Halloween is still several months ahead. Very sad. Very tragic. Can you write me a headless horseman meetcute to tide me over until the time for jack-o-lanterns comes around?
“Aww, yes you may! I love this headless man, (Halloween too) and I’ve very excited to write for him! Admittedly, I’ve been thinking of creating a story for him, or at least the Dullahan, but I don’t think I would be opposed to try the movies. (Have yet to see the series.)” - Ichor
Summary - “A simple, and rather friendly headless man greets you near the stream.”
TW // None.
|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|
The Headless Horseman was never one to wander in his lands and find a stranger within it. Usually, his rides with his steed are quiet, not a huff to be seen by neither man nor beast while they walk through the forest landscape. The more living creatures around seeming to go more quiet and add to their already eerie appearance and aura.
Yet, there was this… humming and the sound of a spring near by. Nothing like what the usual silence he goes through, quite the opposite. The sound was almost… soothing with a slight splash here and there, and who wouldn’t get curious of that? Especially when your own lands were quiet when you were around?
He steers his steed to the direction of the sounds, passing and ducking under some low branched oak trees. Not running towards the sounds like he would in the night to scare off people and inflict fear upon them, as per his skills. His arm coming up to shield himself from the lush and vibrant grounds of the nature around him. The humming getting closer and closer as his steed goes on slowly, and then pausing just outside of the lush forest.
“Hmm hum.” He hears them sings a certain tune, following some song from their head. He can see them too, well… without his head, but how else was he to chase after people? Blinded? He was sure to run into a tree if he was, and if one could blind him. He’s a bit immune to those aspects.
The Headless man sits there on his steed for a second, pondering. Judging their soul. They seemed like a good human within their lifetime, nothing looked "wrong" with them soul wise, and it wasn't their time yet. So then... why were they lingering near the stream? Humming a pretty tune he doesn't know of? Were they running? No, they seemed too calm... hmmm. He needs a closer look.
He twists his body, quietly dismounting. His boots landing on the forest floor silent with the skill of his being. His attention on you, just in case something may have spooked you or in case you might be a fairy or something similar to sense him. Yet, you still haven't done so. You haven't noticed him. How was he to get your attention without-
Snap!
The Headless man pauses and watches as you jump in your crouched position. The bottle? Cantine? Of yours jumping with you as well while you hurry to look at him from behind. Your eyes wide, and he thinks he heard your heart jump inside of you too. It was... amusing for him, maybe a bit more than chasing his victims. He will have to rule that out.
"O-oh!" You speak up after a moment of judging him, himself. What appears to be an embarrassed blush appearing on your cheeks? He never had that happen before. Most of the time they are screaming and running away while he takes in the thrill of the hunt. "I'm sorry! I... I didn't mean to trespass."
Trespass? Ah, well, he supposes you have. You were in his area, and... not even daring not to look at him. Your eyes looking everywhere else besides him and his steed behind him that seems to huff in amusement as well. Guess he will give you some respectful credit for not daring to look at him as his kind is not very keen to be looked at.
"Hmmm, yes." His voice is wispy, masculine. Something you clearly didn't expect from a headless man like him as your eyebrows rise up in surprise. "Yet I have redeemed you."
"Re-redeemed? You mean… y-you have forgiven me?" You ask, taking a brief glance his way before looking somewhere else. Never daring to provoke his wrath. You must have had a book on you about creatures unlike humans, or maybe you were a creature yourself? There is a chance you are just… a shy little thing too.
“Your soul is not ready.” He speaks again, leaving it a bit cryptic. His form shifting to stand up more straight than when he stepped on the stick that scared you. Looking more… intimidating and perhaps… attractive to some that find a unique interest.
“I- right… wait,” You accidentally look over and give him a long look, trying to read him as he simply stands there, letting you look. A bit surprising for a Dullahan to let one be when they stare. “My soul is not ready?”
If he had his head, it would be tilting, and his eyes would be full of amusement. Yet, his body is still, never moving, like a statue. Then, he gives a phantom-like laugh. “No, young one. It is not.”
You, yourself is… confused and… feeling all sorts of things. Should you pay your respects? Run away? No, that would surely be embarrassing. Besides, this headless man wasn’t hurting you, yet.
“However, it doesn’t mean others will have a right to calm it now.” You can hear the mirth in his voice that shouldn’t even be there. He had no head. Only a stump of a neck that was covered by a bit of his collar of his jacket. He was joking with you, but it still sent a shiver through your nerves.
A nervous laugh escapes you. Your head coming up to rub the back of your neck. You’re not sure how to proceed any further in the presence of a Dullahan or a Headless man. Everything said they would be aggressive, but this one wasn’t like that. At least not yet.
“Hmm, you’re welcome for now, young one.” He hum, shifting a bit again. His steed coming closer to his side from behind him. Your eyes carefully following his movement as he lifts himself back up on his horse. “That is until your soul cry’s for judgment, farewell.”
Your eyes follow him as he steers his steed away, both of the creatures disappearing quickly as if they weren’t here in the first place. The only thing to tell of they were was the boot and hoof prints they left behind, and the lingering warning he brought…
I've reached new thresholds of just how niche a 'fandom' I'm willing to write for. To even say that Folklore has a fandom is to wildly overestimate the vague half-remembered sentiments of people who played a weird, quirky game 18 years ago and seem to always recall it as a fever dream and who have rarely ever finished it. In fact, I have minor beef with the fandom wiki for this game because it itself makes mistakes about the lore (Halflives are not referred to in the singular as a "Halflife," for instance, a single one is called a "Halflive" and this is consistent throughout the game and supplementary materials), and so at this point I'm convinced that I am Folklore 2007's single strongest soldier.
So be it.
The more I thought about what felt necessary to get Keats Folklore to get his dick out, the more I realized this was going to be a porn-with-plot situation over multiple chapters. This also required giving Reader-chan a little more characterization than I typically prefer to. So if you're one of the four other people who have played this game (Hi, four other people!) or are willing to walk with me and meet my latest husband, come along and enjoy.
This work will be updating on AO3 here, as well.
Also Chapter 2 is posted here.
Unknown Realms Editorial Department, Ch. 1
Keats (Folklore) x AFAB Reader
(gendered pronouns avoided, "she/her" to be used very rarely)
This chapter is SFW, but there will be eventual smut.
It’s not like you’d expected it to be easy or simple, reviving a long-dead publication with nothing but a dream, your own bank account and a bit of help from a few like-minded friends. But you hadn’t expected it to feel quite this hopeless, either. Passion alone had carried the project this far, but passion won't pay your bills or cover printing and marketing. This first issue needs to be perfect, but at this point, your best bet is some sort of divine intervention.
With a drawn out sigh, you hunch forward and rest your forehead in your hand, half-closed eyes staring blearily at your laptop screen. The draft in front of you reads Unknown Realms in a classic serif font that’s as close to the original as you could find. You imagine it had been selected to evoke a tone of scholarship and respectability. Even the most flighty and fanatical readers want to feel as though their supernatural fancies are being addressed with the utmost academic sobriety. In contrast, the cover design itself- generously assembled by a friend with a nearly unused graphic design degree -barrages the viewer with questions plastered over occult imagery and blurry photographs.
Do otherworldly visitors walk among us?
Could you contact other worlds?
Recognizing portals: have you encountered one without even knowing?
It fits what your intended audience wants and expects, that's for certain. But with your entire so-called “budget” tied up in printing costs, how could you possibly find an editor or even beta readers to go over the content itself? Your eyes drag over the first paragraph of the first article for the thousandth time. It's missing something, you know it. It feels as flat as the words themselves on your screen. This first issue needs to grab hold of each and every reader, and turn one-time customers into devoted subscribers. Portals to other worlds. Possibilities of some great, unexplored ‘other.’ The concept itself is thrilling, but how can you translate the way it grips you to a skeptical audience?
You groan as you scroll through the drafted pages, knowing full well that staring at the text won't help you any more this time than it did the eighth or ninth time you had re-read it through in this evening alone. The lower right of your screen tells you it's past midnight, now. Your desperation has eaten away at the minutes and hours. This needs to go to print, and soon. You have to start recouping costs, or this entire project, the dream itself, is dead before you even have a chance to revive it.
With a drawn out exhale, you get to your feet and let them take you over to the electric kettle on the dresser pulling double-duty as a countertop. You hadn’t been particularly craving tea, but you needed to get up and do something, so this would serve as a distraction if nothing else. You will yourself to focus on the mundane task, rather than the creeping dread crawling up your throat, and fill the kettle in the bathroom sink. You realize you’ve filled it far too high for one person, but as you shut off the faucet, a sound seizes your attention.
There are footsteps in the hall outside. In an ordinary apartment building, this wouldn't be so strange, even late at night. But you aren't meant to be living here. In truth, it's a commercial space, which you've been living out of as a cost-saving measure. Surely you would have been notified if there were any kind of inspection or utility work scheduled. Just as you're still wracking your brain as to who exactly could be in the building at this time, a sharp knock sounds on the door to your office.
You stare at the door from across the sparse expanse of the room, unsure whether you had heard correctly. After a lengthy pause, the unseen figure on the other side lets out a short sigh.
“There are lights on, and from the street I saw someone moving about in there,” comes a male voice in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’m looking for someone who evidently needs my help. The least you could do is hear me out.”
Another halting, uncertain pause. Then,
“Just- just a minute!” You call out, abandoning the kettle on the dresser for now. On your way across the room, you make a passing attempt at straightening your hair and clothes into something close to presentable. Whoever this is doesn't need to know how dangerously close you had been to falling asleep on your keyboard moments ago. With a breath and a few blinks to focus your eyes, you open the door. The figure on the other side takes you aback; for a moment, you size him up, eyebrows raised and a hand frozen on the door handle.
The man standing before you is someone's definition of handsome, to be certain, but you can't quite decide whether he fits yours. Your immediate impression is somewhat more uncanny. The circular spectacles perched on his long, hawkish nose flash in the stark fluorescent lights of your office. They coyly guard his eyes, preventing you from feeling quite sure of his gaze. His rich brown hair might be elegant, if he deigned to tame it into a clear shape, and it almost seems a shame to see soft and full hair like that wasted on a man who can't be bothered even to secure his necktie or find a properly fitted vest. By contrast, his coat seems bafflingly bespoke; a long and deeply hued purple number accented with golden Celtic knots, which must have been a one-of-a-kind vintage acquisition. It's this coat, paired with his tall but sloped posture, that gives him a looming, bat-like silhouette, and leaves you feeling uniquely off-kilter before him.
“Uh- Unknown Realms, editorial department,” you say stiffly, not quite as professional sounding as when you'd rehearsed it.
“Is it now?” There's a note of humor in his voice, though you can't imagine what he finds so amusing. The man smirks, both hands planted in his pockets as he steps into your office with the easy self-assuredness of someone who has never questioned whether he should be anywhere. While his line of sight is impossible to track, you can see him scanning your office seemingly inch by inch. As he silently takes in his surroundings, your mind races through a debate: kick him out, or entertain whatever this strange visitor wants from you? To your surprise, your mind makes itself up with far less adjudication than you’d expect. You let the door swing shut, and hurry back towards your desk. Your curiosity has won out, as it so often does.
“Can I help you?” You ask, a bit more pointedly than you'd intended.
“I should be asking you that,” he says, “from what I understand, you're rather desperate.”
You might take exception to being described that way by a stranger, but it's not as though he's wrong. He meets you at your desk, absently moving his hand over stray post-its and scribbled sheets of notes.
“Tell me, what exactly are you trying to accomplish here? I have my own theories, of course, but I'll need some answers from you, first.”
“I'm sorry,” you say with an indignant laugh, “you need answers? You just waltzed into my office in the middle of the night without so much as an introduction! Just who do you think you are, anyway?”
“Keats,” he replies simply, a hand adjusting his glasses, “I'm a reporter.”
“Keats?” You repeat with a frown, “like the-”
“Like the poet, yes,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “though poetry is hardly my field. Your turn. Who are you, and what do you have to do with Unknown Realms?”
The nerve of him, interrogating you in your own office.
“I'm- well, I'm trying to-” your brows scrunch together and you shake your head, “wait, you know Unknown Realms?”
“Consider me a long time fan.”
As he speaks, his attention turns to the stack of old issues of the original magazine resting in a barely organized stack on the edge of your desk. His long fingers slip idly through the pages of the top-most issue on the pile, but he offers no more of his thoughts. While his eyes remain carefully shielded by the glare of his glasses, his lips are curled into that strange, almost playful grin.
“A fan,” you repeat after him once again, still processing this bizarre situation. Finally, you sigh and let your hands drop to your sides.
“My name is Y/N, and, well… basically I'm trying to revive the publication. Give it a second chance,” Keats gives no reply, and his measured silence compels you to keep talking, “I know it sounds kind of ridiculous, but growing up, we had old issues around the house and my friends and I would pour over those articles, just… enthralled,” your expression warms as your eyes drift to the cover of the issue Keats is flicking through, “It was inspiring. And comforting in a way, I guess. To think that we’re so small, and there could be so much out there to be discovered and understood. And so I, uh… I want to bring that to others. I want our readers to feel the same thrill I did back then. Well, when I get readers, anyway.”
“You’re a true believer, then.”
He says it with a dryness that makes it clear this isn’t a compliment.
“In the supernatural? Not exactly. Not completely, anyway,” you cross your arms in front of you, suddenly feeling quite defensive, “I just… don’t want to close up my mind. Science has come far, sure, but there’s still so much we don’t understand. If I don’t have all the answers, then who am I to discount the possibilities? Especially if it could inspire someone else the way it inspired me.”
It’s a little clumsy. Definitely wouldn’t stand up even to your own editing standards. Still, Keats nods slowly to himself, and closes the magazine in his hand. He gestures at you with it, and says,
“Nostalgia is a poor reason to put yourself in this state. But it does seem that you and I have a common interest.”
Every word this man says puts you more and more off-balance. There’s a word that fits him- not quite ‘audacious,’ and ‘rude’ seems too simple. He hasn’t been unkind per say, though he clearly cares little for social niceties. Yet as you circle this thought, the cheerful beep of your electric kettle causes you to flinch.
“Oh my God, I nearly forgot,” you head toward the dresser and root around for a second clean cup, “tea?”
“If you insist,” he replies, though his thoughts are clearly elsewhere. As you prepare your drinks in mismatched mugs, Keats circles around your desk to get a clear look at your screen. He eyes your laptop curiously, and you can’t help feeling self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. You have no doubt that his feedback will be particularly un-filtered.
“It’s- it’s not quite finished, and I need to source a couple more photos for the-”
“Relax,” he cuts in, “If I’m going to help you, I need to see what you have so far. We’ll go from there.”
“Why… are you helping me?” You ask tentatively as you return to the desk with tea in hand.
“Like I said, we have a common interest.”
“I need more than that,” you say, finally having gathered the nerve to be straight with him, “your story is thin. How did you even hear about me? And how do I know that you can help me at all anyway?”
Despite your firmer tone, you still approach him to offer his tea. He takes it wordlessly, and you realize that this close, you can get a clearer look at his eyes. Shrewd, cutting eyes. Eyes that gaze down at you with an assessing stare that nearly makes you shiver.
“I'm a journalist as well, remember,” he says at last, “I write for a similar publication- though don't worry,” he adds with some humor, “our audiences are quite distinct, we won't be stepping on one another’s toes.”
“Hm. Anything I've read?”
“Not likely,” he says flatly, and you wonder if you've ever met someone who was both so blunt and so evasive. He drags the spare chair from the corner of the room over to your desk and turns it around to sit on it with his arms resting crossed along its back. All of your furniture looks somewhat off contending with his lanky frame, like he wasn't quite designed to fit in this mundane space. Keats sips his tea as you take your seat in front of your laptop, the steam fogging his glasses.
“In any case, you ought to know that a reporter is only as good as their sources,” he says, “I keep my ear to the ground. I came to understand that someone around here had something to do with that old magazine, and that they were in dire need of assistance. And it seems my tip was right.”
“Damn good sources,” you mutter.
“I'm a damn good reporter,” he says, leaning forward to place his mug on the desk, “now, show me your work.”
You feel that sensation again- that there's a word for him just waiting at the tip of your tongue. For now, you exhale and turn toward the screen, scrolling back to the top of the draft.
“Okay, so-”
“No preamble,” he says, “your readers will be approaching your work cold, so I'll be doing the same.”
At first, you want to argue with him. Part of you has wanted to since he arrived at your door. But you realize as you watch his eyes scan your writing line by line that you genuinely do want to hear his feedback. If he’s as good as he thinks he is, then the universe has dropped the perfect editor directly into your lap. You're practically holding your breath waiting for him to say something to break the tense silence, and you have to consciously remind yourself to drink your own tea before it goes cold. It's nearing 1am now, but you feel strangely energized.
“Cut this sentence,” Keats says at last, jabbing a finger at the sentence in question.
“It's there for emphasis.”
“It's clumsy and unnecessary. Look,” he shifts his chair closer to you, “the prior sentence is strong. It's vivid and communicates your point clearly. Belaboring that point only weakens it.”
You open your mouth, then close it, and delete the offending sentence. It does, unfortunately, read better this way.
Keats nods and continues on, his hand fumbling a little with the scroll function on your track pad. The silence doesn't feel quite as heavy this time, and as it settles around you, you find your eyes wandering back to the man beside you. This close and at level with him, you suppose that he isn't bad to look at. From his jawline to his nose and cheekbones, he's all clear, sharp lines and angles, as intriguing as he is unsettling. Perhaps his face and his personality had been sculpted by the same artist. As his brows furrow and he hums a short, disproving sound, the word you've been searching for comes to mind.
“Fix the spelling error here,” he says, “And you need to do something about this concluding paragraph, it leaves no lasting impression. As for this word choice…”
He trails off as you watch him, a hand lingering at his chin. He is handsome, you decide. He's also-
“Impertinent.”
Keats frowns, eyes still on the screen.
“What? No, that doesn't make any sense here.”
“I mean you,” you say with a laugh, “you are incredibly, unabashedly impertinent.”
He glances sideways at you, a single eyebrow arched.
“I suppose I've been called worse. Besides,” he leans back and stretches his arms above his head with a sigh, “from what I'm seeing, you could use some impertinence. Your style isn't bad, but your readers need to believe in you as a voice of authority, and you won't accomplish that if your work lacks confidence.”
You nod silently. Perhaps, if you can borrow some of Keats’ impertinence, you'll be able to seize your readers’ attention the same way he's monopolized yours since he arrived.
“Alright,” you say, straightening your back and pulling in closer to your desk, “I agree about the structure of the conclusion overall, but for the record, I stand by that word choice at the end there.”
Keats crosses his arms over the chair’s back once more, his usual smirk comfortably in place.
“Convince me.”
Another two hours pass in this fashion; Keats presents an objection, sometimes you negotiate, more often than not you follow his guidance and the result is an improvement. Another round of tea comes and goes amidst your constant back and forth, an admirable but ultimately feeble attempt to fortify your body and mind. Yet as the night wears on into the very early morning, still pitch black outside and glowing fluorescent inside, your focus finally begins to waver. Your eyes have begun to ache at the sight of your laptop screen, and each comment from your new editor is becoming harder and harder to follow.
“What is the purpose of this phrase here?” Keats briefly tries and fails to highlight the words, but quickly changes tacts and simply gestures to them, “It comes across as vague.”
You squint at the line he’s pointing towards.
“Hm? That one? Uhm, I think it’s meant to set a tone of… awe?”
Keats sighs and leans back, adjusting the tie hanging loose around his neck. He glances at you in the corner of his eyes and watches you with a long, unreadable stare that would make you terribly self-conscious if you weren’t so overwhelmingly exhausted. Then, he stands so abruptly that you nearly jolt in place.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are flagging, and your work will suffer if you continue in this state. I won’t waste my time on sub-par work.”
Well, the confirmation that he at least doesn’t find the majority of your work “sub-par” is a little comforting. He certainly has given plenty of his time to it. Still, you suppose he is right. You’re nearly itching inside to have this issue completed, to get it to printing. But a mediocre first issue won’t give Unknown Realms the new start it deserves.
You echo his sigh and get up as well, a little unsteady as your legs had nearly fallen asleep before you. Keats is headed for the door already. Without looking back, he says,
“Rest, and we will continue tomorrow.”
You’re still rounding your desk when his hand meets the door handle, and you call as you half-jog to him,
“Wait- Keats- you can’t just-”
He gives an exhale from his nose, not even quite a sigh this time, as he glances back at you. His bangs have fallen along the sides of his face in a way that briefly makes your heart skip. He really does have lovely hair. God, you’re tired.
You open your mouth to speak when you reach him, but all you manage is a stilted,
“Thank- uh, thank you for your help.”
He pushes up his glasses, and you’re beginning to think this may be a habit more than necessity.
“Please don’t mistake me for the altruistic sort,” he says wryly, “I have my own interest in the success of this project, that’s all. Now rest.”
The very moment Keats closes your office door behind him and his footsteps fade down the hall, you begin to wonder if you had imagined him entirely. Somehow, it’s only in his absence that you’re able to recall the sprawling list of questions you still have for him. What exactly is his interest in reviving a long dead occult magazine? Who gave him the tip to find you? Where did he even come from? And aside from the questions you can put into words, everything about him just seems so ephemeral, so difficult to grasp. You look groggily back and see the spare chair where he left it, turned backwards with his mug on the desk nearby.
It’s too early to hope for anything. You have to get a hold on the fluttering of excitement in your belly before your expectations get out of hand. But with Keats’ assertion that you would continue working together tomorrow, you can’t help the somewhat superstitious feeling that something in your fate has shifted.
Hellsing
Record of Ragnarok
Saint Seiya/Knights of zodiac
Bride of Deimos
The wolf among us
Mythology/Folklore (example: Greek Mythology and Grimm´s Stories)
Sekiro: Shadows die twice
Soulsborne and Elden Ring
League of legends
Castlevania (Games series and Cartoon)
Vampire Hunter D
Warhammer 40k
Thundercats
Avatar (James Cameron)
Van Helsing (2004)
You can also suggest fandoms and I will see if I make them or not. It can be anime, video games, books, etc.
What I do accept:
-- Female Reader and Male Reader.
-- Fluffy, Angst, Smut, etc.
-- Platonic, non-romantic and romantic relationships.
-- Bad jokes, dark humor.
-- Yandere
-- Dark themes (Noncon for example).
-- Specific scenarios
-- Straight, Homo, Bi, Asexuality.
-- Original Characters x Reader
What I don't accept:
-- Reader Gender neutral.
Since English is not my first language, I have a hard time writing in "neutral".
-- Specify skin tone (except genetic skin mutations).
Because I never think about Reader's skin color, why do it now?
-- Homophobia
-- Transphobia
-- Underage
-- Depression and Suicide
If you are suffering from depression, please get help, I know it looks ugly right now but with help you can slowly work your way through it.
-- Pedophilia and Pederasty
-- Xenophobia and Racism
(Including the "positive" one)
I don't really have much to put, I'm quite permissive.
Spanish version:
Lo que si acepto:
-- Lector Femenino y Lector Masculino
-- Fluffy, Angst, Smut, etc.
-- Relaciones platónicas, no románticas y románticas
-- Chistes malos, humor negro.
-- Yandere
-- Temas oscuros (Noncon por ejemplo)
-- Escenarios específicos
-- Hetero, Homo, Bi, Asexualidad.
-- Personajes originales x Reader
Lo que no acepto:
-- Lector Genero neutral
Como el ingles no es mi primer idioma, se me dificulta escribir en "neutral".
-- Especificar tono de piel (exceptuando mutaciones genéticas en la piel)
Porque nunca pienso en el color de piel de Reader. ¿Por que hacerlo ahora?
-- Homofobia
-- Transfobia
-- Underage
-- Depresión y Suicidio
Si sufres depresión, por favor busca ayuda, se que ahorita se ve feo pero con ayuda poco a poco podrás salir adelante.
-- Pedofilia y Pederastia
-- Xenofobia y Racismo
(Incluido el ""positivo"")
no tengo mucho que poner la verdad, soy bastante permisiva.
My madness persists, but what a beautiful madness it is. By that, I mean that I'm still hyperfixated on Folklore and it's holding my dopamine hostage.
I may have purchased the players guide (with some beautiful high-res renders of the official art) and all SEVEN dlc add-ons that were released with the game. The absolute hubris to release this impossible-to-market game with seven add-ons locked and loaded and hopes for a sequel is truly mind-boggling, you gotta respect it.
There's so much I'm enjoying about writing this so far. The contemporary-ish setting (roughly 2008) and longer-form plot are both extremely unusual for my writing. Plus to be honest, Keats might be the most fun character to write dialogue for that I have ever had the pleasure of working with. His unique combination of clever, bitchy, intuitive and yet impossibly emotionally constipated is like kryptonite to me specifically.
Anyway, I'm really mostly posting this for consistency's sake so I have all of my writing organized as I like, but for those few of you who are along with me on this ride, enjoy.
For convenience, chapter 1 is here.
And chapter 3 is here!
Unknown Realms Editorial Department, Ch. 2
Keats (Folklore) x AFAB Reader
(gendered pronouns avoided, "she/her" to be used very rarely)
This chapter is SFW, but there will be eventual smut.
After a profoundly destabilizing night, you grasped tightly onto the normalcy of a lunchtime coffee date with your friend-turned-graphic designer. It had helped ground you, and it was a relief to be able to report how productive you’ve been lately, promising to send her the new draft later in the day. The time had passed so comfortably, chatting about everyday things. She complained about her new boss, you mentioned a few interesting leads for stories that you’d found among the extensive list of paranormal forums you’ve been following, and you both lingered over the last few gulps of your drinks for long enough for them to become lukewarm. By the time you exchanged your goodbyes at the door to your office building, you had felt very nearly at-ease. But the moment you wave her off and head inside and up the stairwell, your mind is back on work. Work, and your new “editor,” of course.
You wish you could have talked about Keats even a little without coming across as absolutely mad. Most of your friends are concerned enough for your well-being without tales of a mysterious man with a clearly fake name who you, for some reason, let into your office in the middle of the night and who dodged every semblance of a personal question you threw his way. Any reasonable person would think that you’re working yourself into delirium. No, talking about this openly would only invite more concern and speculation about your safety, your mental state, or both. Yet the thought does reaffirm your resolve- you'll find out more about him one way or another. That is, if he does show up again.
When you push open the door to your office, your eyes are immediately drawn back to the extra mug on your desk. There’s no way you had imagined him. He’d simply rattled you, that’s all. Not to mention disrupted your sleep schedule. Briefly, you consider sneaking in a nap on the cot you’d crammed into the walk-in closet around the corner, but with a sigh you shrug off your jacket at the door and decide against it. You have to keep momentum. Mind made up, you return to your desk and open your laptop.
The Unknown Realms, Issue 1 working document is as you left it around 3am the prior night, scrolled down to the central article which details different kinds of otherworldly portals from cultures around the world. It’s in no way comprehensive- that would be virtually impossible with the sort of page count you can afford -but all of the major concepts are here, and this particular article had demanded by far the most research from you. Your stomach tenses and your eyes narrow at the screen. You’re both nervous and undeniably eager for Keats to look over these pages. While you’re proud of your efforts, you can’t help but wonder if it will stand up to his exacting standards. With a short exhale, you straighten your back, and resolve to give it one more pass.
When the knock you’ve been waiting to hear for hours finally reaches your door, you lurch up from your desk so suddenly that you nearly knock over your chair. Once again, it’s near midnight. Is he simply not capable of visiting during normal business hours?
“Be right there!”
You round the desk and hurry to the door, and the feeling of relief that wells up in you when you see Keats’ looming figure surprises you. Though, perhaps it’s not so strange, given you’d been on the cusp of convincing yourself you’d hallucinated the entire night prior.
“You’re here,” you say, realizing afterwards that it’s a somewhat asinine way to greet someone. He raises an eyebrow at you and steps into your office. You notice a stack of papers tucked under his arm as he passes.
“I said I would be. Is that a problem?”
“No- I just wasn’t sure that-” you mumble as you follow after him to your stations from last night, “Nevermind.”
Keats returns the extra chair to its spot at your desk and deposits the stack of papers there with little ceremony. When you take your seat as well, you finally get a good look at them. You take the top page in your hand and look it over. They’re notes, and detailed ones at that, all related to the precise topic of your feature article: portals to other worlds. While not particularly well organized, at least not by any method you’re familiar with, they are thorough and clear, covering everything from faerie circles to tori gates and even household mirrors.
“The first section are more well-known types of portals that any self-respecting researcher of the supernatural would include, and thus, the most essential. From my brief overview last night, you have most of those, but there are some finer points to the tales and legends that you may have neglected,” he explains, once again sitting with his chair backwards and his arms across its back, “After that are a few esoterica that you may choose to exclude, depending on page count. It’s nearly all nonsense, of course. Hysterical stories of spectres crawling out of bathroom mirrors and such,” he says with his typical sardonic expression, “But one must sift through nonsense from time to time if they hope to dig up any truth. Ah, and the last page and a half or so are more thematic and stylistic notes.”
You’re processing his words, at least partly, as you flip through the pages in hand one after another. However when he finishes his explanation, you voice the first question that had jumped to your mind on receiving this strange gift.
“Do you use a typewriter?”
Keats pauses only briefly and adjusts his glasses.
“I do, yes.”
“Of course you do,” you laugh and shake your head, looking back at the pages with their tell-tale classic font and thick black ink, “You’re such a weirdo.”
“It suits me. I prefer to invest myself in the physical process of writing,” as he speaks, you can’t help letting your gaze drift back toward him, “The keys of a computer are flimsy and insubstantial. Typewriters are… tactile. Present. Writing is an act of the mind and the body.”
“Hm.” you nod along with his words. They do make an odd sort of sense. Perhaps you ought to stop by a second hand shop for a typewriter one of these days. Though something else has caught your attention as well.
“You’re more chatty today,” you say, smiling just a little. He had seemed so closed off the prior night, hearing him speak more freely is oddly comforting, like you could actually have a normal conversation with him.
“Just talking shop,” he replies, “I don’t often find the chance to speak with a fellow journalist. Don’t take it to mean anything.”
Once again, he’s tied you up in conflicting emotions, speaking about you as a peer in the same breath that he dashes your hopes of really connecting with him. Unsure of how to respond, you change the topic.
“Tea?”
“I’ll do it,” he gets to his feet and points back to his stack of notes, “Review these in the meantime, and we’ll be able to get back to work.”
The following hours are as rewarding as they are grueling. Keats is a strict task-master, expressing his feedback bluntly and demanding a rigorous defense any time you resist one of his edits. But rather than frustrated, you feel invigorated by the challenge. The continuous exchange of ideas, the more active method of transforming your writing from what it is into what it can be, is far more motivating than anything you could have accomplished in the lonely silence of your office. It’s as he had said- writing is an act of the mind and the body, and having him here to help you embody it in gestures, in arguments, in spoken word translated into written, is uniquely inspiring.
“Your conclusion is weak, again,” he says flatly at around two in the morning.
“This is the most research-focused article, the conclusion has to have a more academic sound to fit the overall tone,” you’ve begun to feel more confident pushing back against him. In fact, you’re starting to suspect that you get his best advice when he’s a little impatient. When he replies, you can tell from the tension in his voice that you’re getting there,
“Believe me, I can appreciate that. I wouldn’t be here still if you weren't approaching this with at least some amount of scientific rationale.”
It’s true that you’ve couched all of your supernatural speculation within a tone of skepticism- one which Keats has only encouraged through the editing process. No proper occult reporter ought to go so far as to confirm a tale or legend outright, and the average reader will only grow in respect for a publication which practices restraint, presents the evidence, and leaves questions open to individual judgment. Still, his dissatisfaction is painted clearly across his face.
“Okay,” you sigh, “so what’s the issue?”
Keats stands and begins a slow pace across your office, one hand in his pocket while the other runs his fingers idly along the perpetual five-o’clock-shadow at his chin and up his jawline. As if you needed another reason to focus your attention there.
“It’s bland. There’s no style to it, nothing beyond the bare bones of the content itself to spark the imagination, or linger in the reader’s mind.”
You cross your arms and slump back in your seat, glaring daggers at the screen before you. As usual, you’re forced to admit that he’s right. But you haven’t a clue where to start on fixing it. A strained silence lingers around you both. Keats turns to look at you past his shoulder, his glasses flashing in that mirrored way that keeps you from reading him.
“Listen,” there’s a slow, considered tone in his voice that you're not familiar with, and it calls your eyes up to meet his, “You have thematic resonance here. Portals to other worlds- an access point into the unknown. It’s a fine topic, but isn’t that also what you’re creating right now?”
“I…” you frown, “In what way?”
“You, the all-powerful journalist,” he gives an exaggerated bow of his head toward you, “Are extending a hand and inviting your readers to consider things beyond what they had ever dreamed possible. In that way, wouldn’t you say that your publication itself is a portal of sorts?”
Your eyebrows rise just a little, and his smirk broadens as he watches the idea take root in your mind. Turning from you, he resumes his pacing along the front end of your desk and continues, “Right now, at this moment, countless paths of discovery sprawl out before us- a quantum realm, observed particles, even senses and ways of perceiving available to both beast and man that we are only now beginning to comprehend. Scientific inquiries that will reveal truths most have never even considered. It is your job,” he jabs a finger at you dramatically, “to get them to consider it. A place where the pursuit of truth is paramount, and the possibilities which inspired you as a child can be illuminated. An unknown realm. That is what you offer to them.”
When he finishes speaking, you realize that your heart is pounding. You clench your jaw and focus on his meaning, stealing a moment to really take in what he’s proposing. Eventually, you let out a short sound of disbelief.
“You might be the most idealistic skeptic I’ve ever met,” you say at last. Keats scoffs, and you just barely see him roll his eyes behind those spectacles.
“Idealism. Now that’s something I’ve never been accused of before.”
“It's hard not to see it that way when you're… waxing philosophical,” you say, “but I do get your point.”
“Good. Now, you've got your work to do, and I still have mine.”
He turns toward the door, and you rush to meet him before he finishes the all too short walk across your office. These abrupt goodbyes better not be an ingrained habit of his.
“Keats-” you catch your breath as he turns to face you with an unreadable expression, far closer than you'd been prepared for. Again, you feel that surge of anxiety and intrigue that he seems to so easily provoke. You rally yourself, and blurt out,
“Is- is Keats your real name?”
He looks at you strangely with his hand still lingering on the door handle.
“The only one I've ever used.”
“And no, like… last name or anything?”
Again, he pauses, but this time he turns back to you fully and takes his hand from the door.
“Why the sudden interrogation?”
“I'm just…” you shrug, “curious about you, that's all.”
“Well I'm certainly in no place to fault anyone for curiosity,” he says, “How about this: When this issue goes to print, you'll get your interview. But only if I'm satisfied with the final draft.”
“Deal,” you reply firmly before adding, “But do you think you could ever try to come by at a normal time? Like, work hours instead of the middle of the night?”
He pushes up his glasses, his expression utterly unmoved.
“I do my best work at night. Besides, from my perspective, this has been going fabulously. I even have a feeling I'm closing in on a story of my own. Now then,” he turns from you, “until next time.”
You’re left utterly deflated, watching the closed door and listening to his receding footsteps. Truly amazing. Not only had he completely rebuffed your attempts at demystifying him, but he had dodged your questions so deftly that you were only left with more of them than ever. What reason could he have for being so evasive? A laundry list of worst-case-scenarios comes to mind, and with no possibility of simply looking him up online with that name of his, your imagination runs wild. Still, he had made you a deal. Meet his expectations, and you’ll get an “interview” in exchange- whatever that might mean to him in particular. You don’t even need to consider it. You’ve already made up your mind. You’ll revive Unknown Realms no matter what, and you’ll get some answers out of your enigmatic editor along the way.
The following night, when you open your door to him, your face is lit up in a determined smile.
“Hey! Come on, let me show you what I’ve got.”
You think you hear him let out a low chuckle, but when you glance over your shoulder at him, his expression is as opaque as ever. He heads toward the kettle on your dresser, but you usher him back toward your laptop.
“How could I not be?” you say as you root around for the mugs and teabags, “I’m closer than ever to printing, and you’ll finally have to tell me about yourself.”
“That remains to be seen,” he replies, never taking his eyes off the words on your screen.
With nights and weeks, the issue 1 draft transforms and evolves, and strangely, your office-home does with it. The mug that had been the sole survivor of its set after your last move has now become the mug put aside for Keats, and you keep an extra supply of the tea he prefers, now that you’re running through it so quickly. The spare chair is his too, and at some point you even thrift a cushion for it. The tiny couch you’d just barely managed to fit up the stairs and into this office some time ago rests against the wall perpendicular to your desk, but is now adorned with a small stack of old Unknown Realms issues, which Keats has taken to flipping through while he waits for you to read over his notes or revise your draft. While he doesn't come every single evening, even your sleep schedule has adjusted to accommodate his late night visits.
“You can't take this long for every issue,” he tells you one night about two weeks in.
“I know,” you say with a sigh, “but it's the first issue, it needs to be perfect. Plus, we've come up with plenty of concepts for future articles along the way, so it will only get easier from here, right?”
True to his nature, rather than offering any kind of reassurance, he presses further.
“How do you plan to serialize and distribute this moving forward?”
“Well- I,” you halt only briefly, “I had planned to print full issues once a month and start with local fairs, conventions, independent shops and whatnot. Between issues, there would be digital articles sent out weekly via an email subscription list. There's actually been a good amount of interest in that on some of the forums I've been following, so I think that will help keep readership a bit more consistent.”
To your surprise, Keats has no comment on this.
A few days later, after nearly a month of work together, Keats sits in your chair at your desk and reads through what you intend to be the final draft. The moment of reckoning has arrived. You're pretending to clean and tidy the place a bit, aimlessly moving a few objects around and wiping off surfaces. In truth, you're awaiting his judgement with baited breath. You swear he’s never read this slowly before, and just when you’re beginning to think he’s dragging this out on purpose, he sits back.
“Not bad.”
It’s nearly insulting, barely better than saying nothing at all. But from Keats, you know the significance of this tepid approval. A grin spreads across your face and you approach him with your arms crossed.
“Not bad?” you repeat.
“Passable by any measure of standards, yes,” he replies, stoic as ever. You laugh and roll your eyes openly at him.
“You really are a flatterer. But I know that ‘not bad’ is high praise coming from you. So, you think it’s ready to print?”
“I do,” he says as he rises from your chair, the smallest hint of a smile gracing his lips, “Congratulations.”
You clasp your hands together at your chest.
“Oh my God it’s finally happening- we gotta celebrate! Damn, I wish I had something for us to drink- well, something more exciting than tea, anyway.”
To your surprise, Keats looks interested in the proposition, running a thoughtful hand along his chin.
“I might have a lead on that,” he says, and begins heading for the door, “Wait here. Better yet, why don’t you start preparing your questions for our interview? You’ll have to get used to that sort of thing sooner rather than later anyway.”
You laugh and move your hands to your hips.
“I almost expected you to try to duck out on that interview idea.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he replies simply, before heading out the door. Your stomach is positively twirling with excitement- finally, after years of dreaming, ideating and preparations followed by months of research and writing, you’re on the cusp of a new life for Unknown Realms. Tomorrow, you’ll triple-check the margins, formatting and so-on and head to the print shop. For now, however, Keats was right- you should get your questions ready for him. You hate to imagine how ruthless he’ll be if you go into this unprepared. Setting up his chair facing yours beside the desk, you begin scribbling down your ideas furiously on your notepad while you await his return.
By the time he arrives with a bottle and two glasses in hand, you realize that you've been so focused on your task that you hadn’t thought to question where exactly he was headed at this time of night. Perhaps he knows some all-night liquor store nearby, or has a friend in the area. Though the thought of Keats acting chummy with just about anyone feels downright foreign.
As he sets everything on your desk and begins pouring a generous glass for each of you, you can't help but ask,
“Where did you even get that at this hour?”
“An associate of mine who tends a bar,” he replies, as ever leaving out any illuminating details, “I’d initially requested whiskey, but when I asked for two glasses, he insisted on wine.”
“Keats,” you say with audible frustration, “He definitely thinks you were bringing this for some sort of… romantic rendezvous, or something!”
Keats shrugs, and corks the bottle.
“He may think what he likes.”
You barely bite back an agitated noise, though there’s nothing you can do about the warm flush across your cheeks. You suspect he notices as well, but other than his typical smug grin, he makes no comment. Regardless, you take your drink and try a sip. It catches you off-guard, at first. There’s a spice to the start of it, but the rich depth of the flavor that follows compels you to keep bringing it to your lips. You glance at the time on your laptop, and to your surprise, it’s not even past 1am yet. Plenty of time to grill Keats for everything he’ll give you. He takes his seat across from you, and of course you’d misjudged the sort of space his taller frame requires, so while you’re sitting just a little strangely close to one another, the last thing you want to do is draw attention to it. Instead, you click ‘record’ on your maybe-pirated audio software and face him, saying,
“So, should we begin?”
Keats gestures broadly, glass in hand.
“By all means.”
“Why don’t we start with an introduction? For the benefit of our dear readers, of course,” you add, proud of the subtle amused smile this earns you, “You know, name, age, occupation- basic stuff.”
“Keats, twenty seven, journalist and, due to some extenuating circumstances, acting editor for the newly resuscitated Unknown Realms magazine.”
You would have guessed he’d be a little older, but maybe that’s just an effect of his prickly personality and terrible posture. For now, you move on.
“And where are you from, originally?”
He takes a long draft from his wine glass, then leans back in his seat and rests an arm on the desk beside him, settling in like a stretching cat.
“Doolin,” he says.
“Doolin?” you frown, certain you’ve heard of this place before, “Isn’t that the little ghost town where those murders happened not long ago? Some… girl with a knife and a big conspiracy and everything.”
This had been the talk of the occultist forums online for weeks. Apparently the tiny village has a henge of some kind nearby, and if there’s one thing conspiracy theorists adore, it’s strange configurations of rocks. Even more so when something grizzly happens nearby.
“The very same.”
Your frown only deepens, but this time twists with curiosity.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Doolin.”
“I’ve traveled a fair bit,” Keats says, “Confuses the accent, over time.”
“I guess that makes sense,” you nod and sip your wine, then move directly into your next line of questions, “What about, like… family? Friends?”
“That’s pretty broad,” he gives you a disapproving look over his glasses, “You’ll have to guide the subject of your interview a little better than that.”
“Fine, okay,” while you roll your eyes at him, he does have a point, “Just your parents, then. What are they like? Did they support you becoming a writer?”
“That’s better. Relevant, specific, and guided. As for my parents, anyone who could lay claim to the title has been dead for some time. Sorry to disappoint.”
He doesn’t seem sorry. If anything, he seems bizarrely flippant about it all. You nearly instinctively apologize for bringing it up, but he makes it so evident that this topic carries no emotional impact for him that you figure it’s not necessary. Yet even as you pause to consider your next question, you can’t help the nagging sensation that he’s been phrasing his answers in very specific ways. Granted, it’s unusual for him to be this cooperative to begin with. Perhaps you're simply not accustomed to the sound of Keats actually communicating. But you wouldn’t be surprised if there’s far more lingering in the spaces between his words than he’s letting on.
“Well, why don’t we circle back to your work, then?” you cross off a few more personal-life questions from your notes and continue, “Tell me about the publication you write for.”
He crosses one leg loosely over the other, sips his wine, and says,
“As I've mentioned, it’s quite similar to your own. An occult magazine, devoted to exploring and investigating the so-called supernatural. My readers are quite a particular bunch. I’m sure you won’t mind if I leave at that, for the sake of their interests.”
It seems odd for him to act so deferential to anyone else’s interests, but frankly you wouldn't even know how to press him further on this point.
“You say the ‘so-called supernatural.’” you repeat his words, looking inquisitively at him from over your wine glass.
“Of course,” he says, “The truly supernatural has no basis in fact. All I have ever seen evidence for is what we understand now and what we work towards understanding. That is all. With time, all things that seem beyond our comprehension now will be illuminated by higher reasoning.”
“Hm,” you pause to consider this, lingering on your next sip of wine as Keats finishes his glass and begins to pour another. It’s not written in your notes, but another question comes to mind.
“Have you ever had a supernatural experience?” he looks about to comment, but you quickly add, “Or something that your own reasoning couldn’t explain in full, anyway.”
To your surprise, he says without pause,
“I have. But that is why any true reporter must keep digging for the facts. Nothing is wholly irrational once one understands the mechanisms at play. And what about you? Would you say you've ever had an unexplainable encounter?”
You hadn’t expected him to turn your question on you. Finishing your own drink with a contented exhale, you hold out your glass for a refill and say,
“Well, recently this mysterious rude man keeps walking into my office in the middle of the night and then leaving abruptly."
At this, Keats does give a short laugh, and the rare sound causes a strange twinge in your chest.
“And here you are, gathering evidence and developing theories. Commendable, really,” he leans forward in his seat, resting an elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, “I wonder what hypotheses you’ve come up with so far?” he levels his cunning eyes on you, the uneven glare across his glasses revealing just enough to allow you feel the pressure of his gaze. Glass full once again, you drink deeply before saying,
“You’ve got the vampire aesthetic down, what with the…” you gesture vaguely in his direction, “The paleness and the cheekbones and all- not to mention a completely nocturnal lifestyle. But you’re not nearly suave enough for that.”
“Immortal blood suckers are among the more absurd fabrications of mankind’s imagination anyway,” he replies, seemingly having taken no offense whatsoever, “What else have you considered?”
“Well, then I thought you might be a ghost or spirit of some kind.”
“That’s a rather broad category. Not very helpful, as far as investigative journalism goes.”
You give a half shrug of agreement, and add,
“But you’re fully capable of touching and interacting with objects, so-”
“A great many types of spirits are said to manipulate the physical world,” he says with a wave of his hand, “think of poltergeists and the like.” He places his near finished drink on your desk and watches your expressions with evident amusement. Your eyes narrow at him as you consider the argument presented.
“But I've never touched you. How do I know those instances haven't been illusions?”
Keats holds a hand out to you. For a moment, you just stare at it dumbly.
“Here,” he says, taking your free hand in his and holding it between you rather pointedly, “As corporeal as can be, wouldn’t you agree?”
You want to answer, but you only manage a nod and a quick “Uh-huh.” Sure enough, he appears to be flesh and bone. When you expect him to let go, he instead pulls you closer, urging you to roll your desk chair towards him as he guides your touch to him. He brings your hand to the side of his neck, where you can feel his warm skin and steady pulse beneath your fingertips. You can only hope that he can’t feel yours racing in reply.
“My temperature and heartbeat are normal as well,” he says, then releases you, “So I’m clearly no revenant or walking corpse of any kind.”
“Ye- yeah…” you draw your hand back, cradling your drink with both now. He seems to expect another guess, but he’s so thoroughly scattered your thoughts that it’s a struggle to piece together anything to say. Eventually, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Maybe… a fae. Of some kind.”
“Brilliant. Local Mystery Man Probably a Fae of Some Kind. Now that's the kind of material that inspires reader confidence.”
“Well I don't know, there's like a billion of them!” Left with a cluster of writhing and confused feelings, you channel the flustered heat in your body into faux-exasperation, “You’re probably one of the ones that likes to make deals with mortals and offer them something they want, then surprise them later with some horrible unforeseen consequence.”
Keats picks up his drink once more, but doesn't move away from you, leaving you both to linger with your legs nearly touching.
“Ahh, I see. So I'm luring you to your inevitable doom with seductive promises of professional editorial work.”
Your eyes flicker down to his lips, curled into a teasing smile. The restlessness in your chest feels like a harbinger of things to come.
“Seems pretty likely to me,” you say, your voice coming a little weaker than you'd expected. You're both quiet for a moment, second helpings of wine having come and gone easily amidst your conversation. Perhaps you should have paced yourself a little better; the lull of alcohol and the strain of weeks of work are causing your mind to wander to strange places. Places like the sharp corner of Keats' jawline, and the window of skin revealed where the top buttons of his shirt are left carelessly open. Dangerous places.
“Keep up the investigation, Y/N,” he says at last, jostling you from your thoughts, “I have a feeling you’ll get your answers eventually, whether I like it or not. Any further questions?” he adds. You look down at the list of notes in your lap. Regrettably, all you have left are questions he’s already at least partly answered, or ones that now seem utterly irrelevant. You glance at the active recording on your laptop screen, then back at Keats, and say,
“What, exactly, is your interest in reviving Unknown Realms?”
At this, he pauses, hesitant in a way you’ve never seen from him. In what seems like an obvious stalling tactic, he finishes his drink and sets the glass down. Then, at last, he replies,
“You were not the only child enthralled and inspired by tales of fantastical possibilities.”
You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. You finish your wine as well and, voice wavering just slightly, say,
“Well, uh- any final comments for our readers?”
“No, that will do,” he says, then stands and drags his chair back to its home in the corner by your desk. You put aside your notes and stand as well, and as you watch him fuss with his tie and brush off his coat, one final question occurs to you that has nothing to do with your interview. You step towards him tentatively, and you know he can tell that there’s something on your mind. He says nothing, but looks at you a little impatiently.
“So,” you begin slowly, fighting to ignore the painful knot in your chest, “what happens next? We never really talked about our…” you wave a hand around aimlessly, “arrangement. Once we start printing, will you still… be around?”
His lips tighten into a line, and once more his hands return to his coat pockets.
“I do have my own work to attend to, you know.”
“I know! I wasn’t trying to-”
“Just keep at it, Y/N. I’ll know when you need me.”
As with so many nights before, Keats leaves you flustered and unsteady. You only remember to stop your computer’s recording when he’s headed for the door. By the time the sound of his footsteps has vanished down the hall, you’re left wandering your empty office in a haze, letting your eyes float between pieces of evidence. Evidence of him, of his time here, of his efforts to help you. The tea. The chair. The magazines on the couch. A half empty bottle of wine and an extra glass on the corner of your desk. Your fingers circle the rim of the glass, as if you could still feel the warmth of his lips there. But it’s cold, and you have no way of knowing when the spectre of the Unknown Realms magazine will return to you.
