached, and the calm quiet of our world seemed louder than it ever had. It was uncomfortable compared to the noise I’d been surrounded by only seconds before, even though my trip through Hell had been brief.

I sank to the hardwood floor with my arms wrapped around the Scarred Man, and I buried my face in his shoulder and sobbed. My body trembled with the force of the cries, tears filled with both relief and terror finally rolling down my face, leaving clean tracks through the grime of the underworld that clung to my skin.

“What in the actual fuck is happening?” I whined under my breath, the last Velcro vestiges of my sanity starting to tear free.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. I didn’t glance at the clock, so I have no way to know for sure. But finally, with fluttering lashes, the Scarred Man awakened.

“What? Where are…? How did…?” He cleared his throat and sat bolt upright, clarity returning to him quickly.

I leaned back and he turned his face to look back at me. “No.” The word was so small, said so simply, but it carried with it the weight of a thousand broken hearts. Seeing the state of me and noticing he was strewn across my lap, the string of emotions that ran through his deep brown eyes left me feeling more exhausted than I already was.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, my voice hoarse from crying. “After that monster, demon, whatever the fuck it was scattered my blood all over the place… I gave up on the other two rules.”

He pulled away from my embrace, turning to face me and sitting down hard. He lifted shaking fingers to touch the spot of congealed blood on his temple, a decent sized lump just beneath the surface.

“You saved me,” he said softly, looking down at the sticky red that stained his fingertips. He lifted his gaze to meet mine, accusation furrowing his brow. “Why would you do that?”

I felt a tickling, itching sensation on the side of my neck and reached up to scratch at it absentmindedly. “Why wouldn’t I? I mean… bashing a demon’s head in with a rock isn’t my usual method of meeting people, but…”

“You killed one of them?”

I nodded. “Unless having a fifteen-pound rock buried in your exposed grey matter isn’t a killing blow, I’d say so.”

The entire evening had been so unreal that I didn’t know what to think of any of it. The itching intensified and I dragged my nails harder against my skin. I hissed under my breath, seeing that my fingertips were coated in blood. I knew I hadn’t been that rough, so what the hell…?

The Scarred Man’s eyes widened, and his expression went completely blank. “It shouldn’t have been you.”

“What shouldn’t have been me? What are you talking about?” His inability to be direct about anything was starting to grate on my already thin patience.

He shook his head. “I have to go.” And he was on his feet and heading for the stairs, practically jogging down them.

“Whatever,” I replied loudly. “You’re fucking welcome!” I called after him.

I heard my front door open then slam shut, and a weariness settled into my bones that I fought against. I needed to get cleaned up before I even thought of going to bed again. The clock’s red LED display told me that it was two in the morning, and I vowed to call off work as soon as I woke up.

I stumbled into the bathroom, stripping off my filthy clothes and reveling in the comfortable heat from the steam. So different from the searing, scalding burn of the air in… wherever I’d been. I stepped into the cascade of warm water, and instantly screamed at the sting of the hot liquid driving into what felt like a million papercuts all over my neck and shoulders.

I put my hand up to my neck again, where the worst pain originated. My hand came away with diluted red all over my palm. I was glad I hadn’t bothered to grab soap yet, or the sensation of fire crawling under my skin would have been a million times worse. Despite the growing ache, I had to at least rinse the ash and smell of charred flesh off my skin. I could take a proper shower in the morning. Better yet, a relaxing soak in the tub.

A few minutes passed and I shut off the water, stepping out and wrapping a towel around myself. I’d normally dry off better before even getting out of the tub, but I needed to see what had happened to the side of my neck. The mirror was fogged over with the steam, and I dragged an agitated hand across its surface to clear the glass.

My breath caught in my throat, but the whimper that rose from my chest clawed its way free from my lips. The unmistakable shape of a cherry blossom was carved into my neck. Several of them. I couldn’t count their total number from the angle I was at, but the wounds all oozed, my blood dripping from them like sap from a pine tree.

I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pressed it to the open effigies, applying enough pressure that they should stop bleeding soon.

But they didn’t.

Moments passed and I could feel the tissue becoming fully saturated beneath my fingers. I pulled it away, unsurprised to see it soaked with crimson. I pulled my hair to the side and leaned closer to the mirror, trying to get a better look at the images engraved into my skin. Their tiny petals had the same level of detail as the ones that adorned the Scarred Man.

None of them were terribly deep, but they weren’t clotting. The bleeding wasn’t stopping. And I wasn’t sure how to deal with or correct that.

I’d gone from terrified to indifferent, the urge to sleep outweighing anything else. So I did what any person who’d literally just been to Hell and back would do: I dried off, put on clean pajamas and a spritz of perfume, and took a dry towel to bed to lay across my pillow. My body felt heavy, my soul like a lead weight dragging me into an ocean of sleep, and I just needed to rest my eyes for a bit.

Settled under the warm blankets, I ignored the wet warmth that continued to blossom across my skin, falling into a dark and thankfully dreamless slumber.

Morning was an unforgiving slap in the face. I should have felt rested, but I may as well have strapped on my sneakers and run a marathon overnight. Despite the heavy curtains, the sunlight pierced through my windows like icepicks into my brain via my eyeballs. I sat up too fast, grabbing my head and exhaling heavily to try to level off my suddenly spiked blood pressure. Spots danced in my vision and I almost swooned.

I set one hand on the bed to balance myself as I closed my eyes, immediately jerking my hand back up. The surface I’d touched was crusted and warm, covered with my now-dried blood that had continued to slowly seep from me the entire night.

“Fucking hell…” I muttered under my breath. I grabbed my phone off the charger, switching to the front facing camera to assess the damage. Exactly like the Scarred Man, my flesh was covered in sakura flowers and branches that spread them.

As I gazed at my reflection on the phone screen, their pattern made sense to me. The thicker branches were where arteries were located, and the thinner ones were prominent veins. The raccoon circles under my eyes were darker than usual, and my skin had gone wan and waxy. And every new petal or twig that marred my skin was brimming with blood.

I had my phone. I should have called an ambulance. I knew I was in no shape to drive. But I also knew how crazy this whole thing seemed. What would I tell them? That I’d been dream-abducted by and then had to rescue someone with the same markings as mine, only his were scars and mine just wouldn’t stop bleeding? And it was no big deal that the thing I saved him from was a bat-humanoid hybrid creature, right?

…they’d have me sedated and locked up before I even finished the story. But maybe that would be better. At least I wouldn’t be in pain, then. But what if this was something contagious? I couldn’t risk passing it on to the hospital staff, or other people in the facility.

It was still early enough… I called my boss and let him know I was really sick, and wouldn't be coming in for a few days, at least. The rest of the week, to be safe. I assured him I’d have a doctor’s note when I did return. He wished me well and we hung up.

And I sank onto my couch in stunned silence. I wasn’t sure what was happening, and nothing seemed to stop the bleeding. It oozed so slowly that I knew the blood loss alone wouldn’t kill me. But everything itched and ached. Beneath all those sensations, I was hungry. Ravenous.

I made my shuffling way to the fridge, shifting things around until I found what I knew I’d gotten at the store a few days ago. A pound of ground chuck sat in its little white Styrofoam container, chilled as it should be. I put a pan on the stove, intending to cook the beef and mix it with some scrambled eggs.

While the pan heated up, I peeled the plastic wrap off, and the scent of the blood and raw meat slammed into my nose so hard that it made me stagger for a second. I tossed the plastic film to the side and stared at the meat, tilting my head curiously.

…Could any harm really come from it?

I shrugged and dug my fingers into the brick of meat, the pink squiggles and curves of it reminding me of the brains of the creature I’d slaughtered. I squished a chunk of it between my fingers, molding it into a ball. I looked at it one more time, unsure if this was a good idea or not.

What did I have to lose, at this point?

“Fuck it,” I muttered, and popped the uncooked meatball into my mouth. It was chewy, coppery, metallic on my tongue.

In the back of my brain, a small part of me was repulsed. But that tiny voice was eclipsed by the delicious taste of the raw meat, and the pleasant sensation of it as the meat warmed up and I swallowed the lump.

More. I needed more of it. I grabbed a fistful of the raw meat, shoving it into my mouth like I was starving and having my first meal in weeks. I couldn’t wait for it to be warm. I needed it in my belly, right now. It wasn’t much, but as I stood there a few moments later, looking down at the empty white Styrofoam tray, the reality of what I’d just done struck me like a fist to the abdomen, and I ran to the bathroom.

The entire contents of my stomach resurfaced until my throat felt raw from revisiting it. Shaking and feeling worse than I had before, I rinsed my mouth out and quickly brushed my teeth, trying not to look directly into the mirror. I was too disgusted by what I’d just done to look myself in the eyes. Just from the corner of my vision, I could see there were more flower-shaped wounds across my skin. If I ignored them, maybe they’d just go away on their own.

It didn’t. They only multiplied and my urge to eat meat, to feel flesh stretch and gush between my teeth, intensified. As a result, I didn’t eat anything for three days. Three days I bled, felt myself growing weaker and anemic. And all I wanted to do was sip my water and stay in bed. Getting up to relieve myself was an endeavor that left my entire body shaking and dizzy, and I kept telling myself it would pass.

I called off work for the rest of the week, and halfway started wishing for death. My dreams had been plagued by memories of my trip to Hell with the Scarred Man, but none of them had the direct clarity of the genuine experience. I’d really been there. The wounds on my body were proof, but I knew I couldn’t go to anyone with it. I’d either end up sedated and still wasting away, or I’d become a lab rat because the growing, bloody cherry tree whose branches spread across my skin defied any normal explanation.

The day passed in a daze, and when the sun finally set, I felt more comfortable. Able to move a bit easier, breathe better, as if I’d become sensitive to the light. I made myself get up and walk a bit, even though it was a chore after not eating for three entire days. I was so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that it took me a minute to realize that I heard knocking on the door. Not just knocking, but frantic pounding on the door.

I hurried as much as I could to answer it and had to step back as it burst inward. The culprit was a hearty kick from none other than the Scarred Man, who stepped into my home with a wild fire burning in his gaze.

“I was going to get that…” I murmured flatly, my voice sounding coarse and foreign to my own ears after not speaking for three days.

“Like Hell you were,” he said, advancing on me and stopping a few mere inches from my body.

I cleared my throat, tilting my head back to look up at him, internally embarrassed that I knew I looked like shit, while he looked as pretty and shining as always. “Why are you here?”

He stared at me, head tilted slightly to one side. I watched his jaw clench and unclench, like he was having trouble finding the right words to say.

“This… this curse I’ve given to you. It’s not meant for people like you.”

I crossed my arms, wincing as I felt the wounds stretch from the movement. I barked a dry laugh. “What do you mean ‘people like me’? I feel like I should be insulted.”

“It was meant to cull the wicked, not be passed on to wither the kind and pure. But after you broke the rules, I thought I could just let it go. But you stepped in so selflessly and saved my ass when you had zero reason to…”

My eyebrows furrowed, trying to make sense of what he was saying. It was so vague, I had no clue how to respond. His own expression softened for a moment, dark eyes glinting before his jaw set with determination.

“Have I been the wicked one, all along? Was I nothing more than a tool to reap souls?” His question was soft, but I knew it wasn’t really meant for me. “You don’t deserve this. To become one of them. I won’t allow it.”

The energy in the air changed, and it made me flinch. “What are you talking about? You don’t even know my name! You know nothing about me!”

He rested his large palm on my chest, directly over my heart, and his skin pressed to mine was the most warmth I had felt in what seemed like a lifetime. It was soothing, comfortable. “I don’t need you name to see the trials your heart has already undergone. To know the weight of your soul.”

I felt a pleasant heat roll over me that started in my toes and quickly began rushing up my legs and into the rest of my body. “I’m sorry to do this here, but it’s the only way to save you.”

There was a literal spark of red light between us and an itching sensation crawled over my skin, every wound that had spread across it closing and healing over as if it had never been there. I felt a sharp pang of hunger, but the urge wasn’t for anything a wild demon creature would want to snack on. I just wanted something hearty. Maybe with potatoes…

The Scarred Man coughed violently, a sickening wet sound that instantly drew my attention. His scars all split open at once, blood bursting forth and showering everything around him with red droplets. He wiped the corner of his mouth, gazing down at his arm and seeing the branches pour over his flesh and down to his fingertips. Twigs and leaves sprouted from the tips of his fingers, and he winced.

He staggered into the fenced-in backyard, his steps becoming slower as the bark that covered his skin began to hinder him. I ran after him, skidding and almost losing my balance in the grass that was soaked in his blood. He sank to his knees and I nearly grabbed on to his shoulder.

“No!” he shouted, and I took a step back. “Idiot,” he murmured with a soft little chuckle. “That’s how you got into this mess, in the first place. It won’t take long… Just let me be unmade.” He sounded tired, but strangely content.

I ignored the tears that ran down my cheeks, trying not to overthink the impossible thing I was witnessing as this gorgeous man was rapidly becoming a something else entirely. “May I sit here with you? Until it’s over?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“I’d like that,” he replied, sounding tired as his hands and arms twisted into roots that hungrily sank into the soil, pulling his face closer to the earth.

The crackling noises as his body was destroyed, undone, turned into something new, sent shivers down my spine. But I couldn’t just leave him here. He’d given me my life back, healed me, when he could have left me to become one of the very demons who’d sent us both down this track.

In less than ten minutes, the only parts of him that hadn’t been altered from fauna to flora were his neck and head. “Protect this tree,” he managed to murmur, so quiet I almost couldn’t make out the words. “So long as the tree lives, this curse will be contained and cannot be passed on. Guard it. Watch over it. Teach your children why it must continue to stand.”

I sniffled and nodded. “Of course. But before you’re completely gone… what’s your name? You might not know mine, but I think you owe me yours.”

He gave me a small smirk. “Sam. And you can keep the name. I won’t need it, anymore.”

With that, the bark overtook the last of him, the trunk extending to a height of easily twenty feet high. The branches fanned out, snapping into existence and filling the air with a shower of pink petals that rained down like snow.

I stood there, beneath the canopy of the cherry tree, the fragrance of the blossoms filling my heart with a strange sense of hope. “Thank you, Sam.” I said softly to it, and a gentle breeze blew across the yard, as if he had heard me.

“Wow, Grandma! That’s SUCH a cool story!” My youngest granddaughter, Willow, looked up at me from her seat on my lap with wide blue eyes.

We were perched on the bench that sat beneath the tree in my backyard. A tree that had continued to grow over the past four decades. A warm summer wind flitted across us, the shade from the boughs overhead keeping us comfortable.

I gave her a small smile, giving her tiny hand as solid a grip as I could manage with my aged, wrinkled fingers. “And that is why your mother will take care of it once I’m gone, someday. And eventually, it will pass to you.”

“Pfft. Whatever. It’s just a stupid tree, Grandma. You know none of that really happened.”

I gave my grandson, a sly smile. “You’re entitled to your wrong opinion, Rowan.”

“Rowan, don’t be rude to your Grandma!” My daughter, Aspen, hollered from the open kitchen window. She was inside fixing lunch for all of us.

“Sorry, Ma!” Rowan hollered back. He bowed his head to me sheepishly. “Sorry, Grandma,” he murmured.

“No worried, love. It is a fantastical story, isn’t it?” I gave Willow a pat on the back. “Go run off the last of that energy with your brother before lunch is done.”

“Okay!”

With a soft, tired smile, I watched my grandchildren run around the back yard. They chased each other around the cherry tree, hiding and playing tag. I tilted my head back, soaking in the warmth of the summer day. Gazing up at the canopy of leaves and branches above me, I smiled and said softly, “Aren’t they beautiful, Sam? Thank you.”

An intact sakura blossom landed on my shoulder, and I lifted it gently in my fingers. I pressed a soft kiss to its petals, thankful for the second chance he’d given me to have a full, meaningful life.

Days had passed and the time to implement their escape plan was fast approaching. How any of them managed to keep track of the days with the way they were getting constantly knocked around was a total mystery to Liliana. Maybe Dakota had a better handle on the passing of time based upon her connection to the moon, because she was a werewolf. And Hal… Lily wasn’t quite sure what he was, but he definitely knew more than he let on.

Their scheme wasn’t perfect. No plan could ever account for every possible barrier and variable, regardless of how prepared they thought they were. But they had to try. She wouldn’t let herself just waste away in this desert, so far from the men she loved.

Over the past few days, Lily had noticed that Luis’ treatment of her had begun to soften. She wasn’t sure what to call the time he spent with her, but “physical torture session” was becoming less accurate. Lily was thankful for the change. She wasn’t fond of being a human punching bag. He did still keep her restrained, with manacled arms behind her back and a chain that dangled between them, but she’d been graciously allowed to sit in a single chair that had been placed in the middle of the room.

The sun shining through the open windows warmed the depths of her soul. She’d started to get used to the pervasive heat that sank into her bones. She preferred the dry sting of the air above ground compared to the musty dampness where their cells were located. Where there was sunshine, there was hope. She wouldn’t let that spark of hope die, despite his attempts to smother that spark with his fists.

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In order for the plan to work, Lily would have to do her part. She’d been less resistant with the guards, which generally meant less wounds to recover from when she was returned to her cell. Getting smacked around significantly less was returning clarity to her thoughts that she didn’t know that she’d even lost, in the first place.

Now, listening to Luis walk back-and-forth behind her, her nerves were getting the better of her. There were no clocks anywhere, so she couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, but his silence was starting to get under her skin. Even without the blindfold, she’d gotten used to him being more of a threat out of her line of sight. She’d noticed that he was less inclined to hurt her if she could see him, make eye contact with him.

It was always so much easier to cause harm to someone if you didn’t have to admit that they were human. Treat them like an object, and those pesky little morals could be pushed aside. Things don’t feel. Things don’t hurt. And if they bled a little bit? Well, that was just a minor inconvenience. Or a snack, if you were a vampire.

Which led Lily to her major task for the day. If she could get Luis to chat with her, and stop just creepily traipsing back and forth like a lion trapped in a cage, she had a bevy of questions to ask him. But she was reasonably afraid to be the one to shatter the uncomfortable silence which was only interrupted by the barren wind that blew through the openings that served as windows.

She licked her dry lips, steeling herself to speak, when she felt his hands settle on her shoulders and she valiantly managed not to scream at the startling contact. The pads of his thumbs dragged across the skin of her shoulders, exposed because she was still living in tank tops. His touch paused as he felt her muscles tense up, a loud sigh escaping him. Fingertips trailed lightly downward, the skating caress leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Why do you keep eluding me, Liliana?” His words were soft, the gentlest she’d ever heard his voice. She was quiet a moment as she tried to think of the best way to reply.

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The bathroom window burst inward, and CJ instinctively ducked. She covered her head with her arms as the crystalline shards showered down upon her like a razorblade rain. The broken glass sliced her forearms open, stinging as the pieces bounced off and bit into her flesh. None of the wounds were deep, but more blood seeping from her body after the epic nosebleed was less than ideal.

She quickly checked herself for other wounds, distantly wondering if she’d been shot. She didn’t hear any gunfire, but there were ways to make a gunshot almost imperceptible.

Lifting her head so most of the glass slid from her frame and onto the floor, CJ looked up to see that there was a man halfway through her window. What had been her window, anyway. It wasn’t the dark-haired man she’d spotted at the kitchen table, but something about his shaggy blond hair seemed familiar.

With the barrier of glass between them removed, his body ached as the tantalizing scent intensified. The brightly colored bathroom tiles and his keen predator night-vision made the darkened room easy enough to navigate. A deep inhalation filled his lungs with the intoxicating aroma, the cloying sweetness of fresh blood setting his nerve endings aflame. Crimson eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a shiver wracking his slender frame.

“Careful, Ruin…” he murmured to himself, the urge to swallow the soul of the source of that scent at war with his conscience. Ruin gazed down at his prey, eyes glowing beneath the concealing shadow of his hair.

“Are you ready to run?” The words crawled slowly from his lips, worming their way into CJ’s ears. Full lips curled back to expose long fangs, his fingers extended and ready for his first move. Could he have simply pinned her down and taken what he wanted? Without question.

But where was the fun in that?

He gave her a lopsided grin that simultaneously did two things: sped her pulse so her heart fluttered rapidly in her chest like a trapped bird and made her so violently angry that her vision blurred for a moment.

“Ready to run?” she countered quietly in return, blue-green eyes catching the moonlight from the shattered aperture behind him, a dangerous glint in them. Unlike the intruder, Carmelia Jianni Sarvino was not amused. It was a shame, because the man would have been hot as hell under different circumstances. “Are you ready to die?!”

Not waiting for his answer, she grabbed the soap dish shaped like a fat green dragon off the counter and chucked it at him with all the force she could muster.  The ceramic crashed into his temple and burst into pieces with a cloud of pottery dust. She scrambled out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut in his face and half falling down the stairs as she sprinted to the kitchen. CJ needed a weapon to defend herself once he came after her again.

The kitchen knife that could have doubled as a short sword seemed like it would work nicely. Extracting it from the butcher block with a satisfying sound, she stood in the center of the kitchen with both hands wrapped around the handle. She didn’t want to be boxed in, and she plotted an avenue of escape in every direction as the seconds ticked by like hours.

Could she call the cops? Sure. Should she? Probably. Did she…? Hell, no. By the time they’d arrive, if they did at all, she’d already be dead.

Her hands trembled as she waited in the gloom of the kitchen, her panicked breaths loud in her ears. She flinched as the intruder knocked on the bathroom door several times, biting back a scream as he tore it from the hinges, and it crashed to the floor. She was thankful she didn’t have any neighbors in the duplex, but at the same time…

“You bastard! How am I supposed to get my security deposit back, now?!” CJ tried to distract herself from the unreal danger of what could only be an actual vampire in her home.

The intruder poked his head around the corner. “Landlords are crooks, and you wouldn’t have gotten it back, anyway.” His tone was snarky and his eyebrows rose as he gazed at the weapon clutched in her hands.

“Your hands are shaking, scrumptious. Are you planning to rattle me to death?” A wicked grin twisted his features and he took several slow, calculated steps towards her.

Seeing his fangs on full display again, CJ was suddenly frozen with fear. This couldn’t be real. She had to be dreaming, right?

His movements became a blur her eyes couldn’t track, and he was invading her space like the annoying mouth-breather kid who stalked the pretty girls in middle school. Before she could even attempt to raise the knife against him, her hands were trapped beneath his.

He gripped her wrists and gave her hands a flick without letting go of them, the weapon wrenched from her hands and landing in the sink with a startling metallic clang. His skin against hers was cold as the grave. She tried to struggle and learned that this lanky rail of a man was an immovable concrete pillar. She was half a foot shorter than him, but they probably weighed nearly the same amount. CJ was in pretty decent shape, and a competent enough fighter from working in bars, so how in the hell--?

“You asked if I was ready to die, but I’ve already done that once. You should have listened when I told you to run…” His words were an unsettling, icy purr against her throat, but she felt her body go slack in his arms, fully enthralled.

“How is this even happening?” Her voice was quiet, and the urge to struggle waned.

Ruin paused, lips and fangs hovering a hair’s breadth above her skin and the rhythmic thump of her enticing pulse. So close he could nearly taste her, and yet… Did this woman not know that vampires were real? Had humans sheltered themselves so thoroughly with their electricity and concrete walls that they’d forgotten the monsters from their nightmares weren’t just pure fantasy?

He loosened his control on her just enough to keep her from slumping to the floor as he turned her to face him. Long slender fingers gripped her shoulders, and she looked up into eyes that radiated a crimson glow.

"Use your eyes and that mass of gelatin inside your skull, human. Do you really believe this is just another dream?"

CJ cocked her head sideways, squinting a bit at his mouth as he talked. "What are you lo—?"

Anything Ruin might have said died on his tongue as CJ reached up and experimentally poked at one of his fangs with a fingertip. "Ooh," she said, her voice breathy and exhilarated. "That is sharp."

The vampire held her back at arm's length, his arms being longer than hers, and she pouted as she flailed and kept trying to reach for his mouth. "Quit trying to grab my fangs, you weirdo!"

Carmelia snorted, clarity of mind becoming more apparent in her eyes as Ruin's hold on her slipped and shattered. "I'm the weirdo?! You jumped through my window, and ripped down my door, all trying to have a little human sippy-sip! But I'm the weirdo? The balls on you, man."

They stood there silently for a few moments, staring at each other in the darkness. Ruin looked just as confused and lost as CJ felt. She finally broke the oppressive quiet, her voice soft and unsure. "Did the smell of my blood… Are you seriously a vampire?"

He responded slowly, his tone similarly respectful and low. "I am. My name is Ruin."

Now that the rush was starting to wear off, she had that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach from the unused adrenaline now poisoning her system and making her muscles feel like jelly.

"My name is Carmelia, but you can call me CJ. And you're not lying," she said simply. A statement, no longer question. "I'd ask you how, but I'm assuming you were either born one or turned into one… That's how most of the lore goes."

She sighed and let her head drop into her hands, and she rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "Are you going to tell me that the closet monster and the boogie man are real too, Ruin?"

Not really wanting to know the answer to that, she went on. "I take it you're hungry or you wouldn't have just barged in here, so…" She held her wrist out with a strange feeling of acceptance, not tinged with fear anymore. "I'd rather have it be me than some random asshole who has no idea what's happening to them. Don't want you to make some poor bastard need therapy for the rest of their life."

Ruin let out a laugh and took a step back. It was his turn to sound nervous. "I don't need your blood. I'm not about to just make it from someone. This whole breaking and entering thing was just a fluke."

CJ rolled her eyes, fixing him with a steady blue-green gaze. "You do need blood, genius. Otherwise, you wouldn't have busted through my window because you smelled my nosebleed."

She sighed. "The invitation thing must be more of a formality than some actual magical rule, yeah? And you're not stealing my blood. I'm offering it to you."

Against my better judgment… She added mentally. Clearly, he was strong enough and fast enough to take her down into seconds. Even with her brawling skills and training, she was nowhere near match for the man before her. She had always had a thing for strays, though. Her father never let her hear the end of it.

She waved her wrist at him, urging him on with the taunt. "Your bite isn't infectious, is it? I don't want to become a vampire. You're hungry and I have the solution for you, so you don't become dangerous and lose your head enough to actually attack someone."

CJ lifted the massive knife from the sink and let the flat of the blade rest on her wrist, the sheer weight of it pressing against the artery there. "I'll make this irresistible to you, if I have to." She added, determination apparent in her eyes.

"Don't be an idiot," he murmured, on her and taking the blade away with yet another display of inhuman speed. "That thing will kill you. I won't."

He lifted her onto the kitchen counter with his hands around her waist, a startled and embarrassing squeak squirming from her lips as he moved her the same way she would pick up a cat. If this was how strong a vampire was when they were hungry, what feats were they capable of at full strength?

For some reason, that thought scared her more than when his fangs had been at her throat. His demeanor had changed, and she knew his hunger was to blame. His breathing was becoming heavier, almost desperate.

Ruin lifted her hand in his, the other hand wrapping firmly around her forearm. She shivered at the sensation of his icy skin pressed against hers, and his fingers around her arm tightened briefly.

“Is it going to hurt?” CJ asked softly, afraid that loud words would cause him to lose what little composure he was clinging to.

“No,” he breathed, swallowing hard to keep from drooling at her thrumming pulse so close to his mouth again. “Could I make it hurt? Certainly. But for you, scrumptious… I’ll play nice.”

She wanted to ask him what that meant, but frigid lips parted and he sank his fangs into her wrist, pulling back just enough to wrap his mouth firmly around the wound. She felt a sharp and intense flash of pain, washed away by the movement of his tongue and lips on her skin as he swallowed her blood down.

His freezing hands were a total contrast to the sudden wash of fire that coursed through her veins. She gripped hard at the edge of the counter with her free hand, an intimate pleasure so powerful that it obliterated all thought forcing her to bite back a moan as it crashed into her.

It felt like his mouth was much further south than her wrist. Judging from the way he looked up at her with heavy lidded ruby eyes and a mouthful of her flesh, the idea of devouring her in more ways than one wasn’t something he was opposed to.

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“Fuck,” she murmured. She closed her eyes and just let herself feel it. That sort of eye contact was way too damned intense to be having with a man who’d been ready to murder her a few seconds ago.

Panting and trembling after moments that seemed to stretch on for eternity, CJ was beginning to feel weak, her vision becoming spotty at the edges. “Ruin…” His name was a hushed prayer that she wanted to kick herself for.

She pushed shakily at his head with her other arm, attempting to speak and having her voice come out is nothing but a breathy squeak. She licked her lips and cleared her throat, fighting to keep her eyes open and shoving harder as she said with more conviction, “Enough.”

It took him a moment to respond to her rejection, and the pleasure that wrapped itself around her like the arms of a trusted lover almost made her not care. Her entire body tried to slump backwards, and he caught her before her head could smack the tiles, fingers pressed over the twin wounds in her wrist as he gently laid her down.

He pulled the bottom cabinet drawer open with his boot, relieved to see a first aid kit lurking unused within it. He grabbed it with his free hand, noticing how fuzzy and floaty CJ’s mood had gotten.

“Snap out of it, scrumptious.” He swabbed her wrist with a cold alcohol wipe before bandaging it.

She met Ruin’s eyes, her own glassy and exhausted. “Feeling better, I hope…?” He asked.

Her entire body was flooded with warmth. His touch was fire anywhere their skin connected. If it weren’t for the chill of the counter tiles beneath her, she’d have been a puddle. She managed to pull herself to a sitting position, with his help.

“Yes. But also… No.”

Carmelia Jianni Sarvino promptly lost consciousness in the arms of a vampire named Ruin.

With an affected sigh, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to what he assumed was her bedroom. He gently laid her on top of the blankets, watching her head loll to the side. She was so vulnerable, lost in slumber. He had a brief stab of sadness, almost envy. Ruin had never experienced sleep before.

He sat on the bed beside her, taking her hand lightly and his. He ticked his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand, their flesh now the same temperature. As the power of her blood coursed through his own dead veins, he asked the sleeping woman: “What are you, Carmelia?”

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Darkness. It began with darkness.

Darkness and the sharp, acrid scent of blood.

Shadows blotting out the moon, a flash of luminous blue eyes in the night, the thunderous flapping of feathered wings coupled with the wet gurglings of someone dying.

Flashes of the faces of two men, both stunning in their chiseled and exotic appeal. One porcelain pale with eyes a glowing biohazard green, the other with a darkened expression and black eyes deeper than the Mariana Trench.

Carmelia stood between them, clad in nothing but a simple and flowing white dress. Both men extended their hands to her as if to ask for a dance, one caressing her cheek with cool fingertips, the other slapping her hard across the opposite cheek with a hand that felt as though it should burst into flames. She raised her shaking hand to touch the blazing place on her visage where his hand cruelly connected, stunned to find cool wetness there.

Trembling harder, Carmelia brought her hand in front of her face to inspect it, surprised to see the specks of crimson that hovered on the tips of her fingers. A bead of it quivered momentarily before falling from her hand to crash onto her pristine garment, the droplet suddenly becoming a deluge that soaked her from head to toe.

Carmelia Jianni Sarvino awoke with a scream trapped in her throat, falling out of bed in a tangle of sweaty sheets and her own twisted pajamas. The world around her swam into focus and she reassured herself that it had only been a dream. She frantically touched her face, heaving a sigh of relief as she discovered that her skin hadn’t been raked open by a pissed off looking Asian man in a suit. And she wasn’t swimming in blood—her own, or anyone else’s.

A glance at the red LED of her alarm clock shouted into the darkness that it was 3:33 AM. Standing before the two gorgeous men like a bride being forced to choose had obviously been a dream. However, it had a weighted sensation to the images, like her other dreams that carried shades of the future in them.

The wings and shining blue eyes from the first portion stood out to her, and a twinge at the back of her brain had her reaching for her cell phone and dialing her friend, Officer Naomi Briar. As it rang, she grabbed the last teddy bear her father had given her, a plush sandy brown creature wearing a camouflage hunting cap and vest. She didn’t care that she was in her early twenties; sometimes reassurance came in the form of a plushie your dad gave you.

She clutched Huntington to her chest, gripping it tighter as the line clicked and she heard a heavy exhalation come from the speaker. “CJ? What’s wrong?” The other woman’s voice was coarse and gravelly from being dragged out of a thick slumber.

“Naomi! I’m so sorry… I didn’t even think that you’d be out cold.”

Naomi scrubbed a hand across bleary eyes, squinting at the clock and noting the time. Practically the witching hour. She wasn’t surprised. “Normal humans are usually asleep now, hun. But that’s not the point. I know you wouldn’t call me in the middle of the night for nothing. Hit me with it.”

After describing her grotesque and weird dream in great detail to the girl who'd been her closest friend since early high school, CJ concluded with: "And it's just like the other ones, Naomi. I woke up at the same time, and everything. But there’s something about those eyes and wings… I think you might be coming across some weird crime scenes soon, if no one's dead already."

CJ stretched and paced back and forth across the carpeted floor of her bedroom, unsure if she should try going back to sleep. What she did know was that she needed a change of scenery, so she headed downstairs to stand on the cooler tiled kitchen floor while she chatted. She didn’t bother to turn the lights on, but something about the sensation of the blackness around her set her nerves on edge.

Pulse rapidly increasing as she focused on the cause of her unease, she paused at the bottom of the stairs. Blinking quickly so her eyes would adjust faster, her stomach dropped to her toes. Seated at her kitchen table, washed in the glow of moonlight from a gap between the curtains, was a broad-shouldered man with dark hair.

Stealthy as possible on bare feet, she grabbed a wine glass from the metal rack above the island as she approached him from behind. She threw it at the back of his head, shouting: “Get the fuck out of my house!” She flipped on the light switch and witnessed the glass collide with the far wall, exploding into a glittering mass of prismatic shards.

Nobody else was in the room with her. She was entirely alone. “What the fuck?” she asked quietly, perplexed and disturbed as her quiet query echoed off the walls of the empty kitchen.

“CJ, you okay?! Do I need to head over there?” Naomi had gotten dressed while CJ detailed her dream. She wasn’t sure where she was headed, but her friend’s hunches and dreams had helped her get the jump on a few cases. She couldn’t afford to discount this one, if it meant potentially saving lives.

“I could have sworn there was someone at my table just now, Nomi. He looked like the guy from my dream…” Her voice quaked as the childhood nickname for the other woman fell from her lips. “Am I going crazy?”

Naomi checked her guns, zipping up her leather jacket and buckling her helmet on before grabbing keys and heading into the stairwell of her apartment building. She didn’t want to wait on the elevator. She moved down the four-story staircase quickly, her footfalls echoing in the concrete enclosure. “You’re not crazy, hun. Just a little weird. And I love you, anyway.” CJ’s response was a laugh that sounded choked off by a sob.

“Did you see anything else other than the eyes and wings? Anything in the environment that might help me figure out where things might be happening?” Naomi knew the seaside city like the back of her hand. Even the smallest detail would be helpful to her.

CJ shook her head, and felt like an idiot when she remembered they weren’t video chatting so Naomi couldn’t see her. “Location?” She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking back to the dream.

Flashes of high stained-glass windows and elaborate arches flared to life behind her eyes. Crumbling white stones. "A church? An older church, maybe? I have no idea where it'd be, though." She cried out suddenly in pain and clutched at her head, almost dropping the phone.

Immaculately mussed blond hair, a full lower lip that begged to be kissed, with a lit cigarette dangling from that luscious mouth. A tender embrace, and those same lips sliding along the flesh of a wrist gripped between slender fingers full of hidden power.

Eyes that glowed red in the darkness, a helpless insect crushed beneath a booted heel.

"Fuck me..." she half-sobbed as the pain intensified, her knuckles turning white as she gripped at her head. CJ felt like she was trying to keep her skull from splitting in half, and her desperate fingers were the only things keeping her brains from spilling onto the tiles. Random visions were one thing. Trying to harness the power and focus on one that had already come and gone was devastating. And leading to more of them.

"I'm having full-on visions while I'm awake, Naomi. This can't be good." She ignored the rivulet of blood that trickled from her nostril, sniffing lightly.

Naomi’s heavy sigh carried the weight of her exhaustion through the phone. CJ's 'gift' was both a blessing and curse. It helped with some of her police work, but the distress and pain it caused CJ wasn’t worth it. To Naomi, having a clairvoyant bestie made the world… Different.

She hated to admit it, and would never say so to Carmelia, but being so close to a seer was frightening. The darkest parts of the world being so clearly displayed felt like having her innocence ripped away by uncaring claws. According to indie news outlets, similar cases of future sight and other abilities had been popping up all over the world lately, with increasing frequency.

Her train of thought ran in circles that swirled and blended the images from the dream, and she almost forgot she was still on the phone. After a long moment of comfortable quiet between them that lasted until she exited the apartment complex, the potential location from CJ's vision struck Naomi. "Saint David's Cathedral!"

The rush of the early morning breeze whipped against her face, the chill savage and searing. She shuddered, feeling the numbness in her fingers crawl up her arms. Naomi moved across the parking lot, jogging between cars and trucks belonging to other tenants, blue eyes flicking about as she searched for her ride.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright?" The visions usually came at night, and by the time the convoluted images were interpreted, the killer had fled the scene.  Naomi was on her way to the old church, without backup. Ill-advised, but she couldn’t take the chance of not capturing this villain in real time.

CJ ignored the question. "Are you going there all by yourself? Give me a few minutes and I’ll head that way, too." She tilted her head back, sniffing lightly, dismayed as she noticed that it wasn't clotting. CJ grabbed a napkin to keep from dripping all over the kitchen floor and herself, holding it lightly to the bottom of her nose.

Naomi had no intentions of dragging Carl—Chief Steiner—into this. Not before she scoped things out. He'd piss and moan about being woken up at this hour, demanding that she wait for him and “appropriate backup”. There wouldn’t be time for that, if what CJ had seen was happening now or about to happen, cryptic though it may have been.

She thrived under pressure. 3 a.m. with no coffee, Fruity Pebbles, or Chief Steiner breathing down her neck… These were all the ingredients for a perfect storm of a night Naomi knew she wouldn’t soon forget. But she also couldn’t risk CJ getting hurt in the process.

“I’m a big girl. I'll be fine. Take care of that nosebleed, hun.” She hung up without saying goodbye, something she regretted but didn’t have time to correct.

CJ sighed as the other side of the line went dead, stuffing the cell phone into the waistband of her shorts. She felt wetness on her fingers through the napkin she held against her face and hurried to the bathroom. She tossed the paper towel in the waste basket and leaned over the sink, breathing shallowly through her mouth.

There was no need to bother with the light, the cream-colored tiles being bright enough for her to see clearly even in the darkness, especially with the moonlight filtering through the frosted glass of the window. A few moments passed and, although it hadn't totally ceased, the nosebleed seemed to finally be slowing.

Through the distorted crackle pattern on the glass, Carmelia was being watched. Shaggy blond hair shaded the eyes of the figure that stared at her, transfixed, as she dabbed at her nose. He’d been drawn here through the darkness. Pulled to her. To that sweet, decadent aroma.

He hadn’t sought blood direct from the tap in a long time, but this woman’s scent was an ambrosia he wouldn’t deny himself. Long, slender fingers trailed down the windowpane and with a slight push, the glass shattered and burst into the room.

Author’s Commentary!

Thanks so much for being here! You’ll be getting the fun final revision of this first season before I publish it over on Amazon! Also, follow me over on Twitter! I’m fairly active there, and post sneak peaks and such.

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Chapter 2!»>

Came up with these last year! Primarily intended for speaker to listener ASMR RP scripts, but these could easily be adapted into stories!

If you use them somewhere, please comment below! I’d love to read/listen!

·        Speaker is a witch/warlock and the listener drops into their shop for a love spell/potion. Whether they get a trick or treat is up to you.

·        Listener got bailed on by their date to the pumpkin/apple/fall festival, so they wander down to the nearby river & come across the speaker who is a banshee/merperson/river monster/ghost who lingers at the water.

·        Mad scientist speaker brings your patchwork corpse to life. Nefarious purposes, romance, or one final goodbye?

·        There's a horrific event at midnight on Oct 31st. An extra hour called "Dark Hour" occurs, but only certain people experience it. Speaker has gone through it before, navigating this liminal hellscape year after year. All they need to do is survive it. But this year, they find another human there(the listener), lost and confused. Will the speaker save them, or use the listener to save their own skin?

·        Speaker is a house-bound spirit and has fallen for the current tenant. They try to find ways to alert the listener to their presence, including leaving short poems scrawled into the mist on the mirror in the bathroom.

·        Speaker is a vampire missionary, going door to door spreading the Word of the Night. They knock on the listener's door on Halloween & the listener thinks it's a joke. At first.

·        Speaker is a veteran monster hunter and they come across the wounded listener. They patch them up & explain that there's no cure for whatever attacked them. Listener can join the organization, or die. Can be a coarse or kind speaker.

·        Roommate comfort. Listener is a (secret)freshly turned vampire & they're frustrated trying to clean their laundry. You know how to clean blood out of clothes (whether speaker is a vamp or not is up to you), so you offer to help & calm them down.

·        Cute: Listener has a mild dog allergy that gets aggravated as the full moon approaches because their partner (speaker) is secretly a werewolf.

·        Edgy: Speaker is a human and comes across the werewolf listener about to take their own life so they don't have to be a monster anymore.

·        The listener leaves out little treats and gifts for the fairies, mostly out of habit from their parents. But when the veil between worlds is thin on Halloween, they meet their fae bodyguard (the speaker) for the first time.

·        Listener is doing some urban exploration. Farther underground than they care to think about, they follow a trail of broken glass to a pile of coins, to a strange creature (speaker) who stays mostly hidden in the shadows.

·        Listener was temporarily deceased as a very small child. Their parents made a deal with a demon/deity(speaker) to bring them back to life. The time to collect on that debt has come.

·        Listener is conned into joining a gang by the resident baddie (speaker). Their gang is actually a pack of werewolves.

·        Human listener is a hunter & attempts to infiltrate a masquerade ball held by vampires. Vampire royal speaker discovers them.

·        Adventurer listener explores an abandoned castle, but finds the speaker locked in one of the towers. There's a reason the speaker was left behind.

·        Listener is a musician. After finishing practicing a piece, they hear clapping behind them despite living alone. Speaker is a ghost/demon with an offer of increased talent/stalker?

·        Speaker is a ghost hunter/medium, listener is a ghost. The ghost is trying to get ready for a Halloween party but has trouble because they can't see themselves in the mirror. The speaker offers to help them & chats with them as they do.

·        Monster hunter listener is having an affair with a vampire(speaker 1) and a magic user/witch(speaker 2), who confront the listener at a costume party. You can decide whether they make up, break up, or go polyamorous.

Thanks!}

[A4A Vampire Speaker to Human Listener]

[…]=pause for a few seconds

{tone starts off business-like, but devolves into flirtatious}

You there.

Yes, you.

You just transferred in, correct?

Stay behind for a few moments, please. Unless you've got somewhere else to be..?

Excellent. Thank you.

…

[papers shuffling]

I'm afraid I don't recall your name. Refresh my memory, if you'd be so kind.

…

Notable enough. Strange of me to forget it.

No matter. Things rarely slip my mind more than once, and you aren't exactly the forgettable sort, are you?

…

No need to play coy. I'm merely making an observation. This is only the second time I've seen you dash into the lecture hall in a flurry, mind racing faster than your legs as you slide into the seat you've claimed as your domain. Almost late, but not quite.

…

Mm. I admire your dedication to attendance. It feels like so few students even bother to show up anymore, in both a figurative & literal sense. Heh.

I know you're effectively playing catch-up since we're a few weeks into the material and you've only just arrived. Have you received all the required reading from the list that came with the syllabus?

…

Excellent. Sometimes the folks in the campus bookstore take their sweet time in acquiring what's needed, so I do have digital versions of the textbooks I can email you if anything is missing, or gets damaged.

You're glad I asked you to stay after? Oh? What did you wish to speak with me about?

…

I see.

…

Yes. That is the truth.

I am indeed a vampire. As with the other non-human professors at this facility, that's clearly stated on the descriptions for all of my courses. It helps to reduce confusion and allay the fears of some of the more… conservative students here.

But I feel that my biological condition is easily apparent, given that my classes are only in session once the sun's gone down. The pale complexion. Archaic speech patterns. Etcetera, etcetera.

…

[cloth rustling as you cross your arms] So... those things aside, you seem curious and intrigued. Are you seeking some sort of proof of my vampirism? A display of inhuman speed, or my supernatural strength, perhaps?

Ah, that little blush in your cheeks speaks volumes. No need to be embarrassed. Our very existence is a bit unbelievable. And yet... there's something about you that doesn't seem afraid.

You have a problem? And what might that be? [thud] No, no. Better yet. Let me guess... [cloth rustles as you pull their sleeve up to bare a wrist] Oh, my. This is not what I would have expected. My guess would have been wildly incorrect.

…

Is this the problem you were referring to? All these scars etched into the flesh of your wrist, and sensitive inner forearm. I've never met one of you in person, before. I was under the impression that humans with an addiction to being fed upon were merely a myth. Something blood-drunk idiots would brag about to try to improve their social standing...

Yet here you are. Right in front of me. A three-course meal begging to be devoured, without even saying a word.

…

[heavy sigh]

Apologies, darling... I seem to have let my thoughts run away with me. You haven't said a word in some moments. Merely sitting there trembling. Although whether with excitement or fear, I can't be certain...

Shame? Why should you feel shame?

If you are choosy with your drinking partners, and ensure that they take proper care of you for the duration... Everyone has needs. And this is no different. Anyone who would make you feel shame for indulging in such a thing is being unnecessarily cruel and judgmental.

…

What was the phrase? “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone?” Sounds to me like they need to keep their rocks to themselves.

And besides [skin rubbing sound] do you not find these markings beautiful? They're really not so different from tattoos. You chose to have them. They may not appear exactly how you expected, but they will remain with your body as long as you breathe. They make your body entirely unique. Adorn you. Decorate the supple canvas that is your flesh. And judging from the shiver that races down your spine as I trace over them… this likely isn’t the only place peppered with them, is it?

…

You should display them proudly, not feel like they need to be hidden. A scar shows you overcame some sort of trial, and lived to tell the tale. They are truly a badge of honor, not a mark of shame. However, if you aren't comfortable showing them off to the world, know that they--and your secret--are safe with me. As are you.

So… If I'm interpreting the situation correctly... are you offering yourself to me?

[soft chuckle] I meant your blood. Although your body is tempting, in and of itself.

…

[tuts disapprovingly] You shouldn’t speak so poorly of yourself. Especially if you’re basing that view of your body on the uneducated words of people who’ve walked this Earth for a few paltry decades.

Society's rapidly changing physical ideals mean nothing to an ageless connoisseur of beauty, such as myself. What was once considered the landmark of attractiveness is today’s hideousness, and vice versa.

Surely, the perception of a creature well into their fourth century of existence holds more weight than the passing fancies of some creatine-addled social media fuckboi, girl, eldritch abomination. Whatever your preferred flavor is, darling.

…

You are the epitome of perfection to me. And in this moment, with you caged between my arms, laid on your back on my desk like the sacrificial offerings they rightly presented to my kind in days gone by... My opinion is the only one that matters.

And given that we are completely alone here… what do you say, darling? Will you give yourself to me, and allow me to reminisce on the days when I was revered and regarded as a god?

…

Excellent, my dear.

Now… which area of this glorious canvas of yours would you like me to leave my marks upon? [soft chuckles fade out]

~End

Hyunjin of Stray Kids at Lollapalooza in Chicago

If you’d rather watch/listen to this blog, here’s the video on my YouTube channel!

I’ve always been interested in Asian pop culture.

Anime and manga have been part of my life since I was eight years old. The natural progression from that to visual kei, which is a glam rock/goth styled rock and metal type of Japanese music, was natural and easy. I’ve been listening to it for over twenty years now, which is crazy to think about. And I’ve been slowly teaching myself Japanese, along the way.

But this isn’t about Japanese media. This is a K-convo, not a J-convo. Around November of 2023, I was bitten by the K-Pop bug. I’d heard a few songs before, even had them on playlists in regular rotation, but since I didn’t know a lick of Korean, it had never really captured me the same way Japanese media had.

I was watching another author on youtube (Sarah Sutton, you should check her out!), and she was casually mentioning Stray Kids. I’m a music junkie, and I’m always down for something new, so I headed to check out some of their recent music videos and see what the fuss was about. The video for “Lalalala” had just dropped, and it’s got a LOT going on. And honestly… between the choreo, the costumes, and the catchy beat… It didn’t feel like the “pop” I was expecting, but I was definitely intrigued.

I grew up in the boyband era of ‘N Sync and the Backstreet Boys, and their ilk, here in America. So this isn’t my first “cute guys who dance and sing” rodeo.  However, I tend to hyperfixate. And twenty-four hours of a caffeine and dopamine fueled deep dive later, I’d learned an entire new lexicon regarding who your favorite member is (bias), who the youngest members of the group are (maknae), and was somehow deeply immersed in a subculture I’d only been vaguely aware of the day before. Every group has a name for their fans, and within 48 hours of learning about the existence of Stray Kids, I could proudly call myself a Stay.

More on my youth:

I grew up in the era of dance-based aerobic workouts. And after watching a music video a few times, I found I could halfway do some of the choreo, just for funsies. Being nearly forty, I’d fallen into the trap of “I’ve had two kids, I work too much to go to the gym, this is just how my body is now.” But bopping around the house for 10-15 minutes a day to music that was fun, and not worrying about how dorky or “cringe” it looked? I could manage that. Didn’t even feel like exercise. And that body movement has made such a drastic difference in my overall mood, and the shape of my body, that you won’t hear me complaining.

And about the music in general, you won’t find the vapid romantic lyrics you’d expect from the boybands of my heyday. Is there some romance? Sure. They’re appealing to teenaged girls as their primary audience. That’s par for the course. But when Stray Kids’ new mini album “ATE” dropped on July 19^th, I sat there with my headphones on and listened to it in its entirety. Do I understand a lot of Korean? Not yet. I’m learning. Although why DuoLingo thinks I need to be able to talk about the fox’s cucumber is beyond me…

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But as I listened to the album, the emotions they’re trying to convey are so easy to pick up on, even in the songs that don’t have very many English lyrics. They’re amazing at setting atmosphere. I laughed, and I cried more than once. But not because any of the songs are sad. It’s because of an element of hopefulness. Of pushing through difficult things and succeeding, despite roadblocks and obstacles doing their damnedest to knock you off course.

As a divorced single parent, living on the other side of the country from my family due to custody rules, I work myself into the ground to barely scrape by. It feels like everything is hopeless and meaningless. More often than I care to admit. But I carry on, because quitting isn’t an option when you’ve got two small humans looking up to you.

My kids asked me why I’ve been listening to K-Pop so much, since I’m typically a rock and metal girl. I realized that it’s because it’s new. It’s fresh, and it has no prior attachments to people from my past or things that have happened before. Good or bad. K-Pop feels like now, rather than the nostalgic reaching and grasping at a yesterday that I’ll never be able to hold in my hands again.

It feels like moving forward.

It feels like healing. It feels like taking my life back, as much as I can until my boys are both eighteen, and it feels… hopeful. It’s brought me inspiration for a new series of short novels I’m working on. It was the background soundtrack for the first thing I published this year (“Arctic Dreams”). But it’s also brought pleasure back into my life in a way I didn’t even realize I was missing it.

I feel like I can be a dork and dance with my kids. I can make silly jokes, even sometimes with clients at work that I’ve been seeing for a while. And I feel like I’ve found a community of sorts, through the fandom. When you live alone fifty percent of the time and have no interaction with other adults outside of work… Life gets lonely. Extremely isolated. And you don’t realize that you’re becoming a shut-in until it’s too late.

Society doesn’t make it easy for us to interact with other people unless we’ve got a drinking problem, lucked into a living situation that’s social, or work has a big enough crew that we can find a friend or three amongst the other workers. Otherwise… so many of us are alone that it’s terrifying.

Can I attribute my recent leaps in healing to other things? Sure. I’ll bet the unprecedented sunny as hell summer here in Washington is a big part of that. Drinking more water, getting more exercise, swimming at the pool, recently publishing my re-debut novel… But it started with K-pop. The levity and light that it’s brought into my life helps me keep pushing through the bullshit that tries to keep me stuck.

Long story long:

if you find something that you enjoy, don’t let anyone tell you that you’re too old, not enough whatever, blah blah blah. Hold on to that shiny, bright nugget with every ounce of strength you have. The world is dark and bleak enough that you deserve to bathe in the warmth of something that brings you joy.

On that note, I’ll leave you with some lyrics from “Runners,” the song on the new Stray Kids EP that made me bawl my eyes out the first time I heard it.

Deeper and deeper, I'm sinking, I'm drowning
One little trip and I know that I'll fall in
Deeper and deeper, I'm thinking, I'm crying
Too many thoughts in my head, gotta let it go

I'm chasing that light tonight
Another step on my tightrope
I know that I'll be alright

I won't stop running, I know that I'm becoming
GOAT, I'm stunning, let me show the world
I'm feeling edgy, watch me take it all
Come and try to push me off