#keats folklore

[kriskrisinc]

Listen.

Folklore (2007) for the PlayStation 3 is a video game. That I have a lot of feelings about. And because no one knows/cares about this thing, it is up to me to make fanart of my shitty husband, Keats (ilovehimsomuchomg).

There truly is no suffering like falling deeply, deeply in love with a strange and beautiful game from nearly 20 years ago with almost no fanart, fics, or online presence. I am manifesting it all.

[glowingbadger]

Man this turned into a DOOZY of a chapter, but that said, it's all the kind of shit that I just live for when writing. Lots of dialogue, lots of characters, lots of fun conversations and opportunities to play around with Keats' personality... and some particularly indulgent smut towards the end there. This is probably my fav chapter so far tbh.

I probably have like... two, maaaaaaybe three chapters before I wrap this up- which honestly is for the best because it's hard to focus on anything else while I've got this rattling in my brain lol. That said, I do actually have a couple of short drabbles for other stuff in the works rn too. Anyway........ it's my fic and I'll use my own art of Keats for the banner if I want to lmaooo

For convenience, full chapter list here.

Unknown Realms Editorial Department, Ch. 7

Keats (Folklore) x AFAB Reader

(gendered pronouns not used thus far, “she/her” to be used if it becomes 'necessary' along the line) NSFW 18+

You've learned plenty about the Halflives over several weeks of visits and “interviews,” whether they be with Belgae, Ellen, or the rowdy group at the Bridge House.  You've learned that they sometimes have unusual abilities, such as Frizzie’s death premonitions.  You’ve learned that they can move freely between Realms at will, and that sometimes they even lose track of whether they're in Reality or the Netherworld,

“Like when a human doesn't realize they're in a dream,” Fir Darrig, the clothed rat, had explained.  You've learned that they, by and large, possess keen intuitions, and are sensitive to the movements and intersections of the various Realms.  You've even heard stories of their thoughts being rattled by the restlessness of the dead, their memories shouting in a Halflive's head until some matter of great personal importance is resolved.  

Tonight, you are learning about Faery Wine.

It’s easy to see why it’s favored by all of the Halflives at the Bridge House; a brightly sweet and subtly bubbling drink made of fermented sap from the trees of the Faery realm, the wine is quite refreshing and goes down easily.  Probably a bit too easily.  Perched on a stool at the bar and flanked by Jimmy on one side and Belgae on the other, you chat animatedly and present your questions and curiosities as they occur to you, while Ganconer stops by to contribute when he's not otherwise occupied with the constant rotation of patrons approaching the bar for drinks, gossip, or both.  At the moment, the other Halflives are clustered near the fireplace, their voices a harmonious and constant rumble, perhaps devising another barrage of questions for you, even now.  You've answered plenty thus far- about where you come from, how you discovered Unknown Realms, and quite often, about your relationship with Keats.  You've tried to be fairly delicate discussing that matter so far, but that hasn't stopped them from regularly attempting new angles of inquiry. 

The problem is, when it comes to you and Keats, there’s a lot that you yourself aren’t certain about.  It’s been over a week since he’d bent you over your desk, and thus far, the topic has hardly come up in conversation.  He seems far more interested in pouring over your latest issue, planning for the next, and his own work besides.

The warm lull of alcohol has you feeling fuzzy and content among your new companions.  You let out a pleasant sigh as your finger traces the rim of your glass and you let your heavy-lidded eyes wander aimlessly around the pub.  Belgae holds his glass forward for Ganconer to refill with his preferred ale, and they exchange a few words about something or other.  A minor disturbance in one of the Nether Realms, you think.  Beside you, Jimmy attempts to sneak inconspicuous glances across the room toward Frizzie, and you’re momentarily moved with sympathy.  Yearning isn’t for the weak of heart, that’s for certain.  But looking along the stack of heart-shaped tattoos that line Jimmy’s arm, each with a different name crossed out, you wonder if perhaps his is a little over-active.  Not that you’re in any position to begrudge anyone else their runaway feelings.  Bespectacled turquoise eyes and a haughty smirk form in your mind, and your sympathy pivots into longing.

“Belgae,” you turn to him, and his mask angles toward you, “Do Halflives fall in love?”

Even in your wine-addled state, you’re not surprised that the question seems to take him aback.  He coughs a bit on his own drink, and you let out a good-natured laugh.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you!”

“Not- not at all,” he says hastily, clearing his throat with another long draft from his glass before continuing, “To your point- yes, they do.  Halflives possess their own thoughts and feelings, desires and foibles.  Our Jimmy here is a known romantic, for instance.” 

“Tha- tha- that’s not–”

“It’s okay, Jimmy,” you say reassuringly, warmth rosy across your face, “I think it’s sweet.”

This sends the boar-like fellow into a stammering spiral, which you hardly notice through the increasing haze of intoxication.  You lean a bit and push your bar stool onto its back two legs, balancing precariously for a moment before landing heavily back in place.  Belgae mutters your name with a note of caution, but you ignore him and return to your drink with abandon.  He speaks up once again, his voice laced with some sort of conflicting emotion that you aren’t nearly present enough to parse.

“That is not to say that all Halflives are quite so… expressive, when it comes to matters of the heart.  We are, perhaps, every bit as varied as humans, in that regard.  And, given that many of our kind are not predisposed toward self-reflection, in the interest of evading any revelations that might speed them toward their vanishing, some can even be quite, err…”

“Obtuse?” you say, swirling the wine around in your glass.

“Well…”

“Stubborn?” you go on, and Belgae retreats to his drink, “Infuriatingly distant and completely hopeless with relationships?” you say the last words with more force than you intend, but Faery wine seems particularly adept at drawing out your more raw emotions.  Belgae sighs softly, turning to you and, by the position of his shoes, probably crossing his legs.

“Yes, a Halflive certainly could be… all of those things.” 

Another drunken impulse steers your thoughts, a thought that had come to you during more than one especially lonely night in your office, and you turn to face the invisible man as well.  

“Belgae,” you say carefully, attempting to speak clearly and probably overcompensating, “Can Halflives have children?  Biological ones?”

Ganconer erupts into an uproarious bout of husky laughter across the bar from you, startling you a bit as you hadn’t realized he was listening in.  Belgae doesn’t respond at first, still holding his drink near where you assume his lips are, as though subconsciously shielding himself.  Now behind you, you hear Jimmy say,

“Why would you wanna know about a thing like tha- tha- that?” 

Looking up at the hairy mass of the bartender nearby, you gesture at him with your wine glass, boldly demanding,

“Come on, jus’ spit it out!  Do you know, Ganconer?”

He can’t answer at first, as his massive hairy body still heaves with laughter.  But after a moment to breathe, then a pull from his pipe, he finally says,

“No, no they cannot,” another residual chuckle, and he goes on, “Imagine what trouble that’d be-  Halflives having offspring, then up and vanishing one day.”

At last, Belgae seems to have gathered himself.

“Unless the act is an essential part of the wish that created them, then no, a Halflive cannot produce a child, much less with a human.  And, I should say, I do not personally know any Halflive who fits that rather narrow exception,” he adds, and your foggy thoughts are starting to suspect that you know that he knows why you want to know.  Whether playing dumb or simply looking to confirm his suspicions, Belgae asks,

“Is there a particular reason that you would like to know about such things?”

You bob your head to the side, then shrug, take a sip of the fragrant and bubbly drink before you, and drawl out,

“Maaaaybe.”

With this, you take your glass in hand, tilt your head back and drink down the remaining few gulps of your wine.  The aftertaste clings to every corner of your mouth, just shy of too sweet but ultimately quite pleasant, and you find yourself humming with contentment as your bleary eyes once more get lost in the lovely chaos of everyone talking and drinking together. 

“Are you feeling quite alright?”

You look back to Belgae.

“Hm?”

“Are you well?  I trust that Sir Keats will be escorting you home before long.”

“Oh, yeah,” you frown, idly wobbling your bar stool back and forth beneath you as you speak, “he said he’d meet me here once he’s done in War- War…”

“Warcadia.”

“Which he still won’t take me to see!” you nearly shout over Belgae, and his shoulders visibly tense for a moment.

“I am certain that Sir Keats is only thinking of your safety,” he says, his voice measured as ever, “Warcadia is a particularly dangerous Realm.  Surely somewhere like the Faery Realm would be a more suitable choice, should you find yourself eager to explore further.”

“If he’s so worried about me, then he could just say so- or, or at least tell me more about what he’s up to,” as you ramble on, the door to the pub swings open, but you pay it no mind.  Leaning back on your stool, you say, “He always just says he’s sooo busy, even though he spends half of his writing time goofing around with darts and tea-”

“Physical activity helps me think clearly.”

Your back lands squarely against a solid body, and you crane your neck to look up at Keats behind you.  The sight of him sends your heart into absolute fits, and you feel your face flush with more than alcohol as he looks down at you with fond amusement.  He steadies you on the stool, and lets a hand linger at the small of your back for support.  You’re distantly aware that the chatter across the tavern has dulled, and that several sets of inhuman eyes are fixed on you both, waiting for a crumb of intrigue like a dog sitting for a treat.  Keats staunchly ignores them.

“Well, well.  You’ve certainly had plenty of fun for one night.  I suppose this is what I get for leaving you at a pub in the care of these scoundrels.”

“I assure you that we have been entirely gentlemanly,” Belgae says stiffly, “I would advise that you do the same.”

“You wound me, Belgae,” Keats replies with clear humor in his voice, then begins to carefully guide you from your seat, “Come along then, let’s get you home.  Maybe some fresh air on the way will do you good.”

“Fiiiine,” you let out as an exaggerated sigh, though in truth, you’re thrilled to be back at his side.  Somehow his scent seems exceptionally appealing tonight, and you dearly want to wrap yourself in his coat and press your face to his chest.  Something tells you he wouldn’t appreciate that, much less in full view of a bar full of gawking Halflives, so for now, you wave an enthusiastic goodbye to them all, and let him lead you outside by the hand.

The night air through Doolin feels crisp and invigorating against your skin, and you begin to swing your hand playfully as Keats holds it on your way down the path north of the Bridge House.  He does not return the gesture, and makes a somewhat incredulous sound before muttering to himself,

“Well, we’re certainly not going far out on the cliffs tonight- can’t have you toppling into the sea.”

“Keeeeeats,” you whine, following him past the pub owner’s residence and toward the old house on the outskirts of town, “when are you gonna let me see the other Realms?”

“I was thinking tomorrow, but now I’m not certain what sort of state you’ll be in.”

The moon is full and bright above, and when you glance up at the man beside you, it’s doubled in the reflections of his lenses.  You giggle, but don’t say anything until he leads you toward a twisting old tree beside what he’d once mentioned had been the lighthouse keeper’s home.  Here, you slump against the trunk, the bark rough at your back, and lead Keats toward you by his hand.  He catches himself with his free hand on the tree behind you, and you bite your lower lip as you look up at him with large and hazy eyes.

“Keats…” you trail off, not exactly certain of what you actually want to say.  He waits wordlessly, watching you as you rest your hands on his chest.  Halflives can fall in love, you think vaguely, taking his tie in one of your hands and rubbing your fingers along the smooth fabric, can Keats fall in love?

You tug a bit on his tie, guiding him towards you until his lips meet yours.  Maybe it’s the bubbling, fuzzy warmth in your head, but his kiss feels so much gentler this time.  You feel like your chest is filled with cotton candy.  Like the wine has replaced the blood in your veins.  He brushes his fingers along your cheek, then cradles your head in his hand, and when his tongue only briefly dips into your mouth, you moan unabashedly against him.  He pulls away, wearing a crooked smile as he says under his breath,

“Faery wine.  I should have known.”

“Keats,” you murmur his name once again, trying to straighten yourself against the tree and now clinging to the front of his clothes for stability, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh no you don’t,” he says with a wry chuckle, “Not tonight.  You are positively sozzled.”

You pout, which of course only earns you another laugh.  Your touch runs down the front of his chest, along his abdomen, envisioning lean muscle beneath that dress shirt, and maybe a bit of dark brown hair, until you hook a finger behind his belt and try to pull him to you more closely.  He says your name in a way that twists your heart into ridiculous knots, and you look up at him pleadingly.

“I mean it,” you say, “I want you.  Wanna see all of you… touch all of you…”

He takes your hand from where you’re currently trying and failing to unbuckle his belt, and cradles it with your knuckles to his palm, lacing his longer fingers with your own.  With his eyes locked on yours, he brushes his lips to your inner wrist, and the memory of this same gesture while he had you pressed against your desk erupts at the forefront of your mind.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” he says, his grin faltering, “I did at least imply that I would be a gentleman, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t make it so damned difficult.” 

“What do you want?” the question comes out as a single, fumbling word, but he seems to catch your meaning.  Keats draws very close, and brings a hand to your chin to direct your wandering and unfocused gaze toward him.  His thumb runs a slow path along the curve of your lower lip, and you catch your breath, calling all of your strength to your legs to remain upright. 

“I want you to get absolutely everything that you want, and more,” he speaks softly, but clearly, his voice low and heady and sensual and God, you wish you could drizzle it across your tongue like so much Faery wine.  

“But do you know what you’re going to get first, before any of that?”

Your eyelashes flutter up at him as you wait for him to speak with your breath caught in your chest.  Then, he taps a pointed finger to the end of your nose, and says,

“Sober.”

Your brow scrunches in and you jut out your lower lip.  Keats gives one more dry laugh at your somewhat pitiful display of displeasure.  He straightens his back and returns his hands to his pockets, but there’s something strange and new in the way he's smiling at you tonight.  You blink away the smear of moonlight in your eyes, trying to steady yourself while Keats checks his inner coat pocket for a particular magazine issue, then says to you,

“Still have your memento on you?”

“Uh-huh,” you pat your hand over the folded up article in your own back pocket, and he takes your hand.  When he pulls you towards him, you think he pulls just a little too hard.  That, or the Faery wine has got you far more off balance than you’d realized.  Either way, you land against the front of his body, and cling tight onto his clothes.  Your hands clumsily find his waist, and a warmth at your back makes you think he’s holding you to him, as that destabilizing flash of light surrounds you both.  

Before you even manage to force your eyes open the following morning, you’re aware of two primary sensations.  One, the slightly-too-warm tacky smoothness of leather cushions against your skin.  The other, Keats.  The smell of him.  The familiar texture of his coat- which you realize is once more draped over your body as a blanket.  The distant clacking of his typewriter in the next room.  You crane your head up just a little from the throw-pillow it’s resting on, and gradually blink your eyes into focus. 

You’re in the side room through the open arched doorway from his main office.  It’s a cozy sitting area, though in his care, it’s become a mere extension of his all-consuming work process.  Photos and snippets of articles are tacked not only to the cork display by the dart board, but also directly into the wall at seemingly random spots.  As you recall, the couch you’re occupying had been littered with books, old magazines, and a spare dress shirt slung carelessly over the arm the last time you’d visited.  He must have cleared it off for you last night- in fact, you think you see the displaced items in a heap on the armchair across the room from you.  You’re certain that the gentle chaos of this space means something comprehensible to Keats.  That this world he occupies lies entirely at his command.  To you, it looks a mess, but you hardly have room to talk when you feel like such a mess yourself.

You remember most of the prior evening, though parts are more or less defined than others.  Keats had insisted you stay the night, arguing that you needed water and supervision.  Sure enough, you spot a glass of water on the floor beside the couch and reach for it, sighing through your nose with relief as it clears the gummy feeling from your mouth and throat.  While your head doesn’t feel too terrible, you’re a little achey, a little foggy, and definitely under-hydrated.  

The sound of someone at Keats’ office door causes you to lower the glass with a start.  By the two crisp, proper knocks, you assume it’s Belgae.  A desk chair scrapes along the floor, and Keats’ steps sound more urgent than usual.  

“There you are,” you hear him say, “Over here.”

It’s a demand, not an invitation.  Belgae must be stunned into silence, offering no reply as Keats leads him through the doorway and quickly past you to the far corner of the sitting room.  Here, partly obstructed by a waist-height bookcase, is a door.  A door that you’re certain hasn’t ever been there before.

Keats gestures accusingly at it, his brow set into a stern furrow as he glares at the invisible man.

“What, exactly, is the meaning of this?”

“This… door?” Belgae replies politely.

“Yes, the door.  And the room behind it,” he pushes the door open, and the two look inside.  You can’t quite see the room itself in full from your angle, but it looks much the same as the rest of the interior, so you can hardly imagine what has Keats so agitated about it. 

“Would you care to explain why I have a bedroom now?  It appeared some time last night.”

You frown, rubbing your eyes.  Maybe you’re more groggy from the prior night than you thought- but that does seem right, come to think of it.  You’ve never seen a bedroom here before.  And it seems that there is one now.  Belgae seems as taken aback by this interrogation as you are, and he pauses to glance around, his masked gaze eventually coming to rest on you.

“Why, Sir Keats, I cannot say for certain, but…” he places both of his unseen hands properly on the handle of his cane in front of him, clears his throat, then says, “Perhaps it is because you feel some need for a bedroom, as of late.” 

Keats clearly does not approve of this answer.  He steps forward, his words tight and punctuated.

“This is the editorial department for Unknown Realms.”

“Yes,” Belgae says, “It is also your home.  Your Realm.”

That’s right.  This place is part of the Netherworld. Ellen had described the Realms to you as malleable.  Responsive to thoughts, feelings, ideas.  This is too much to piece together five minutes into consciousness after a night of drinking.

The following silence seems to stretch on endlessly, and you watch Keats with a growing uncertain ache in your chest.  His jaw flexes tight, and looks back to the door as though considering it deeply.  A hand straightens his tie, another fusses restlessly in his pocket.  You're reminded of his words the prior night- physical activity helps him think clearly.  Whatever the real issue is here, he's agonizing over it.

Belgae lets out a punctuated sigh, then speaks with audible measured patience.

“I suppose there is some possibility that other influences are at play,” he says, though you can tell he doesn’t put much stock in this idea, “But you know as well as I that the primary intended purpose of this Realm, from its conception, has always been to serve you.”

You frown a bit, still trying to clear your head and keep up with this bizarre conversation.  Why does Keats have his own private Realm, anyway?  Ellen had never mentioned anyone else having something like that.  Why didn’t he have a bedroom before?  If you’re following Belgae’s logic, then the room in question appeared because the Realm ‘sensed’ that Keats had some need of it that he hadn’t before- and this opens up a whole new host of tempting questions eager to get your hopes up. 

Keats lets out a long exhale that comes from deep down in his chest, a hand running through his hair.  You expect him to have some theory, or another illuminating line of questioning.  Instead, he dully says,

“That’s all I needed you for.”

He pulls at his tie until it lies undone around his neck, then seems about to head back to his office with his fingers rubbing irritably at his nose.  You push yourself fully upright on the couch and say,

“Hey- you don’t need to be so rude to Belgae, it sounds like you’re the one who invited him, and he’s only trying to help.”

They both turn towards you.  As Belgae begins to express his relief that you’re feeling alright and assurance that you “needn’t worry on his account,” Keats turns on a heel and strides back toward you.  He crouches to bring himself to your eye level, and takes your water glass from you.

“How is your head?  Are you nauseous at all?  You need to drink more water.”

Before the words are out, he’s heading to the kitchenette in the next room, presumably to refill your glass.

“I- I’m really fine!  My head’s a little woozy, but I’m sure food and water will sort that out,” you call to Keats from your cross-legged spot on the couch. Belgae brings a hand to his chin- assumedly -and gives a subdued chuckle. His expressions are typically incomprehensible, but it seems that he’s watching Keats in the other room.

“Yes, some of us are rather hopeless, aren’t we,” he mutters to himself.  When he catches you giving him an inquisitive look, he waves a hand, saying, “Ah, please pay me no mind.  In any case, I believe I will be going then,” he faces you and gives a polite bow, “Please do take care of our Sir Keats.” 

Your face warms in an instant.

“If he’ll let me.”

His soft and weary sigh seems to say that he understands you perfectly.

Belgae leaves through the main door before presumably vanishing into either the human world, or some other Netherworld Realm.  You fold Keats’ coat on the couch, then pad softly over to the kitchen area,  nearly colliding with him on the way.  He shoves the filled glass into your hand before turning back to retrieve the tea kettle.

“Drink that- all of it.”

You take it, then come to lean with your lower back resting against the counters beside him as he fills the kettle and lights the stove, cursing when the burner takes a couple of tries to properly ignite.  Without complaint, you down about half of the water, the sensation a welcome relief from the dry ache in your throat.  When you’ve had your fill for the moment, you pause and absently stare down into your glass with a smile.  Amidst the comfortable quiet, Keats fusses with things around the kitchenette as you sift through your own thoughts.  Eventually, he’s the one to break the silence.

“What are you smirking about?”

Your smile doesn’t waver, and you shrug a shoulder.

“You care about me,” you say, glancing to your side at him and noting how he refuses to meet your eye, “In your own way.  It's nice, that's all.”

His lips press together into a thin line.  He glares at the tea kettle, though there’s hardly anything he can do with it now until it finishes heating.

“I’m not entirely heartless.  And I don’t make a habit of fucking people I particularly dislike.”

The first direct mention of that night since it occurred brings a surge of heat to your face, but you need to keep an upper hand here.  It’s rare to see Keats so off-balance, and you won’t miss the opportunity to get some clarity out of it.

“You care about me and you’re being pissy about it,” you take a long gulp of water, then mutter, “How very ‘Mr. Darcy’ of you.”

Keats’ movements are rigid as he keeps himself occupied with the tea process, two mugs set onto the countertop with a harsh “clink.”  

“If you recall, the entire point of that novel is that Elizabeth is equally at fault due to her own preconceptions.” 

Your eyebrows leap upward, and you nearly choke in disbelief.  Setting your glass down behind you, you turn toward him with arms crossed.

“You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”

He looks at you with an expression of indignance so profound that you think you may have actually offended him a little.

“Yes, I have read one of the most lauded works ever committed to page in the English language,” he says sharply, “God, listen to yourself…” he adds under his breath.  

“Alright, sorry,” you give a short, awkward laugh, and hold up your hands, “You just don’t exactly seem like the ‘romance’ type, that’s all.” 

“I read everything I can get my hands on, and your presumption to the contrary is very ‘Elizabeth Bennet’ of you,” he says.  With no more busy-work in front of him Keats is forced to face you as he speaks, his glasses slightly fogged with the steam from the kettle.  He takes them and rubs the lenses with the fabric of his tie as he says, “Anyway, regardless of my own opinions on the matter, notions of romantic love have produced much of the finest literature in human history.  And some of the most dismal.”

You let out a short snort of laughter through your nose.

“Well, you clearly didn’t learn much from any of them.”

“Should I have?” 

You meet Keats’ gaze at last as he replaces his glasses on the bridge of his nose.  It’s a terrible time to be struck by how handsome you find all of those angles and dramatic lines that form his features.  He steps forward, his brow casting a shadow over his eyes, and his tone carrying an unfamiliar edge,

“Would you prefer if I were like that?  If I spoke like those ‘romantics?’” slowly, he draws near, and places his hands on the countertop on either side of you, caging you against it, “Shall I declare all of the sins I’d commit and the gods I’d forsake to be by your side?  Tell you that I'd topple armies and move mountains for a glimpse of your smile?”

His body is warm against you.  Your pulse is rushing out of control, and you can feel it in each of your limbs.  Something about this sudden and bizarre performance makes you uneasy, but Keats is scrambling your thoughts and you’ve handily lost your strategic advantage from earlier in this conversation.  You feel his voice like a ribbon tightening around your lungs, and you barely manage to choke out,

“You’re messing with me on purpose.”

“Maybe you’d prefer if I said I’d slaughter any other man who so much as looked at you,” his nose brushes yours, and you almost think you can taste his lips before you even feel them, “Or that you belong to me now.  You're mine.  Mine to keep and protect, to please, and to do with as I desire.”

His bottom lip grazes yours.  You draw in a single, shaky breath.  Then, to your left, the tea kettle begins to screech, and you flinch out of your trance.  Keats steps away, and flicks off the stove burner.

“Well, that’s never been my style,” he says dryly, “besides, you’re a grown adult.  You can do as you like.” 

You see it now.  He's deflecting- trying to redirect your attention to the physical, the surface-level.  Unwilling to allow him to retreat just yet, you take a breath and say,

“Do you even believe love exists?”

“I have yet to see sufficient tangible evidence.”

The response is quick and rehearsed.  As he fills each mug with steaming water, he goes on,

“A trick of one’s hormones or brain chemicals, perhaps.  An evolutionary drive to reproduce and secure mutual stability.  But love, such as Austen portrays it, well… consider me unconvinced- exceptional prose aside.”

Keats nudges your tea towards you on the countertop, and throws you a quick, crooked smirk.  The expression is a touch more sardonic than his usual.

“Disappointed?”

“No,” you say lightly, “No, honestly, that’s about what I expected.  I mean come on, I know you by now, Keats.”

He doesn’t respond, at first, and the two of you stand in silence, tea in hand.  You blow across yours to help it cool, and Keats stares down at his own with a ponderous furrow of his brow.  It’s an attractive look on him- one you’ve seen him wear while writing.  He breathes out a sigh, and sets down his mug without having taken a sip.

“You need to eat something.  Go sit down, I’ll…” he looks around the kitchenette aimlessly, “I’m sure I’ve got… toast or- or something.”

You barely hold in a laugh, the feeling stuck bubbling in your upper chest.  He’s being cute.  It’s outrageous and strange, but sure enough, you can’t think of any word for it but “cute.”  He doesn’t even seem to have considered that you could just go back to your own office and eat something in the area, opting instead to take full responsibility for your needs.  If he sees the way you’re pressing your lips together to subdue your grin, it will only worsen his mood, so you do as he says and head back toward the sitting room, with a flippant, “Fine, fine,” as you wander off.  You take your time meandering through the office, letting your eyes scan over the headlines of a few articles pinned to the walls, and thinking of how nice it feels to be welcomed into this space.  Into his domain.  When you reach the sitting room once more, you see his coat where you left it on the couch, and smile warmly to yourself.

Keats does not believe in love, obviously.  You could have assumed that much on your own.  He doesn’t believe in love, but he has inspired and encouraged you to pursue your writing dreams- consistently made time for you, professionally and otherwise.  He wrote an entire article solely to help you, and has said that he enjoys when you, specifically, read his work.  He’s brought you into his world, introduced you to those closest to him, confessed that he thinks of you constantly and despite himself.  He fusses over you, and now that you’ve seen him around others, you can see how gentle he is towards you.  Keats does not believe in love, but at this moment, in the next room, he’s putting together some semblance of a breakfast for you, as you slowly realize that you’ve never seen him eat even once.

“You have no way to defend yourself.”

You frown.

“Okay, sure.”

“You would have to stay close by my side at all times,” Keats says, knotting his tie and then pulling it loose, “If I lost sight of you, you’d be as good as dead.  Worse than dead, from what I hear.”

“I can do that,” the defensive tone of your voice sounds a bit immature, but you don’t have much ground in this argument and you know it.  Keats levels his narrowed eyes at you over his glasses as he grabs his coat and shoves an arm into it.

“You woke up on my couch this morning.”

“That was your idea, and you insisted,” you counter, arms crossed.

“You’d be in even worse shape if I hadn’t.” 

“I wasn’t that drunk.  Come on, it’s been over a month, Keats!” you drop your hands to your sides in exasperation, “You can’t tell me there are other worlds out there with monsters and stuff and then refuse to let me see them- I’m running an occult magazine, here!”

“And I suppose your readers will be more than open to you raving like a lunatic about visiting some faery world- that would be spectacular for your journalistic credibility,” he says, both hands gesturing outward before falling lamely at his sides, “You’re not seriously planning to write about the Netherworld.”

You let out a heavy sigh, immediately deflated.

“No, obviously,” you mutter, “And honestly at this point, I don’t know how much of the Doolin story I can justify publishing, either.”

There’s a pause.  Keats rubs a hand at the back of his neck.  Then, his shoulders slump, and he says,

“Alright.  I won’t leave you behind tonight.”

Your face brightens, and he goes on,

“I’ll go to the Bridge House with you.”

At first, you’re disappointed.  Still no Faery Realm visit.  But then, you recall dozens of nights spent fielding the Halflive’s questions after Keats had long since made his unceremonious exit from the tavern, and you perk up.

“You mean you’ll… stay and spend some time with everyone?”

“Sure,” he says, “Who knows, maybe one of the regulars has a lead on something interesting.”

Sitting at the table nearest to the fireplace- the one that has become your usual spot to catch up with Ellen -you think back on that conversation with mixed feelings.  It does bring you a sort of comfort to know that Keats prioritizes your safety.  But surely he, of all people, must understand the nagging curiosity this has left you to stew in.  What does a Faery world actually look like?  What is it like to breathe at the bottom of the sea?  Ellen’s stories had filled your mind with such fantastical images that at this point you only hope the Netherworld can live up to all you’ve imagined.  Still, there must be some reason for Keats’ hesitation.  Perhaps, one final piece to put into place. 

And you’re fairly certain you already have that piece in your hand.

Ellen says something to Keats, who stands leaning on the bartop with Belgae at his other side.  He nods curtly in response, then turns to Ganconer and seems to ask him a question.  It’s probably the first in a long, prepared list of inquiries.  You’ve come to learn that no visit to the Bridge House is complete until Keats has thoroughly interrogated the bartender and noted any potential stories or avenues of investigation.  The man is ravenous for information.  

Ellen approaches with drinks for the two of you- water, in your case, since the prior night had somewhat dampened your desire for alcohol for the near future.  She catches your eye on her way to the table, and follows your line of sight to Keats.  You realize with a spike of embarrassment that you’ve got an absolutely foolish grin on your face, but as Ellen takes her seat, she hurries to say,

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel self-conscious at all.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you reply, looking quite sheepish now as you take your drink from her, “I guess I’m kind of obvious, huh.”

She offers you a gentle expression, but does you the mercy of not responding to your words.  You sit silently for a moment to enjoy your drinks together, letting the usual energetic chatter of the nearby Halflives float ambiently around you.  Eventually, Ellen brushes back a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and says,

“He cares for you too.  I can tell,” her posture straightens and she speaks more confidently, “Really, I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else.  He’s so… well, he’s always attentive, I suppose that’s in his nature, to pick up on things.  But it's different with you.  And he… he talks about you, you know.  While we're traveling together in the Netherworld.”

Your hands tighten around your glass.

“He does..?”

Ellen nods vigorously.

“Yes, often.  He acts like he’s just talking about his work, and at first, I think he was- back when he first told me he was helping Unknown Realms begin publishing for ordinary people again.  But over time, he started mentioning things about you.  About how you’re doing from day to day, or about things you’ve said while working together.”

You tighten your lips, staring down at the woodgrain of the table as if you could conceal your feelings by simply not meeting her eyes.  In truth, you feel as though your heart is trying to vibrate its way right out of your ribcage.  Ellen must sense it, despite your best efforts.  She fusses with her hands in front of her and says,

“He, ah… doesn’t express it very well, does he.  How he feels, I mean.”

“He’s miserable at it, you’d think it would kill him,” you say, and the pair of you share a laugh until the tall shadow over your table silences you both.  You look up at Keats and smile brightly,

“Hey- all done interviewing Ganconer?”

“Not much of an interview.  Things are fairly quiet in the Netherworld at the moment.”

You’d think this would be a good thing, but from the low set of his mouth and the crease at his brow, you can tell that Keats is displeased.  He must get restless when there’s not much to report on.  Still, if there’s nothing too pressing to address in the Realms at the moment, that may work in your favor.

“Ellen” you say, turning to her as Keats settles at the table with you, “What if you came along to show me the Netherworld?”

“Oh, well,” her eyes dart to the side, “I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“Then we’ll just go and I’ll make Keats take me some other time.”

“I beg your pardon,” he scowls and crosses his arms, but you ignore him, fixing Ellen with an encouraging look.

“What do you think?”

She looks between you and Keats across the table, and slowly seems to understand your angle.  Provoking him often seems to be the only way to get an emotional response from him, after all.

“Well, I suppose if you stayed close and we kept to the safer areas…”

Keats huffs and throws his head back dramatically.

“Breaking: Netherworld Messenger Conspires Against Her Own Guardian.  That’s rich- tales of treachery do always sell well.”

You let out a snorting laugh.

“Come on Keats, we’re hardly ‘conspiring’.” 

“You’re trying to go above my head,” he points out, now narrowing his eyes at you from behind his glasses, and you must admit he has a point there, “Besides,” he adds, his tone sharp, “The Messenger surely has more important things to attend to than playing tour-guide through the Realms.  And, need I remind you, you two hardly have usable mementos to keep you from getting separated.  It’s outright reckless for you to go to the Netherworld without me.”

You and Ellen exchange a look, and with an unassuming smile, she says,

“Keats does have a point.  I suppose it would be wisest for you to stay with him as much as possible.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” you say, mirroring her innocent expression.  Keats pushes up his spectacles, pausing before bringing his glass to his lips.

“Somehow I feel I’ve been had,” he mutters against the rim before drinking.

The sound of your name shouted just behind you causes you to flinch.  You quickly turn, then have to adjust your line of sight lower to see Demona, pudgy and vibrant red, gesturing with her broom as she exclaims,

“That last issue of yours was really something!”

“Oh!  You- you read it?” your eyebrows rise, and you turn fully toward her as Frizzie and Charlie come to join in sharing their praise.

“Of course we did!” Charlie chimes in with a bone-rattling laugh, “We read every issue!  Well, all of them that Keats has brought us, anyway.”

“Even the ones from before I came to Doolin..?”

“Every one, yes,” Frizzie replies.

You turn and look toward Keats, who simply shrugs, absently swirling his drink in his glass.

“I can only provide so much material each month, myself.  I figured you’d appreciate the additional exposure.” 

You look warmly at him, and as far as you can tell behind the orange-tinged glare across his lenses, he’s avoiding your gaze.  If you didn’t know better, you might even think that’s a hint of blush across his pale features- but that must be just another trick of the firelight.  

Returning to the group of Halflives, you clasp your hands and say,

“So, what did you think?  I don’t get a lot of chances for  in-person feedback– well, from anyone other than Keats, anyway.  Be as honest as you like, there’s no way you can be harsher than he is.”

They share a chuckle at this, and even Ellen has to hide a smirk behind her hand for a moment, but it’s not long before each Halflive is fighting for air to tell you their thoughts and opinions.  Most voice their amusement at what fantastical things humans will concoct to explain the unexplainable.  That these beings born from wishes find ideas of phantoms and curses positively absurd seems to be a lost irony to them, but it’s intriguing to hear their perspectives.  They all agree that you must have extorted Keats in some way to get him to write for you- but if anything, they’re more amused than disturbed by the prospect.  A great many other observations are lost in the cluster of frantic feedback, and you make a mental note to ask them more individually for their thoughts in the future.  A good while into this impromptu review session, Demona speaks up over the others, her boisterous voice rising above the chaos once more,

“That business about seeing ghosts during storms- I bet those were really Halflive sightings!  Most of them, anyway,” she says, slapping a hand over her belly, “Humans always come up with the most ridiculous explanations when they catch a glimpse of one of us!”

“Well, I can’t exactly write about Halflives,” you say with a short laugh, and Frizzie leans forward, her blank eyes widened.

“Oh, no, you mustn’t- not ever.”

“Don’t worry, Frizzie,” you say gently, “I understand you guys don’t wanna be bothered by humans.  Your secret’s safe with me.  To be honest, I’m even reconsidering the whole Doolin article.”

There are a few overlapping comments on this, but Ellen gently touches your arm.

“Are you certain?” she asks softly, her concern showing clearly on her face, “I know we’ve talked about your hesitations with that article, but I’d hate for all of your work here to come to nothing.”

You appreciate her sympathy, to be sure, but if anything it only reinforces something that you’ve come to believe over your weeks here talking to the locals, both Halflive and human.

“It’s really fine.  Mostly I just… I don’t want to cause any more trouble for anyone here.  The humans have already been through so much, and the Halflives just want to live carefree lives until they find their callings.  The last thing anyone here needs is me turning this town into some magnet for internet weirdos on ghost hunts.”

You haven’t discussed it with everyone, but your readership has picked up a bit with the last couple of issues.  While this is obviously a matter of pride and excitement, it also only heightens the sense of responsibility you feel as an occult journalist to avoid publishing anything damaging or insensitive.  The Doolin story would be a minefield.

“Still, seems a shame,” Charlie says, “All that work for nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing to me,” you say earnestly, “I’ve learned so much and I've really enjoyed getting to meet everyone and spend time with you all.  And just because I probably won’t do the article doesn’t mean I won’t still come by.  Especially once Keats starts showing me around the other Realms,” you add pointedly, and you hear him let out a scoff at your side.  You decide not to mention what you’re most grateful for out of your time in Doolin- that it’s brought you closer to Keats, and moreover, to understanding him.  

“Well, it's very considerate of you, and I'm certain that everyone here appreciates it,” Ellen says, and while you try to play off her comment with a shrug, the Halflives seem to concur.

“In fact,” Charlie glances around at the others while tapping a bony hand on the neck of his saxophone, “Why don't I play us all a little something?  To show our appreciation, and to celebrate a new regular at the Bridge House!”

“Nya-hah!” Fir Darrig cackles from atop the bar, “You know as well as we do that you can't do a thing with that hunk of metal– unless you've grown in some lungs lately!”

Your brows draw in just a bit.  It seems odd now that you'd never considered it before, but that is a fair point.  How does he play a woodwind instrument without lungs?  Charlie lowers his eyes sheepishly, and you lean forward to say,

“Wait, so, you're a musician but you can't use your instrument.”

The other Halflives watch Charlie with varied degrees of sympathy as he mutters,

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“So… what if you tried a different instrument?” you say, “Maybe you are a musician, but just not a saxophonist.”

The colorful group before you is silent, exchanging looks of bewilderment as you think to yourself- that can't be right.  It can't be that none of them has ever considered this before.  Are the blind spots among Halflives truly that severe?  You hear a short ‘snrk’ nearby, and turn to see Keats barely holding in a laugh, a hand over his mouth and head turned toward the fire.  As the Halflives begin murmuring amongst themselves about the idea, you wait until Keats looks back to give him a dry side-eye.  This only encourages him; he holds his hands up defensively and says, still on the verge of laughter,

“I think it's brilliant.  Positively brilliant.  Wish I'd thought of it.”

With a roll of your eyes, your attention is called back to Charlie as he asks,

“Well, what kind of instrument should I try then?”

“Isn't there an old fiddle lying around here somewhere?” Ellen suggests, and you nod- you are fairly certain you'd seen one moved from table to table to clear space.  After some rummaging about, Ganconer finally finds it tucked behind the bar, and hands it over to Charlie.  You'd never thought you would ever see an anxious skeleton, but everything from his eyes to his posture show his uncertainty.  Every human and Halflive present waits in anticipation as he lifts the fiddle onto the bone of his shoulder, and positions the bow.  You brace yourself for a harsh, experimental scratch.  Instead, a simple melody forms, easy and clear, the notes gliding into one another naturally.  A collective intake of breath rouses the crowd, and Charlie pauses, looking at the fiddle in his own hands with startled surprise.  Then, bow meets strings once more, and this time, the fiddle sings.  The tempo picks up, the notes ring true, and in only a moment or two, the entire tavern is full of feet stomping and hands clapping in time. 

Before long, Demona takes Jimmy by the arm and pulls him stammering and stumbling into the open area between the hightop tables and the bar.

“Well come on, quit standing around and let’s have ourselves a dance!”

Frizzie extends a hand to Ellen, who laughs as she hops down from her chair to be elegantly spun beneath the Halflive’s arm.  Soon the impromptu dancefloor is crowded with activity, and you watch and clap your hands as pairs laugh and stumble and turn to the rhythm of Charlie’s newly mastered fiddle.  As one song follows another, the Messenger turns out to be a popular dance partner, and you almost feel bad for Ellen after her third consecutive turn.  Yet another part of you is tinged with a more conflicted emotion.  

Without thinking, you sneak a sidelong look over at Keats.  He’s watching the proceedings with arms crossed, drink in hand, and his passive smirk comfortably in place.  You’re not surprised that he shows no interest in joining their revelry, and you try to convince yourself that this- this time here with him, in his world -is enough.  Even so, your glance his way doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Need something?”

“No,” you say, a bit too quickly.  He doesn’t respond, and you look back to the crowd where Belgae has finally joined the others, and is guiding Ellen through the final motions of a slower, more refined step that you’re not familiar with.  As the last, lingering note of the song draws out through the warm tavern air, the pair part with a bow and a curtsy.  Then, Ellen catches sight of you, and with a quick look at Belgae, hurries back to the table with him in tow.

“Don’t you want to dance?”

“Oh- uh, I’m fine, really,” you bumble out with an awkward shrug, and the two before you share another unreadable look.  Speaking deliberately, as though afraid to scare the man off, Belgae begins to say,

“Perhaps Sir Keats would care to-”

“He most certainly would not,” Keats replies gruffly, pushing his glasses into place.  Your heart sinks a bit, but it’s not as though you’re surprised.  This is precisely why you hadn’t tried to broach the subject yourself.  Ellen, however, isn’t satisfied with this response.

“Oh come on now, don’t be like that, Keats!” she says, then turns back to you, “You’d like to dance together, right?”

By now, the other Halflives have started to take notice of your conversation.  In the lull between songs as Charlie fusses with the fiddle’s strings and takes a moment to rest his bones, the matter of getting Keats to dance rapidly becomes the most pressing matter for everyone present.  

“Don’t be such a stiff!”

“It’s just one dance!”

“Live a little!”

As the insistent choir escalates, Keats’ expression becomes one of careful, cold impassivity.  They may as well be tossing pebbles at a brick wall.  Evidently, Belgae senses this as well, and steps forward to politely take your hand in his.

“Enough, all of you,” he says, “If Sir Keats does not wish to partake, then we must not impose upon him.”  Then, he says your name and bows his head deeply, and you feel the very slightest brush of his lips across your knuckles, “I, however, would be honored if you would join me for a dance.”

You’d never expected an invisible man could be so charming.  You smile and open your mouth to accept when the sudden movement of Keats’ chair draws your attention to him.

“Conniving bastard,” he mutters, and takes your hand from Belgae with slightly more force than you’d expected, “I never imagined you could be so underhanded.” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Sir Keats.” 

From the polite and even tenor of his voice, you almost believe him, but now that Keats is guiding you toward the recently instated dancefloor, Belgae’s gambit is all-too clear.  You’ll have to remember to thank him later.  

Charlie readies the fiddle at his shoulder once more and the others watch eagerly, as though drawing a breath might spook your reluctant dance partner and send him fleeing into the night.  Keats positions you in the middle of them all, with just enough room around you to place you two squarely at the center of attention.  Your face warms, then blooms into a bright red as he wraps an arm around your waist and takes your free hand in his.  He doesn’t keep a platonic distance like the other dancing pairs had– you’re pressed firmly to the front of his body.  Before taking a step,  he leans down until his hair tickles the side of your face to whisper against your ear.

“Still got your memento?”

You frown slightly.

“Yes, but-” 

“Good.”

A single crooning note from the fiddle reaches your ear before the sudden flash of white blinds you. 

When you blink your eyes back into focus, the tell-tale dizziness of Netherworld travel slowly dissipating, you’re back in the same office you woke up in just this morning.  Still in Keats’ arms, you look up at him with a curious eyebrow raised.

“Didn’t like the venue?”

“I don’t perform for them, that’s all.” 

He releases you, making his way to an old radio sitting on the windowsill across the room.  You watch him turn it on and wiggle the dial back and forth until it begins to produce something coherent- and to your surprise, familiar strings meet your ears.  Given the way that this Realm seems to supply Keats with what he needs, perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised that tonight, it offers him the perfect soundtrack for your private dance together.

“You won’t ‘perform’ for your friends, but you will for me,” you say, affecting confidence despite the way your heart skips when he tosses his coat onto the desk, and returns to draw you in against him once more.  

“I agreed to a dance, didn't I?  Besides, without an audience, this isn’t a performance.  This is simply…” he drifts off for a moment, his eyes flickering down over your face, “What I want.” 

Once he's caught the pace of the tune, he begins the first slow and stilted steps.  It’s fortunate he’s keeping this dance simple- you’re not certain you could handle following complex motions with his body flush to yours and his lips so close you have to consciously keep yourself from them.  Still, this is all so typical of him.  Getting everyone's hopes up for a show only to spirit you away to do things on his own terms.  You shake your head with a huff of laughter from your nose.  

“God, you are so…”

You trail off,  and he quirks an eyebrow. 

“What am I?” Keats says with a teasing lilt as he turns you, guiding the slow rotation around the room.  When you don’t respond immediately, he leans closer, his voice lower.

“What am I, Y/N?”

You raise your eyes to meet his, heart lurching up into your throat at his surprisingly sober expression.  Everything you’ve seen and learned weaves together, tying your theory together with a neat bow.  You know the real answer.  Is that the one he wants?

A Halflive.

“Impertinent,” you say at last, “Absolutely impertinent.” 

In an instant, the grin is back on his face.

“So you’ve said.” 

You try to let your heart settle as you fall into step with him, and Keats guides you confidently through the simple motions.  Swaying gently, turning slowly.  He doesn’t seem like the sort who would bother to know any particularly involved dances anyway, and you’re frankly surprised that he’s this competent at it.  

As the soft, nostalgic sound of overlapping strings through the aged radio speaker fills the office, a strange thought occurs to you.  Maybe he knows the basics of dancing because he’s supposed to.  Maybe Keats has never actually danced before in his life, never with his own body.  Maybe he has this knowledge as a default setting, of sorts, something filled in to create the construct of a being that exists for someone else’s purpose.  If he is a Halflive, how much of him has been crafted out of another’s wish, and how much does that leave for him to claim as his own?  The thought makes your chest thrum painfully, and suddenly you feel a new understanding of that steadfastly independent nature of his.  

“I don’t do anything out of obligation.”

You recall how firmly he’d proclaimed these words.  How insistent he’d been.  Then, how he’d interrogated you that night when he kissed you against his desk, desperate for the certainty that his wants were his own.

How much of his strange, unpredictable behavior toward you has been born of a fear that his feelings were not truly his?

The music slows.  Keats guides you under his arm in a twirl, the motion surprisingly whimsical by his standards.  But when you return to his arms and the tune begins to fade, he seems to note something in your expression.  

“What is it?”

You look up at him and meet his eyes, taking in that entrancing stormy turquoise color.  They’re clear and focused entirely on you.  

“Keats,” you say, his name catching in your throat at first.  His brow lowers, but he waits for you to speak. With a breath, you finally say, “You’re… a Halflive, aren’t you?”

You watch his face relax into a rare, subdued smile.

“That’s my clever reporter,” he says, “I had a hunch that you’d put it together on your own.” 

You swallow hard as you take in the full reality of it.  Keats’ thumb brushes your cheek, but his expression is carefully neutral when he asks,

“Does that change anything?”

“No,” you say, honestly, “No, it doesn’t.  You’re still…” you give a small laugh, “A huge pain, for one.  Stubborn, and cocky as all hell.  You’re a brilliant writer.  You’re more idealistic than anyone realizes, and you care more than you’d ever admit.  You’re, you know… you’re Keats.” 

Both of his hands cup your face, he tilts his head, and presses his lips to yours so firmly that your legs nearly crumple beneath you.  You whimper into him, grasping onto his strong forearms as he kisses your breath and your thoughts away.  Why does it feel so different this time?  It should be at least a little familiar by now.  You know the scratch of his facial hair, the sensation of his wide-set mouth fitted to yours.  You know his scent and how to angle your face so that you don’t bump his glasses.  Why does this kiss suddenly feel like falling upward?

When his lips part from you, you take in a trembling breath with your eyes still closed.  Keats breaks the silence, and there's a note of amusement in his voice, but also a genuine heat that you can feel sinking beneath your skin. 

“You know, I've had some work done around the place recently.  How would you like a tour of the new bedroom?”

The all-too eager tension in your lower belly would have you following him absolutely anywhere he asked.  For now, you breathlessly say,

“Lead the way,” then let him take you by the hand as the music becomes background noise draped in a cozy layer of radio static. 

Keats pauses in the doorway of the bedroom to tug off his boots as you step forward and take a look around.  It’s matched to the styling of the rest of his office, and fairly sparse, but you had expected as much.  The bed taking up the corner by the door is wide and looks comfortable in that impersonal, hotel-like way, and two extra bookcases are lined up against the far wall which you’re certain will be full before long.  You glance over a shaded lamp, an old-fashioned alarm clock, and one stray magazine issue all arranged on an end table, and you’ve already run out of things to look at when Keats’ arm around your waist tugs you back to him. 

You moan into his lips as he draws you into one of his thorough, methodical kisses.  The type that shows how completely he’s memorized you.  His hands trace your silhouette against him as he backs you toward the bed, his tongue dexterous in your mouth, his touch certain and unabashed.  You run your own hands up his hard abdomen to his chest, pulling his tie undone and tossing it carelessly to the floor before starting on the buttons of his vest.  It’s near impossible to focus on your task while he’s kissing you like this, claiming your lips over and over, seizing all of your attention.  You’re already flustered when you pull away from him, and he lets out a low chuckle at your visible frustration with the gauntlet of buttons before you. 

“Someone’s eager,” he murmurs.  The grin he gives you is a bit fond, and admittedly a bit condescending.  It is, unfortunately, incredibly hot, and you hold your breath as he makes quick work of the vest himself and leaves it to join his tie.  You don’t even wait for him to finish removing his shirt- the moment it’s open at the front, your hands run along his body, and you bite your lip at the sight.  He’s tight, lean muscle all over, just as you'd imagined, a dark trail of hair just peaking up from his belt.  You stare openly at him, watching his slim but defined stomach subtly tighten when your fingertips pass along its center, and admiring the cut V shape of his hips leading your gaze further down. 

“How the hell do you look like this as a journalist…” you mutter, brows rising in disbelief.  

“The Netherworld keeps me active,” he says with a slanted smirk.  Somewhere in the pocket of your mind where you’ve stored away your critical thinking for the time being, you imagine that he must look the way he does for a reason.  Halflives always seem to take a form that will serve them.  Maybe you’ll ask him about it later, when your brain isn’t submerged in a pool of hot, liquid lust.  

The bulge at the front of his trousers draws your eye, and the ache in you travels from your throat, through your chest and down between your thighs.  You run a hand over it, recalling how this cock had filled you before, and barely hold back another moan.  When you move to unbuckle his belt this time, he lets you.  He’s being exceptionally accommodating tonight.  By the time you work his length out from his clothing, it’s half-hard and every bit as impressive as you remember it.  Once again, your teeth drag across your lip, and you groan at the sight of him.  Running a finger along the thick shaft, you feel it twitch, and he says with a strain in his voice that he tries to conceal,

“Are you going to get undressed or are you planning to just ogle and fondle me all night?”

Your hand wraps around his cock just beneath the crown and begins slowly stroking him, steadily working him harder and harder.  Once he's completely erect, you can barely believe you took all of that inside of you last time.  The thought occurs to you that you probably could spend a night just touching and admiring him. 

“If you don’t want that then don’t make it sound so appealing,” you say, rubbing a finger along his tip in firm, tight circles.  His breath audibly catches, and you’re not sure you’ve ever heard such an arousing sound before.  The sound of Keats faltering.  Once you manage to coax out a small bead of precum, you fist the head of his cock and drag it down his length, the slight lubricant lending a warm, slick sensation that causes him to throb in your grasp.

Keats groans, hunching over you with a hand at your upper arm.  He whispers harshly in your ear, his breath like a flame licking at your skin,

“If you don’t get undressed and get on that damned bed, I’ll put you there myself.” 

Your body obeys before you even consciously think to do so, hastily removing your clothes and letting him guide you down onto the sheets once he's done the same.  His arm hooks behind you so that your neck rests on the crook of his elbow, his tall frame laid at your side.  Your breathing stalls as you feel his other hand cup the inside of your thigh, dragging your legs open before running warm up its inner curve.  He's as direct as ever- if not with his words, then always in his actions.  

His name rushes past your lips as his fingertips trail between your folds.  The way his arm cradles your head encourages you to face him, and you think this may have been an intentional strategic maneuver on his part.  He keeps his eyes on you as his long fingers slide around your clit, coating them in your wetness and waking your nerves until your body arches up towards him.  Yet he's still not touching your most sensitive spot directly.  Instead, he teases all around it, occasionally nudges it gently, and when your lips part and you pant out his name, this time tinged with desperation, he pushes two fingers inside of you.  

“You're soaked,” he murmurs, nuzzling the side of your neck until the scratch of his facial hair makes your skin tingle.  He doesn't sound particularly surprised, but he's not gloating, either.  More just taking it in- maybe imagining how it will feel.  You clench around him when he moves down to brush his lips to one of your nipples, then trails his tongue around it until it stiffens into the air.  Keats breathes out a restrained groan and takes it in his mouth, never easing the deep, steady pulse of his fingers.  As your breath quickens and the warm pleasure begins to build into something hot and urgent, he kisses his way back up your chest and along your throat.  Then, his fingers curl against some incredible spot within you, and you whine desperately as your legs begin to tremble.

“Look at me,” Keats says, his voice effortlessly compelling, “I didn't get to see it last time- how you look when you cum.  I've been curious about it ever since.”

Curious.  You can't wait to find out what else he's been curious about.  While you can't force yourself to formulate a response, you once again obey without a thought and meet him with a dazed, unfocused look.  His expression would seem stoic if you didn’t know him so well, but you see the tense set of his jaw and the flutter of his eyelashes as he takes in your panting lips, your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes silently beg for him.  He’s stroking that tender spot over and over, and then, he does something with those long fingers- something a little faster, a little firmer, and you whimper his name into the quiet of his room.  As a molten warmth begins to pour out from your core through your limbs, you gasp aloud for him and Keats watches with rapt attention.  

His fingers only slow inside of you briefly as you start to come down from your orgasm, and when he eases them from you, you expect a chance to breathe.  Instead, he keeps going.  A jolt of pleasure sets every hair on your body on-end as his fingertips toy with your clit with expert precision.  Circling, stroking, teasing it, stimulating it ruthlessly until your thighs tremble around his hand.  You’re too sensitive to endure this; every subtle motion of his hand sends raw heat rocketing through your body.  Head spinning, hands grasping mindlessly at the sheets, you stammer out,

“Keats, I- I just- I can’t-!” 

“You can,” he whispers, his lips now barely apart from yours, “You will.”

It’s maddening.  Dizzying.  Your hand grips his free one on the pillow beside you, and you squeeze hard in your attempt to endure the onslaught on your nerves, your sense of time and space.  Your hips pitch up from the bed, and his touch chases you, never allowing a moment of rest in his single-minded pursuit of your second rapid climax. 

When it hits, your vision blurs.  Your mind goes blank.  You’re clutching Keats’ hand so tight it must hurt, but if he notices, he makes no complaint.  His darkened eyes are fixed on you, narrowed as he watches you with obsessive focus, and you struggle to even form that one precious syllable of his name.  Another slow, purposeful circle of his middle finger around your clit sends a tremor through you, pulling a tortured groan from your lips, and you just manage to catch the cat-like curl at the corner of his mouth. 

Panting still, you slump onto the mattress and let your eyes flutter back to his.

“Was…” you take a breath, and try again, “Was making me cum until I black out also something you've been curious about?” 

He considers your question with far more gravity than you'd expected.

“Well no, but now that you've mentioned–”

“Keats,” you half sigh, half laugh, and that cocky grin of his only widens.  He moves to kneel over you, and pauses to glance at the pile of clothing beside the bed.  You have a guess as to what he's looking for.  With a somewhat bashful look, you say,

“I didn't bring a condom, but, uhm,” your face warms, “You… don't actually need to use them, right?”

“I should think that’s your decision,” he replies bluntly, his tone once again more serious than you'd expected, though in this case it feels a good deal more warranted.  Your heart thuds heavily once as you softly say,

“I-I've heard that Halflives can't have children.”

He raises a brow.

“Have you now?”

“Belgae told me.  And Ganconer.”

Keats frowns, lowering so that he’s propped with an elbow planted on the pillow behind you, while the opposite hand rests against your cheek.  His voice takes on an odd quality- somewhere between tense and teasing.

“And why, pray tell, would they have told you something like that?”

“I…” you avert your eyes, but Keats doesn't let up, ensuring with his touch at your jawline that you can't fully look away from him.  You press your lips together briefly, then say, “I asked them about it last night.” 

This conversation would already be difficult to have, but it’s made all the more impossible by the feeling of his hot, hard cock occasionally grazing against your lower body, drawing away your focus.  Re-awakening your appetite.

Keats slowly begins to trail his hand downward, caressing the side of your neck and towards your breasts.  You feel yourself arching in time with his touch, following it as he continues along your side, tracing the curve of your waist and the swell of your hips.  Your lips fall parted, and a high, needy whine escapes you.

“Keats, please…”

His nose brushes yours, so close it’s like breathing him in.

“Tch.  So hopeless,” he mutters, and before you can respond, you feel the blunt tip of his cock at your entrance.  Perhaps it’s the lingering awkwardness of your confession, or perhaps you’re simply wound too tightly with excitement.  Your entire body is on high alert, over-sensitive and over-attentive to every motion and sensation.  As he begins to push into you, your eyes scrunch shut and you hold your breath.  The pressure is mind-numbing, and before he’s more than an inch or two inside of you, Keats pauses, holding himself carefully in place.

“You need to relax.”

“I can take it,” you reply breathlessly, forcing yourself to look up at him.

“Believe me, I know,” he says, “But you’re too tense, and I’m not trying to hurt you.”

The words make your pulse rush, and they certainly don’t help you relax.  Keats rolls his hips slowly against you, each subtle push easing in, though the pleasure is still tinged with a sting of pain.  Why is it more difficult than the last time?  Why does everything feel so different tonight?

While you attempt to concentrate all of your focus into easing your muscles, Keats wrests you from your thoughts by cradling your head in his hand and angling you towards him.

“I know what you need.”

Then, his lips are on yours, and he’s kissing you in a way he’s never kissed you before.  It’s slow and deep, his chest evenly rising and falling as his tongue slides into your mouth to meet yours.  This time, he’s moving with you, not overwhelming you or pulling you into his pace.  Not investigating you- not now, when he already knows you so well.  It’s tender.  Intimate.  As a sluggish, melty warmth moves through your limbs and you lose track of any part of yourself that isn’t connected to him, the thought occurs to you– it’s romantic.  

“Ohh…” you moan softly when he sways against you, pushing further, filling deeper.  The pain has largely faded, along with any sense of control over your own body.  Your parted lips and his remain close, touching occasionally, sighing into one another until he’s finally held tight inside of you to the base.  

“That’s it,” Keats murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, “That’s good,” his head lowers onto the pillow beside you, bringing your bodies flush to one another as he thrusts in long, steady motions.  You sigh out his name, hands running up his hard body, and he whispers so that you barely hear, “So damn good…” 

It takes all you have not to clench around him again.  Instead, you cling to him with your arms, one raking your fingernails through his hair, the other dragging along the muscles of his back.  To your surprise, his lips find the column of your neck and he presses a firm, open-mouthed kiss there that sends a shiver along your spine.  He bites down, and you gasp aloud, fingers curling, pulling him against you, urging him on.  You want him to mark you.  Want him to give you something to keep, at least for a while.  His rich brown hair spills around you, his muscles subtly flex with every steady thrust of his hips, and his scent- God, the scent of him is everywhere, earthy and masculine and absolutely intoxicating.  

At last, your body has acclimated to him, and his pace picks up.  Keats fucks into you until his cock is coated in your release and your thighs tremble around him.  You feel the contours of his shaft, the veins, the ridge of its crown all grinding against your inner walls, the friction electric and rhythmic and utterly perfect.  At some point, he whips his glasses off of his face and tosses them with a clatter onto the nearby end table, all without slowing for even a moment.  You try to shift your hips in time with him, to chase the feeling of him massaging you all the way to your core, but before long he’s bucking into you so hard that you can’t even attempt to match his movements.  There’s a flicker of pain again, but this time, it’s an ache below your belly that only adds to the thrill of taking him, fully and completely.

Keats looks down at you, a red-faced, dazed mess in the bed he needed solely to see you in it.  You feel his cock throb, stretching you around him, and his hand hooks under your knee to spread your legs wider for him.  Now, his hips meet your inner thighs each time he drives into your soaked cunt, your entire body seems to reverberate with the pleasure of each piston-like thrust.  You meet him with a drunken, lustful gaze.  He looks like you’ve never seen him before- hair wild around his sharp features, eyes burning and alarmingly vibrant.  It’s such a far cry from the dry, cooly confident man you so easily picture writing in silence at his desk.  He’s relentless.  He’s beautiful.

“Keats, I- I’m- fuck–!!”

“Tell me what you want,” he says through gritted teeth, pressing his forehead to yours but never slowing, “Tell me what you want, so I can give it to you.” 

“Inside,” you gasp out between your incoherent moans, “Cum inside.  Fill me.” 

It’s all you can manage, and it’s all he needs.  Keats completely loses his sense of rhythm, pace stuttering as he ruts into you, chasing his release.  You’ve known him to be single-minded; you’ve never seen him entirely mindless before.

His grip squeezes almost painfully tight at your thigh.  His cock twitches and swells inside of you, and in a brief, delirious moment, you almost think his entire body seems bigger than usual, bowing over you and surrounding you.  There’s a low rumble in his chest.  A flash of silver in the corner of your eye, maybe somewhere in the mess of his hair, as he pins you to the bed.  More silver.  A glow, which you think must be your vision failing you once again.  Then, your name, snarled against your ear. 

Your head tips back on the pillow as Keats’ climax overtakes you both- and, you're fairly certain, a third peak of your own as if in direct response to his.  Once more, he buries his face against your neck, his heaving breath oppressively hot across your skin.  His entire length bucks against your inner walls, twitching fiercely as he pours out his cum as deep inside of you as he can fit.  Thoughtlessly, he give another harsh jerk of his hips, milking his cock in your tight walls, drawing out every last drop of his considerable load.  Then, his hand relinquishes its iron grip on your thigh only for your legs to instinctively wrap around him, holding him to you.  

You remain tangled together like this for some time even after his taller frame relaxes against yours all at once- though you couldn’t even guess for how long exactly.  When Keats pushes himself up onto a hand and runs the other through his hair, combing it back from his face, you can feel the accumulation of his cum and yours dripping down the curve of your ass.  You bite back a moan as he pulls his gradually softening cock from your spent pussy, watching him with your eyes groggy and half-lidded.  When you’ve finally regained the ability to speak, you say,

“What… was that?”

“That,” he says, stretching his body to the side to retrieve his glasses from the end table, “was an orgasm.  Damn good one, too,” he adds, pushing the lenses up his nose matter-of-factly. 

You snort out a laugh, and prop yourself up on your elbows.

“No, I mean…” you frown, not entirely sure what you mean, “You know what I mean.”

“If you’re not going to explain it, then no, I don’t,” he says, then releases a heavy exhale and lets himself slump down onto his back on the bed.  You turn onto your side to face him, secretly quite pleased that he doesn’t seem interested in getting dressed just yet.  Even so, he speaks with the steadfast professionalism of a much more clothed reporter when he says.

“Now then, circling back to a matter from earlier.  Would you care to explain why you felt the need to interrogate my associates about my reproductive capabilities, or are you planning to blame that on the Faery Wine?”

“Well the wine definitely helped,” you mutter, feeling a hot rush to your face as you struggle to think of a way to explain to him that in reality, you just desperately wanted to feel his raw cock.  That you’d fantasized about him pumping you full of his cum as you pleasured yourself in your dingy closet-bedroom.  In a rare moment of mercy, Keats speaks up when he realizes you have no further excuse. 

“When it comes to questions of how I fuck you, perhaps you ought to come directly to the source from now on,” his body turns just slightly towards yours, “A journalist should know to ask the right questions of the right person.  I’ve never misled or lied to you.”

“But you have kept things from me,” you point out, though there’s no malice or resentment in your voice.  You understand that he needed to be careful about certain things, and to that point, he says,

“Things that were easier to comprehend once you had figured them out for yourself.  Not to mention, I have the interests of my readership to consider,” you nod, willing to accept this to some degree, and he goes on, “Plus,” the faintest hint of a smile touches his lips, and he raises a hand to brush a strand of your hair into place, “I do so enjoy watching you hard at work.” 

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help a small smile of your own.  Shifting closer to him on the bed, you prop your upper body on his chest, and he slides an arm under your waist.  It’s almost cuddling, though you wouldn’t dare to suggest something so sentimental to him.  Fingertips idly playing with the ends of his hair, you ask,

“Do you know what your wish is?  The one that created you?”

“Afraid I’ll up and vanish one day?” he says it with a casual apathy that may have unsettled you months ago.  Now, it’s expected.

“Sort of, yeah,” you admit, the tiny tremor in your voice causing Keats to frown.  Then, he scoffs and says,

“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be rid of me that easily.  I don’t know the exact specifics down to the letter, but the most crucial part is to look after Ellen.  As far as I can tell, it’s how I was drawn to Doolin to begin with.  Now, as her Guardian, it’s likely I’ll be around as long as she is.  And seeing as something about the Messenger gig seems to extend the lives of those who excel at it,” he stretches out his back, letting out a long sigh, “If I do my job and she does hers, we’ll both be around for a good, long while.”

There’s some comfort to this, but it’s all so strange, so much to process and file away.  Your head is spinning, and it’s not lost on you that he has once again deflected from your original question about what happened to him in the throes of his climax.  But right now, your body aches, and you need to go wash up.  When you start to ease yourself up off of him, Keats splays a hand at the nape of your neck, and pulls you back to kiss you.  Your breath completely halts, your chest tightening, and when he slowly releases you, you look down at him with absolute bewilderment. 

“Stay,” he says, his voice scratching in his throat.

“I- I need to clean up,” you stammer out.

“Do it here, then stay the night.”

“Again?  Are you sure?” you search his eyes with open disbelief, but he seems quite serious, “Keats, I have work to do on my next issue.”

“And how is your progress thus far?” 

“It’s…” your eyes wander as you think on the state of your current draft, “It’s coming along.  I don’t think I’ll need another bail out, anyway.”

“Then stay and I’ll bring you back in the morning so you can show me what you have and continue your work,” his eyes are on your lips as he adds, “You wouldn’t get anything done tonight anyway.”

He’s certainly right about that.  Your head is far too full of Halflive revelations and mind-blowing sex to formulate a single sentence about Legends of Blood Sucking Creatures From Around the World, or whatever this month’s feature article was going to be.  Aside from which, he’s holding you so gently and kissing you like you’re lovers and not colleagues who fuck sometimes, and it’s all culminating in one more win for Keats’ uncanny ability to get what he wants from people.  It doesn’t hurt that this is easily what you want most as well. 

“Fine,” you say, brushing your fingers along his jawline and enjoying the roughness of his facial scruff, “But after tonight, and once we both get our work for the month back on track, we’re going to this Faery Realm of yours.”

“Of course we are,” he says, as though this had always been a given. 

[carito-dorito]

So far I haven't seen any folklore/folkssoul playlist yet but I made one for Keats and Ellen but I'm sharing mine anyways

(art by @/oboro-fanfic)

[skeletonsonmars]

give those glasses back!

[glowingbadger]

Boy, there is a LOT of emotional headway in this chapter-- less spicy than the last couple, but arguably quite a bit more intimate- plus now I have an excuse to basically start the next chapter with crazy nasty fucking let's GO

Anyway, this chapter already required a loooot of consideration for the philosophical reality of Folklore's setting, not to mention that tricky thing with some fics where you have to describe things that are gameplay based, but like... not as a video game lol. Hopefully I got it down-- and more importantly, hopefully Keats' character is still coming through well without flanderizing him, but also while portraying how he'd realistically be while Experiencing Feelings. I probably have another chapter or two in mind for this project, and man it has been so gratifying to work on, and a really wonderful challenge for myself. Keats is easily one of my fav characters I've ever written for, and his dialogue continues to be an absolute joy.

For convenience, full chapter list here.

Unknown Realms Editorial Department, Ch. 8

Keats (Folklore) x AFAB Reader

(gendered pronouns not used thus far) Slightly spicy.

A couple of blisteringly productive days later, this month’s draft is exactly where you want it to be.  You’ve managed to vet a few promising article submissions, and this issue, you had even treated yourself to handling more of the on-page writing again.  The more you outsourced the writing itself, the more you found that you missed it, and so contributing writers became more of a stable of resources for you, rather than a crutch.  This, in turn, raised the overall quality of work you felt obligated to include  Your readership is still relatively small, but by now, you’ve established a steady and active community under the Unknown Realms name, eager to discuss and debate each month’s topics amongst themselves, to varying degrees of civility.  Even Keats has had to confess that things are progressing nicely– once you had explained the concept of social media to him, of course.  It’s fortunate that he’s a quick study. 

You’ve come to work at his office today.  While you can’t seem to consistently connect to the internet from the Netherworld, the electrical outlets in his pocket of existence are functional, so you’re able to work on any amount of writing that doesn’t require online resources.  It’s not always an option, but it is quite peaceful.  Here, you’re able to focus solely and entirely on your work, and you can see how Keats so easily falls into his productive fugues from which it is nearly impossible to shake him.  Not that you haven’t wanted to.

He has his own work to attend to, of course.  Now and then, you peer over the screen of your laptop from the couch in the sitting room, through the arched doorway, to where you can see him staring down at his typewriter with the unshakeable focus of a monk at prayer.  The way his brow deeply furrows when he’s concentrating is direly handsome, and more than once you’ve caught yourself biting down on your bottom lip and failing to wrangle your thoughts.  

Now that you know how Keats fucks, everything he does is laced with eroticism.  Each innocuous sigh as he pauses to review his work or gather his thoughts is a breath you can imagine caressing the shell of your ear.  The soft waves of his hair that frame his face make you ache to tangle your fingers in them.  His hands are as deft across the keys of his typewriter as they are between your thighs.  Your own keyboard soon falls silent as you watch him, and your mind begins to wander into outright indecent territory.

His right eyebrow rises, ever so slightly. 

“Hard at work, I take it?”

You’ve been caught staring dumbly in his direction, eyes half lidded and so blatantly lustful that they may as well be light-projecting your most scandalous fantasies directly at him.  Heat colors your cheeks as you meet his reflective lenses from across the room. 

“I’m just, y’know– thinking.” 

“Of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “Thinking of what, I wonder?”

That I’d give anything to be on my knees beneath that desk of yours right now. 

“Just… work stuff,” you say lamely, as if your work has anything to do with wondering just how much of his long, thick cock you could fit down your throat.  It's clear just how unconvincing you sound, judging by the smug look across his face.  He gets to his feet, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he makes his way toward you at a leisurely pace that you know is meant to give you time to squirm.  With his coat left draped over the back of his chair, his vest accentuates his slim waist in a way that is not helping you tame your thoughts. 

“Come now, don’t be like that,” he says, leaning against the doorframe beside you, “How about this- you tell me what’s on your mind, and I’ll give you a reward for your honesty.” 

You glance down at your screen, at the impatiently blinking cursor. 

“Well, I…” not sure where to look, you pretend to stare at your draft document, “I was just thinking about the other night, that’s all,” he watches you wordlessly, obviously expecting you to continue, so you add, “It was… really nice.” 

He gives a brief hum of interest, then moves to stand in front of you.  Leaning down over you, he places one hand behind you on the back edge of the couch, while the other nudges your chin up until your lips are millimeters from his.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, if you want your reward,” he says, his tone deceptively conversational.  You attempt a pout, but Keats remains unmoved, awaiting your response.  He’s always got the upper hand, it seems, but you won’t let him turn you into a blushing ingénue.  So, you force the words out,

“I was thinking about how good you are with your hands.  That I’ve never been fucked that deep in my life.  And that I… I really, really want more.” 

He says nothing, but presses his lips to yours.  It's far more delicate than you’re used to from Keats.  His breathing is calm and steady, and you barely feel his tongue, so warm as it teases along your lower lip. Your mouth and his meet and part in a slow, sensual rhythm that makes your head buzz and your spine tingle.  He's teasing you, you can tell- giving you just enough to make you want more, to make you chase it.  It's not until he pulls away that you realize you'd straightened upright and strained your neck to bring yourself closer to him.  

While he still lingers close enough to feel your shaking breath, you murmur,

“Is that my reward?”

“No,” he says, “That was because I wanted to.”

His hand drops from your chin to the screen of your laptop, pulling it back so that when he looks downward, he can see the paragraph you’d been working on.  You’re fairly certain he can read it upside-down at this angle, but he hardly gives it a glance before tapping a finger disapprovingly on the top of the screen, then straightening his back to stand over you.

“Unnecessary commas.  It’s a bad habit of yours.” “You didn’t even read it,” you say indignantly.

“I don't need to,” he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose, “Give it another pass and I’ll bet you can get rid of half of them.”

He turns to head toward the kitchenette, and you watch his back until your frustration compels you to glare down at the words before you.  He’s as impertinent as ever.  Unfortunately, you’re starting to think that you wouldn’t change that about him even if you could.

“Your reward is that we’ll both take a break,” he calls to you from the next room, “And I’ll make the tea this time.  Ah, and Ellen dropped off these… pastry things– I don’t know.  They’re all yours.” 

Closing your laptop and setting it aside on the couch, you stand and stretch out your back, then your arms, taking an extra moment to flex your fingers and wrists.  You can hear Keats filling the tea kettle and negotiating with the stove burner, and your expression unconsciously warms and softens.  With a long exhale, you walk aimlessly into his main office, not sure what to do with yourself while you wait.  Hoping to stay out of his way for now, you head toward the towering book shelves by his desk and let your eyes trail lazily along the titles.  There are, of course, a wealth of writing resources and encyclopedias, plus books on occult practices and legends from just about every country, culture and time period you could name.  There are entire sections of more leisurely reading as well, naturally including all of the classics of the western canon, but also a few more obscure names you’ve never heard of.  You hold in a snort of laughter when you come across a single anthology of the works of John Keats.  By the looks of it, it’s barely been touched, and its spot on the shelf is so entrenched that you’d have to wiggle a few neighboring volumes around to even access it.  It’s no surprise to see it so neglected; John Keats was, after all, a Romantic. 

Keats pours the hot water in the periphery of your vision while you turn and let your eyes scan over his desk.  It’s in the usual state of organized chaos, its rhyme and reason a mystery to anyone but its owner.  A half-typed page sits in his typewriter awaiting his return, and there’s a stack of collected reference notes to the right of it.  It takes piecing together bits of context from many different conversations, but you’re able to understand this as an article about the slowly deteriorating state of the Undersea City, as it continuously slips into Oblivion.  The completed pages are stacked to the left, and you idly run your hand over them, fanning them out so you can skim their contents.  But revealed beneath them, a singular page catches your eye.

Frowning slightly, you push it out from the bottom of the pile and see that it’s almost entirely blank, with only a few letters typed at the top.  The start of a thought, begun and left unfinished.  Your name, and nothing else.

You’d vaguely noticed that Keats was headed your way, mugs in hand, but the sound of ceramic meeting the desk still causes you to flinch.  He turns to retrieve a single plated danish from the kitchenette as well, and while his back is turned, you quickly shift the papers to make it look like you’d only been reading the top-most page.  If he notices anything odd, he doesn’t mention it.  Instead, he simply comes to stand close at your side, tea and pastry presented on the desk.  You mumble out a “thanks,” but before you think of anything more intelligible to say, his hand moves toward you.  Silently, he brushes his knuckles along a tender spot on your neck, just below your jawline- the mark he’d left with his teeth the other night, faded but still quite visible.  He’s staring at the spot with an unreadable expression, and you’re struck with the thought that you shouldn’t be the only one speaking honestly today.

“What are you thinking right now?” you ask, voice softer than you’d intended. 

“I’m thinking that I’d like to give you a few more of these,” he says without pause, and your body immediately responds with a surge of heat and tension and restless want.  Unable to hold his gaze, you look down at your mug of tea on the desk and trace your finger around the rim.

“My friend noticed it, you know- the one who helps me with the covers for each issue.  I met her for coffee yesterday.  She asked me if I was seeing someone or just hooking up.” 

“And what did you say?”

You attempt to laugh off the twisting feeling in your stomach, shrugging a shoulder.

“That I don’t really know.  I told her that I like this guy a lot, but he's not the sentimental type, so… it's all a bit messy.”

In the following silence, it’s clear you’re each mulling it over.  Considering it separately, together.  You take a sip of your tea which sounds far too loud in the quiet office, and when you set it down, Keats says your name with a weight that surprises you,

“If anything that has happened, or anything I’ve done has upset you-”

“No- no, that’s not what I–” you screw up your face in frustration for a moment, then take a breath and change tacks, “Keats, how would you feel if I slept with someone else?  Would that be alright with you?”

Immediately, he scowls, a severe but also petulant expression that fills your chest with an unexpected wave of fluttery relief.  It’s frankly a little embarrassing to realize just how thrilled you are at his displeasure with the idea.

“I have no say over what you do.  Jealousy is childish and irrational,” he says, with the pouting insistence of a man experiencing jealousy, “For what it’s worth, it’s not as though I have any inclination to be with anyone else.  I’d hardly even considered it before, and my very few prior experiences were the result of idle curiosity more than anything.” 

Your entire body heats at this admission, and you wonder if he even realizes what he’s implying- that something about you inspires a lust that he doesn’t feel toward anyone else, and moreover, the clarity that his time with you is not a matter of mere curiosity.  

After a pause, while staring down at his cup with his eyelashes fluttering beautifully over his high cheekbones, he says, 

“If you did decide that you wanted someone else, I’d hope that you would tell me first, and we would return to a more… professional dynamic.  Anyway, as long as we both enjoy– this,” he gestures vaguely with one hand while the other raises his tea towards his lips, “I don’t see any problem.” 

Your smile finally breaks through, unable to be contained.  

“What?” he says at you over the rim of the mug.

“Dating,” you reply with a giggle, “You’re describing dating, just… really badly.  Two people enjoying their time together and exclusively having sex with each other is just monogamous dating, Keats.”

“Call it what you want,” he mumbles, finally sipping at the tea that’s been hovering in his hand and letting the steam fog his glasses.

With a snort and a roll of your eyes, you reach for the danish on the nearby plate.  You tear off a piece for yourself first, humming pleasantly at the flavor.  It’s buttery and flaky, a little sweet, but not too cloying.  Ellen has excellent taste.  Keats is rubbing his glasses clear when you rip off another bite of it and hold it up for him. 

“Here, try it.  You, uh- you can eat, right?” you pause, “Of course you can, you drink stuff all the time.”

“I eat when I care to, the same as sleeping,” he says, and at first you think this is his way of brushing off your offer.  Then, he leans forward and takes the bit of pastry into his mouth directly from your hand, his lip briefly brushing your fingertips.  After everything else you two have done, this shouldn’t fluster you like it does, but the comfort he shows around you feels even more intimate than sharing physical pleasure.  

Glancing around for anything else to look at while you attempt to calm your pulse, you notice the top drawer of his desk left slightly ajar, and something quite out of place just barely visible inside.  A page with some colorful scribbling on it, like a child would make– but you couldn’t imagine any reason for Keats to have something like that.  Your intrigue must show on your face, as he follows your line of sight to the drawer and grins.

“Curious?” He says, “Go ahead.  Now seems as good a time as any.”

You glance at him, and when he doesn’t stop you, you pull the drawer open and take the paper in hand.  It is, as you expected, a child’s drawing in colored pencil.  It is also unmistakably a drawing of Keats himself, standing tall beside a little blonde girl.  The longer you examine it, the more uncanny details stand out.  The large blank circles in place of eyes must be his glasses, and the oddly scaled tie and vest echo the strange and particular fit of his clothes.  You’re not certain why this drawing is causing your heart to ache, hammering in your chest so hard that, for a moment, you forget to breathe. 

He stands close at your side, his partly obscured gaze either on the drawing or on you. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” he says, “This was made over seventeen years ago.”

“So… this must be Cecilia,” you murmur, frowning down at the blocky yellow shapes that form the girl’s hair.  Ellen had mentioned that she’s pursuing an art career, and that she had always loved drawing and painting.  You’ve certainly never heard of another blonde little girl with artistic inclinations living in Doolin seventeen years ago.  “Ellen drew this as a child– but how could she have drawn you back then, before you had ever met?”

“You know why,” Keats says, “You’ve asked me about my appearance more than once.” 

You try to herd your thoughts into an orderly queue to be addressed one at a time.  He clearly means to imply that you already have all the pieces, that you only have to slot them into place.

Ellen didn’t know Keats back then.  He may not have even existed then.  When did he come into being?  When Herve died?  Once Ellen needed to be protected?  That line thought only sends your head spinning, so you refocus elsewhere.  Focus on what he’s implying about how he looks.  Keats looks… good.  Really good.  But you’re sure that’s not what he means- not directly, anyway.  You recall the family photo on the wall at the Bridge House.  Keats looks like Herve’s mother, and like Herve himself, only older.  He looks like Ellen’s- like Cecilia’s dearest friend, the friend who died to save her.  If this drawing came before Keats, and Cecilia made the drawing, then–

“Then, Cecilia created…” your frown only deepens, and you shake your head.  Ellen and Keats don’t act like one who summoned the other into being, and she had already told you the unfortunate tale of the Halflive she had unwittingly made. “No, not her.  It must have been Herve.  Herve created you, didn’t he?  Inspired by Cecilia’s drawing of him.”

“Clever as always,” he says, bringing a hand to lightly tease his long fingers through stray bits of your hair, an unusually soft look in his eyes.

“Wow, okay,” you breathe out, “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, actually.  Herve wanted to protect Cecilia so badly that he was willing to cut his own life short to go through with the blood transfusion for her.  And the main thing we know about your ‘wish’ is that you need to protect Ellen.  In Herve’s dying moments, he must have been thinking of her– but also, of you.”

Your eyes rise up along his torso and back to his face.  At Regine's long, pointed nose and sharp jaw.  At Herve's sunken, sloped eyes and dark hair.

“An ideal of the adult he would never get to be.” 

You feel as though you’ve run his entire existence, everything about him, through a translator.  It’s all laid out so plainly now.  Keats is all that Herve had wished for himself, and for Cecilia.  His work, his office, his appearance, all lead back to that child- and once again, you remember the night he had asked you, his eyes boring into you, whether you had ever known either of those tragic children

When you finally speak up once again, Keats has been watching you over the rim of his mug, drinking in silence as you place the drawing down atop a stack of notes.

“Keats, be honest about something for me.”

He swallows his tea, sighs, and says,

“I’m always honest with you.”

“But you’re not always forthcoming,” you counter, and it’s not lost on you that you've had roughly this same exchange before.  He lets out an irritable breath as he sets his drink down.

“Fine, what is it?”

You press your lips together, then steady your nerves and say,

“Have you been worried all this time that you might only feel something for me because it was somehow related to Herve’s wish that you’re meant to fulfill?  That it might be… against your will, or some kind of subconscious compulsion?”

His brow draws low and troubled, and he looks down to his side, absently rearranging a few loose papers with his free hand. 

“I had to consider the possibility.  It seems clear now that it must have been Herve’s wish, or some aspect of his influence, that led me to seek you out at the start in order to support your publication of Unknown Realms.  It does align with his interests- so that's one mystery solved.  But, everything after that…” he trails off for a moment.  Then, he shifts almost imperceptibly closer and levels his shrewd gaze on you, “If I had reason to believe that my feelings for you were the product of some compulsory script, I would shut them out entirely.  For my own peace of mind, and for your sake.”

Once again, he lightly touches the mark he'd made on your throat, and the look on his face is oddly pensive.  

“Though, now that I’m certain you have nothing to do with Herve, Cecilia, or Doolin as a whole, that does leave me in quite a bind,” you look at him curiously, and he says, “Whatever you’re doing to me, it can’t be so easily explained away.”

“Well you don’t believe in love, so we can rule that out,” you say, putting on a wry half-smile.

“I only said I lacked evidence,” he says, “And if you recall, I’ve been following a particular lead since quite soon after meeting you.  I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind sticking around until I’ve pulled the whole story together.”

Keats had first mentioned this supposed story of his months ago.  Has he been trying to work out his emotions for all that time?  You feel yourself positively melting inside.  This sweet, stupid, stubborn man.  For all these months, as your heart has wrapped and knotted itself around him, he's been grappling with an affection for you that he can't bring himself to place his faith in-- because Keats doesn't operate on faith.  But he feels it, undeniably, and so he's done what he always does.  Investigated, interviewed, chased the leads and gathered the evidence. 

“Sounds like quite the piece,” you say, breathless as he begins to lean toward you.

“Believe me, it’s a full exposé,” he replies softly.

You expect his lips on yours.  Instead, he guides your head to an angle so he can press his mouth to his mark on your throat.  He lingers there for a long, deliberate moment, kissing the spot slowly and deeply until he hears you let out the slightest squeak of pleasure.  He laughs, and you shiver, though his body is so near you can feel its warmth.  Everything is so warm, inside and out.  

“Keats…” you sigh into his dark sable hair, savoring the feeling of his firm body beneath your hands as they come to rest on his chest.  The remainder of your tea is getting cold.  You have work to be doing.  So does he.  But his scruff is grazing your skin and his tongue is banishing all coherent thought with every slow, savored motion, and when his arm moves around you, your heart leaps– and then plummets.

“Damnit all,” he snarls, as he grabs his coat from the back of his chair, and pulls away from you, leaving you stammering,

“What's, wait, is- is everything-”

“It's only a hunch, but– God, how am I meant to explain this to you?  There's no time,” Keats curses under his breath, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his coat and turning on a heel.  You watch him with blank bewilderment on your face as he marches across the office.  Without so much as a glance back, he says,

“I'll be back as soon as I can– don't do anything stupid.”

He heads for the door, but it must be only out of habit, because he vanishes with a flash before he even reaches it, leaving you dumbfounded and alone.  

The silence settles around you quickly, the weight of it bowing your shoulders and resting sluggishly in your stomach.  You tap your fingers on the smooth wooden surface of the desk, then stop, and that silence returns with a vengeance, slinking into the space where Keats had been moments ago.  Without any thought to your actions, you move around some papers, tidying the stack of pages that form his current article.  Inevitably, your aimless eyes return to that drawing.  

Ellen really does have excellent taste.  Always has, evidently. 

For a moment, your mood lifts a little at the thought.  The idea that you have a young Ellen to thank for the odd but handsome features you’ve grown so fond of is as charming as it is bizarre.  Maybe you should thank her one of these days.  Still, the slight quirk at the corner of your lips quickly fades.  

It’s far too quiet in here.  You've never been in Keats’ office alone before, and it now occurs to you just how many little things left the space with him.  The clacking of his typewriter.  Water boiling for tea.  All of his regular fussing and fidgeting with darts and books and notes.  Without him here, the lifelessness of the place is stark, leaving nothing but plain plaster and practical furniture over-burdened with far too many indistinct objects.  

Holding your arms wrapped around yourself, you take a few steps into the center of the office, unsettled even by the sound of your own footsteps.  The air itself seems still.  Moreso, it’s stagnant.  Un-animated.  But that’s an absurd thought, and one that would likely get a good chuckle out of Keats.  You shake your head and try to laugh the feeling off yourself, swinging your arms a bit as you attempt to dissipate the strange fog gathering in your thoughts.

Why does it feel like this?  Like a show room, or a theatre set. 

You’re just a bit thrown off by Keats’ sudden mood shift and departure, that must be it.  Even with all you’ve come to understand about him, it’s a jarring reminder of the things you still don’t quite grasp.  He’s a Halflive, a being formed from deceased souls, created by the wish of a child and destined to fulfill that wish: to protect Ellen.  And maybe to keep Unknown Realms afloat while he’s at it.  Had something come up with Ellen that could have pulled him away?  Does he have some sort of intuition, or sixth sense about when she might need him?  The strangeness of his circumstances are finally beginning to sink in, and your heart thuds as the question confronts you, bolded and in all caps like a front page headline.  Are you ready to love a man who isn’t human, whose very existence follows different rules than your own?

A dull but potent throbbing pain begins to grow at the back of your skull.  You chew anxiously at the inside of your lip.  How long have you been standing motionless in the center of this hollowed-out Realm?  Brow tense and stomach turning, you look around for something- anything to do.  Your eye catches the used dishes, so you busy yourself with bringing the mugs over to the sink, leaving the half-eaten danish on the countertop for now. 

Now what?

The light through the blinds of the nearby window catches your eye, and you wander thoughtlessly toward it.  You had never truly considered what may be outside of Keats’ office before, though you'd caught glimpses of a neighboring building across an alleyway.  Maybe you could crack open the window– surely some fresh air would help with this suffocating atmosphere.  But when you reach it, and peer through the blinds towards whatever it is you’d expected to find, the view out of the window is blank.  No town or city life, as you had assumed there might be.  There’s simply light.  Light and endless nothing.  

You back away from the window with a start.  

Work.  You should get back to work.  Writing.  Though, it will have to be limited to what you can do on your own, since without Keats to escort you across the boundary of reality, you’re stuck here, in the Netherworld.  This means you won’t have any online resources.  It also means you’re trapped in this increasingly oppressive and alien space.  It occurs to you, as perhaps it should have long ago, that you are in the Netherworld.  The land of the dead- or rather, the land of death itself. 

Your breath becomes quick and shallow.  Writing will help, it has to.  You head back toward your laptop resting on the sofa in the next room over, your movements all a little tense and jittery.  On the way, you look around the office and try to ground yourself with familiar details, but it’s as though Keats had been this Realm’s gravitational axis, and without his presence, you’re left spinning freely.  You pick up your laptop, holding it close to your chest, and one of several articles pinned to the walls in the sitting room catches your eye.  The image is of Doolin- you recognize it, now -but the words themselves don’t make any sense.  You squint and try to glean the meaning of a single sentence, but your mind can’t organize the information.  It’s gibberish.  You shiver, your entire body pulling tightly inward, and an unfamiliar sound sneaks out of you– a high, tremulous whine.  

“Keats… please come back…” you whisper, ashamed of the panicked words you can’t manage to keep inside.  How would you even explain the cloying sense of dread, the deep, gut-turning unease that this familiar place now suddenly inspires?  All at once, you can see everything wrong.  The entire office is far too open, the vast expanse from wall to wall now leaving a no-man's-land between, vulnerable and exposed, causing you to subconsciously tend toward the outer perimeter of each room.  It's paradoxically both sprawling and crushing, like the emptiness around you is compressing you down within it, crushing and crushing and crushing in and down and deeper still.  Yet the walls themselves seem like they would fall clean over at the slightest touch– and the thought of that pale, illuminating nothingness out the window returns to your mind with a shudder.  Is that all that lies outside of this simple, boxed-in shelter, infinite in all directions?  

All of Belgae’s caution and trepidation when Keats first brought you to Doolin and explained the Netherworld and Halflives to you suddenly feels entirely justified– understated, even.  Without Keats’ protection, it’s become all too clear to you that living humans do not belong in the Netherworld.  You do not belong here.  

Skin clammy, your pulse leaping and tripping over itself, you suddenly rush toward Keats’ desk.  If his presence is what protects your mind and your soul in this place, then maybe that’s what you need to cling to.  While he may have left for some other realm, you know of one piece of him that remains here with you.  

Just as you’d hoped, Keats’ writing is as you remember it.  His issues of Unknown Realms, and his pages typed and stacked on the desk, are all perfectly legible, even in your scattered and fragile state.  With a choked sob of relief, you gather up as much of his work as you can until the papers are practically spilling out of your arms, crammed between your laptop and your chest.  Everything from discarded or heavily proofread drafts to published magazine issues, you hold them to your body with white knuckled, clenching hands, and then retreat toward the bedroom.  Toward the place Keats prepared here for you.

Scurrying onto the bed and sitting cross-legged against the corner of the room, your eyes dart around you and find the scenery a little easier to comprehend.  Here, you don’t have to think about how Keats’ typewriter shouldn’t actually function, given that you’d once looked it up and found the ink ribbons for that model impossible to find.  You don’t have to think about where he even sources his tea from, or the towering infeasibility that he can produce and distribute a magazine from here, all on his own.  Here, there are only shelves which he’s already begun to fill with books, an end table with a single issue of the original Unknown Realms run, and the bed that Keats had held you in not long ago.

Any thought to your own work has entirely vanished.  You’re fighting just to keep your senses, gripping hard onto your sanity to avoid falling from the speeding carousel in your head.  This is all you can do.  You place the messy pile of his writing beside you on the comforter, grab the topmost article, then fling yourself into his words, trusting that they’ll catch and cradle you on your descent.  

When you at last hear footsteps from the main office, you think you’ve imagined them.  Then, a tell-tale beleaguered sigh follows, and your chest aches under the burden of raising your hopes.  You’re not certain how long it’s been, only that you’ve read and reread every bit of Keats’ writing that you could get your hands on at least twice over.  The first time was only to ground yourself.  The second time, you tried to read the words with his voice in your mind.  Logically, it must have been hours.  Your mind, weary and scattered, has hardly tracked the passage of time.  Maybe it’s been over a day.  Maybe it’s been forever, and you’re in whatever comes after that.  

But then you hear Keats call your name, and your senses seem to return to you all at once.  He calls again, and you can hear him moving around the office, searching for you.  You try to speak up, but your voice is caught in your throat.  At last, he makes it to the bedroom, rushing through the door and then halting in place when he sees you.  His eyes widen, and your heart lurches at his expression.  

“What–” he starts to speak, then falls silent.  He comes to kneel beside you on the bed, and pulls you to his chest, locking you tightly in his arms.  Things are slowly beginning to make sense again.  He’s here, drawing every strand of this Realm together, tying them up neatly and laying them at your feet.  Your thoughts had been such a dense and incomprehensible knot that the relief of one thread finally pulling free unwinds you completely.  You slump against him and take a slow, shuddering breath.  Keats strokes your hair as you fight off the stinging tears that have begun to well in your eyes- though you’re not even certain why. 

“I was only gone for– well, it may have felt like ages for you.  Goddamned Netherworld.  You’re pale, and– what are you doing in here?  What happened?” he asks, making some effort to soften his voice despite the urgency of the question. 

“I-” your throat hurts when you try to speak, and you take one more breath, “I’m not sure.  Nothing really… happened…  But it- it was awful.”

He eases his hold on you just enough to look down into your eyes.  The blatant concern on his face is so unfamiliar, so foreign to his features that it nearly shakes you from the remaining fog of your time alone in the Netherworld. 

“Can you describe it for me?” Despite the straightforward question, he speaks gently.  His body is warm and solid around you, and at last, you feel like you can breathe.  You nod, slowly swallow, and say,

“Everything was just wrong,” your voice cracks at the word, but you go on, “It was all empty and still and… dead.  Like I was suffocating, but… mentally.  Or spiritually, or,” you let out a weak laugh, thinking how ridiculous you must sound, “Something like that.  I know it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

Keats holds you close once more, this time, letting his head fall onto your shoulder as his long limbs surround you.  You’re still shaken, still climbing up from the spiral you’ve been tumbling down through since he left.  And yet somehow, you feel that Keats needs something from you, too.  But you’ve never seen him like this before, and you’ve no clue what you could do for him.  Has anyone ever seen him like this before?  Would he even allow it?  For now, you do all you can, and wrap your arms around his waist, fists clenching onto his clothes.  

“This only happened because I didn’t have a choice…” his words sound bitter, hissed out through clenched teeth, “A living human, without a cloak and without me here to protect you- of course you wouldn’t be able to handle it.  We're lucky no folk could reach you here- but a human psyche still isn't meant to… Damnit…” his hand reaches around your back to remove his glasses, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck.  No more than a whisper, you only barely hear him repeat, “I didn’t have a choice.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, muffled against his body, “I’m okay, I promise.” 

Keats lets out a dry laugh.

“Why in the world are you trying to comfort me, you silly thing?”  He lifts his head, and you feel his lips pressed to your hair in a not-quite kiss, but he remains quiet for a long moment.  Perhaps you’re imagining it, but you think you feel his heartbeat gradually slowing from a frantic pace as he holds you against him, his grasp only tightening as your nerves and muscles each pull back from the edge of panic, at long last.  

You sit together like this for some time– how long, you’re not quite sure, but when Keats finally speaks, he’s regained his usual detached, conversational air.

“Come on then, I’ll take you back to your place.  You’ll feel better in reality.”

The rest of the week leaves you to your work, for the most part.  This month's issue is now only awaiting its cover, along with one final dissection at your editor’s skillful hands before printing, which frees you to make the most of your time away from your desk.  You're surprised at how easy it had been to convince Keats that this was, at last, the time for your visit to the Faery Realm.  In his words, it would be best for you to “acclimate” somewhat to the Realms- or at least, to the less psychologically taxing ones.  Whatever that meant, you had agreed whole-heartedly.  Now, your memento rests safely in your pocket as always, and you feel as prepared as you possibly could.

The night in Doolin is uncharacteristically clear and smattered with distant stars.  You walk alongside Ellen, watching Keats several paces ahead as the light of the streetlamps passes over his sloped shoulders and carelessly tussled hair.  When you’d met him at the Bridge House that night to convene for your long-awaited Netherworld adventure, Ellen had insisted on coming along for a bit, mumbling something about wanting fresh air.  Though you now walk in total silence, there’s an undeniable tension surrounding her, and you've begun to suspect that Keats has intentionally distanced himself from the two of you.

It’s not until you’ve passed the barkeep’s house and are headed up the dirt trail toward the lighthouse that she speaks up,

“I… I’m so sorry about what happened the other day.”

You glance toward her at your side, prompting her with the curious look, and she grips her hand at her chest as she says,

“Keats told me you were trapped in his Realm while he had to come help me.  I don’t think he was going to tell me at first, but he was obviously sulking about something, so I admit I pestered him a little, and…” she sighs, her eyes shining with earnest contrition, “It’s all my fault– I should have known one Beithir never travels alone, and before I knew it I was surrounded and-”

“Ellen, it’s really fine,” you say warmly, “I appreciate the concern, but honestly I’m just glad Keats got to you on time.  Not that I know anything about… Beithirs, or whatever, but it sounds, uh… bad.” 

It’s obvious that she wants to believe you, but her conflicted feelings are written across her face in a way Keats’ never are.  It’s remarkable how different they are– and a good thing, too, since your conversations with Ellen are often a welcome dose of normalcy.  Speaking more softly, she says,

“It’s just that… I’m so very happy for him- for you both.  I don’t want to cause any trouble for you two.”

Your heart stirs a little, and you wonder if Keats even realizes how many people care deeply for him, despite his own constant attempts at nonchalance.  You gently nudge Ellen’s arm with yours, smiling when she looks your way.

“Hey, it’s fine, seriously.  Everything turned out alright, and now I know more about how this all works.  I understand your circumstances aren’t exactly normal,” you speak up a little to ensure that Keats will overhear you, “Besides, what kind of reporter would give up on a chase so easily?  I can be stubborn too.” 

This does get Ellen to laugh a bit as she says,

“You’re even starting to sound like him.”

It’s difficult to say from your angle several paces back from Keats, but by leaning a bit to the side, you think you see the faintest hint of a grin on his face.  

As you round the hill which props up the old ramshackle home of the former lighthouse keeper, the view at the end of the cliff stops you in your tracks.  An unearthly light brightens the area around you, blotting out the stars overhead and causing you to squint and rub your eyes back into focus.  At the nexus of this light is a pattern.  A pattern hovering in mid air and gently undulating, just at the edge of the cliff looking toward the lighthouse, and resembling something like if you tried to make an ink drawing out of an oil spill.  The floating strands come together to look vaguely like a set of outstretched wings, which seems appropriate given your destination– but what, exactly, is this object?  What is this bright and liquid-looking substance?  You take one tentative step closer, and Keats turns to face you, gesturing you on. 

“Here we are- the portal to the Faery Realm,” he says in answer to your unasked question. 

“Why haven’t I ever seen this here before?” 

“Humans need to be led to things like this, usually by the voices of the dead.  But I suppose half-alive is close enough,” he says with a smirk.  You shake your head, uttering a short laugh of disbelief.

“And you still claim to be a skeptic,” you say.  Keats waves off your comment.

“All of this will be fully and logically understood, with time.”

“You yourself are sort of a mythical creature,” you point out, and Ellen nods along as though she’s considered this very thing.  

“And there is logic in that, as well.  It’s dreadfully boring, to be frank,” he says, fussing with his glasses for a moment, the topic evidently of so little interest to him that he's already begun to fidget, “but there is a sort of ecology to the existence and usage of souls.  I'd considered an article about it once, but it's really all just souls moving from one place or state to the next- it'd be about as exciting as an article on rain cycles.  Ellen can tell you all about it some time, I’m sure.  Now,” he holds out a hand expectantly, “Are we going to the Faery Realm, or not?”

You take his hand, but take just a moment to glance back at Ellen.

“I’ll stay near the portal for a bit, just in case,” she says.

In case of what?

Before you can ask, Keats is pulling you forward by the hand, into the colorful gate and out of your own reality.

When next you open your eyes, the Faery Realm unveils itself before you in a riot of sensations.  You blink slowly in a daze as you look around, wondering if you've ever seen such hyper-saturated hues as the flowers at your feet, or if these are brand new colors that the Netherworld has somehow revealed to you.  Your gaze travels past the scattered blossoms around you, up through tangled underbrush and trees in wild blues and greens, up to a sky that mirrors the explosive pinks and oranges of the flowers below.  For the “Land of the Dead,” it seems teeming with life; leaves and branches rustle, petals float past your vision though you can't pinpoint any breeze to carry them, and here and there you even spot a tree trunk which seems to be occupied by someone, judging by its whimsical doors and windows.  Heart racing, you take a careful step forward, and then another, if anything to remind yourself that you are, in fact, physically present here.  The textures, the sweet scent of the air and even the feeling of it, electric along your skin– it's all brighter and more invigorating than anywhere you've been before.  Like all of your senses are simply experiencing more, all at once.  

Keats stands at your side, and when you look up at him, his bespectacled stare is resting on you.  

“What do you think?”  he asks as he begins to lead you down a shaded path through the dense tree cover.

“It's… wow,” you laugh, “It's a lot.”

“Riveting stuff,” he replies with a slanted smirk over his shoulder, “The Realm Of The Faeries: It's A Lot.  Copies will be flying off the shelves with headlines like that.”

You roll your eyes with a short, disgruntled laugh,

“Then you write the headlines, I'm kind of taking this all in, okay?  Besides, there's no way I'm actually writing about any of this- not even the most crazed occult fanatic would believe me.”

You move ahead of Keats a bit, approaching the edges of the path and peering into the unfamiliar foliage, but taking care never to get too far from him.  A cluster of flower petals bob along past you, moving like bubbles through the air, but as you admire the charming but uncanny sight, a loud ‘snap’ sounds from within the treeline.  You jolt away from the direction of the sound, only able to catch a momentary glimpse of a swaying branch, but nothing of the creature that caused it.  In fact, the impenetrable darkness of the woods beyond the path seems almost supernatural, the totality of it unnerving now that you've noted it.  Keats is at your back, a hand low on your spine.  As he steadies you, he raises a hand over your head and plucks a flower from a long, bowing branch nearby.  It's white- stark, pure white, like the void outside of his office window.  Like the flash of light between reality and the Netherworld. 

Keats tucks the flower into your hair, resting above your ear, and the spark of unease in those thoughts dissipates. 

“Aren't you the one who pestered me all month to show you around? Don't get jumpy on me now,” he says, “I'm here.  Nothing's going to hurt you.” 

Your pulse skips, and when you reply, your teasing tone isn't quite as confident sounding as you’d hoped.

“Careful, Keats.  You're starting to sound like ‘one of those romantics’ you dislike so much.”

“Tch.  This place is already getting to your head,” he says with a scoff, though his callous remarks have long since lost all of their intended bite.  He takes your hand, leading you further along into what now feels like an enclosed tunnel beneath the canopy of twisting trees and dully glowing plantlife. 

“Uhm, speaking of this place,” you begin with a slightly incredulous look at your surroundings, “You said these realms come from people’s thoughts about death, right?  So why is it…” you wave a hand, “like this?  This isn’t how I think most people would picture death at all.”

“You’re thinking too narrowly,” he says, slowing his long strides a bit and allowing you to observe the scenery as you walk, “It’s not just about death itself, it’s about what comes after.  This is a very ancient Realm, one formed out of a particularly persistent fantasy among humans- that of the afterlife as a place of eternal pleasure.  Not that I entirely see the appeal, personally,” he adds dryly.  You laugh, side-eyeing him while you use your free hand to make sure the flower in your hair is still secured.

“That makes sense.  I guess your idea of ‘eternal pleasure’ would be more practical, like unlimited time to write without interruption.”

“Among other things,” he says, his thumb caressing the side of your hand and causing your heart to leap upward in your chest, “I do get restless, you know.”

True enough, you know well by now that sitting still and writing indefinitely wouldn’t be enough to sate a man like Keats.  Leaving aside what other pleasures he may be alluding to, you say,

“Right, the second you sniffed out a lead, you’d-” 

You freeze, eyes caught on something in the interwoven branches above.  A glimpse of mismatched, circular yellow eyes.  They blink at you once, then vanish, something like a long striped tail following behind.  Keats notices too, though he seems far less alarmed.  His glasses flash in the haunting ambient light, and seeing it now, it suddenly reminds you of how unsettling you’d found him on your very first meeting.  There’s a glow around those lenses, or perhaps from his eyes themselves, that sends a shiver down your spine. 

“They’re keeping a close eye on us,” he says, and you think there’s a subtle hint of excitement hidden beneath his business-like tone.  

“Who are?”

“The locals.  Come on,” he holds your hand more firmly and picks up his pace, heading for a brightly lit clearing a little further down the path, “Let’s go meet our welcome party.” 

The instant you’re past the enclosed wooded path and into more open fields, something leaps towards you.  There are those same mischievous golden eyes, a rounded face, and a tail- or, an elongated hand?  You hardly have time to make sense of it; Keats reacts in a flash, like his body knows what to do by instinct alone.  A pale purple glow erupts around him, and he lunges a hand toward the creature.  But when he makes contact, it’s not with his own hand.  A projection, or an aura of some kind, emerges from him, forming a massive, beastly claw that crushes his foe more than actually scratching it.  It crumples lamely to the ground, and a similar projected image sprouts from its limp form, like a ghost of the creature hovering just above its body.  Your eyes strain wide, your heart pounding at a rapid, stuttering pace as you take in the scene.  

Keats isn’t facing you, he’s looking out into the open field before you, clearly expecting something more.  Your fists clench so tight that your nails begin to dig into your palms.  Then, as you watch, a wave of the little beasts begin to emerge from the overgrown grass and underbrush.  Several are of the same long-tailed species as the first, but now they’re joined by a cluster of rather fae-like, sneering little figures, red-faced and clothed in stitched together leaves.  They hold sharpened sticks aloft as they approach, and while you’re still frantically trying to make sense of what you’re seeing, Keats rolls his neck a bit, stretching out the muscles, and mutters,

“Caught the scent of a living human and thought you’d found a new playtoy, eh?” 

With a glance over his shoulder to ensure you’re safely behind him, he takes a step forward.  Then, his posture shifts.  He leans forward, stance wide, that shimmering aura around him flaring, and once the crowd of creatures is upon him with weapons raised, he moves.  It’s a flurry of ruthless blunt force.  Keats’ motions are direct, precise, and overwhelming.  In only a few broad swipes of those enormous claws, he carves through the crowd before him with ease.  Whatever he’s using to fight with- these manifested images of a body separate from his own, but entirely at his command -while they may look insubstantial, they flatten his foes on impact.  He finishes the stragglers with a blast of flame from a weapon projected from his side, spewing in an arch across your field of vision until all that’s left is a pile of bodies, and the apparitions hovering uselessly above them.  

You watch in awe as Keats straightens his back, and holds a hand up over the scene.  Light extends from it, reaching out in lightning-fast threads toward these ghostly projections.  Then, with a tug of his hand, each one is pulled toward him, seemingly absorbed into him all at once.  With the deed done, the corpses begin to evaporate, dissolving in pinks and oranges that remind you, in a nauseating way, of the flowers you'd admired before.

For a moment, there’s relative quiet, jarring in contrast to the chaos that preceded it.  You’re still catching your breath while Keats brushes off his coat.  Both he and Ellen had told you of the Folks before, but to see them in action, to be attacked on sight, is another matter entirely.  Yet even in your rattled state, you notice the far off trees across the clearing still rustling with activity.

“Keats, there’s still–”

Before you get the words out, the air is knocked from your lungs.  Something wraps around your torso, pulling you back several paces and tightening around you.  Your hands claw at the thing desperately.  It’s a thick tendril, mossy and pliant on the surface, but unyielding as an industrial steel cable underneath.  You try to get a good look at the creature pulling you back, squeezing painfully around your midsection, but all you see is a sickly green body on four legs.  Then, the tendril tightens, and your vision blurs.  

“Keats!” you gasp out his name with the last breath that’s forced out of you.  Dizziness is already setting in when you see him move in the corner of your eyes.  

There’s that glow again, and the silver in his hair.  You’ve seen it once before. 

When he descends upon the creature that has you in its grasp, he tears into it with his own hands.  Gone is any thought for tactics or careful positioning- you no longer even see the weapons and limbs he was able to attack with just a moment before.  Now, he grabs hold of the appendage wrapped around your middle and rips it from his foe’s body.  You fall to your knees, scrambling to remove the now lifeless tendril from you.  In a blur of otherworldly light and flashing silver, Keats seizes the creature by its throat and yanks it away from you, lifting it into the air before slamming it to the ground and pinning it in place with minimal effort.  Its limbs flail and twitch for a moment, its tiger-like body fighting against his hold with the last of its strength before going still.  It’s only then that you get a clear look at the scene. 

Keats has changed, somehow.  His frame looks easily twice his usual mass, taller and far bulkier, bulging muscle flexed and taught as he holds the beast down with a single hand.  Though his coat remains, it seems torn and ancient now, as do the bandages wound up his thick forearms and the medallion resting on his bare chest.  His hair shimmers silvery white, while his body has taken on an almost ethereal metallic grey quality, save for the deep purple tattoos spun across the left side of his face and down his neck in arcane, winding patterns.  His eyes are alight with that haunting glow you’ve glimpsed before, wild and merciless as he glares down at the thing that had dared to attack you.  

It’s primal.  Powerful.  Terrifying and transfixing, and you can’t take your eyes off of him.  There’s no longer any trace of his haughty, scholarly affectation; his glasses, tie, even his vest and shirt all discarded.  This is Keats too, you know it intuitively.  It's the indomitable part of him that cuts through and pushes forward.

“Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother with all of this.  You lot are hardly worth the trouble,” he says, his voice growling out of him and echoing through you, “But it looks like I need to send a very clear message.” 

The feline monster in his clutches dissolves beneath him, vanishing like the others as Keats stands and squares his shoulders.  Steps heavy with authority, he crosses the clearing until he reaches a rustling flowered bush on the other side.  In one swift motion, he grabs onto one of the stick-wielding imps hiding among the leaves, and holds it aloft by its tiny neck.  His hand encompasses most of the creature’s torso as well, leaving its pointy-shoed feet dangling uselessly below. 

“It’s your lucky day,” Keats says to it, “I’ve got an exclusive scoop for you and the rest of your friends here, and you’re all going to start spreading the word for me.  Now I know none of you are particularly bright, and I dislike repeating myself, so I’m going to make this as clear as I possibly can.” 

Still holding the pathetic thing in his hand, Keats returns to where you remain, kneeling in the grass with your face pale and hands slightly trembling.  He forces it to look in your direction, his iron grasp so tight that the creature’s desperate thrashing doesn’t budge his arm an inch. 

“This human is mine,” he says, his voice a low, declarative sound that resonates through your chest, and embarrassingly, between your thighs, “Any Folk or Faery that dares to harm the human under my direct protection will suffer the consequences.  And I don’t think I even have to mention what will happen if the Messenger finds out.  Understood?”

Using Ellen as a threat seems hilariously off-base to you, but in this case, it seems effective enough.

Keats doesn’t wait for a response.  He tosses the little imp to the ground behind him, not even glancing back as it tumbles through the grass with a slight bounce.  It springs up to its feet and quickly scurries off with its fellows, and Keats kneels down with you.  He takes your hand in his, places it gently on his cheek over the intricate patterns on his skin.  Pale lashes flutter over his eerily glowing eyes as he says,

“Still me in here.” 

“I know,” you say, barely audible but certain, “I’m not afraid.” 

It’s true, mostly.  You’re more startled than frightened, and even that shock is starting to fade as you examine his face and see more and more recognizable features.  In fact, the more unexpected thing that you’re feeling at the moment is something you definitely can’t voice to him right now.  Desire.  Hot, potent arousal at the sight of him like this, muscle bound and overflowing with power. 

Your face feels warm.  Keats frowns a bit, and you hear him give a faint hum. 

“Well then, I think that’s enough of all this showmanship.”

His face screws up with concentration and a bit of strain, and his entire form radiates a hazy, purple glow as he returns to his normal appearance with a sigh of relief.  The process is faster than you’d expect, for the enormous difference in musculature; instead, it appears more like a moment of release, of focus coming undone.  After a pause to take a breath and return his glasses to their rightful place, he guides you up to your feet with him.  

Having had the chance to look him over more closely, you’re more certain than ever that this empowered form is what you saw that night in his bed.  Or rather, nearly saw, as he had somehow held the change at bay back then. Keats seems ready to continue your stroll through the Faery Realm undeterred, but you grab onto the sleeve of his coat and lightly tug him back toward you.

“What was that?” you say, “That transformation thing you just did.” 

“I’m told it’s called Transcension.”

You frown.  That certainly doesn’t clear anything up.  While he looks amused by your confusion, he does, for once, elaborate without prompting. 

“Part of the whole Guardian package deal- well, that and a bit of a latent talent on my end.  Supposedly, it’s an awakening of some kind.  As you saw, it comes in handy in a pinch, or times like just now, when I have a point to make and don’t want to waste my time.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing by calling me ‘your human?’” you give him a look of playful faux-innocence, and Keats immediately turns away with a huff.

“Don’t be obtuse,” he grumbles, “You saw how those Folk operate.  It’s a ridiculous sentiment, but if I’m going to keep you from being incessantly harassed by the little buggers, it’s best to make it clear outright that it’s not worth the risk for them.  I was just using the language they would understand to save myself more of a hassle later.”

His sour tone utterly fails to distract you from the slightest flush creeping across his face.  Residual adrenaline and the thrill of new revelations have your pulse fluttering, your nerves all on-edge and seeking some kind of resolution.  You pull on the further lapel of his coat until he’s facing you.  Standing on your toes, you angle up toward him until he leans down in response, allowing you to kiss him firmly.  No matter how many times you taste them, his lips feel incredible on yours.  When he presses into you in return, even this small confirmation of his own desire sends a thrill up your spine.  Seeing everything you’ve seen today, and realizing that you still feel entirely safe by his side, you’re almost tempted to find some private alcove with him here and see what this “eternal pleasure” of the Faery Realm has to offer.  For now, as you part from him, you murmur,

“Maybe I don’t mind being ‘your human,’” your eyes flicker up to his, “Would that make you my Halflive?”

Something in his expression changes, almost imperceptibly.  His mouth tightens into a thin line, and his sunken eyes dart from the flower he’d placed in your hair, back to your face.  He looks conflicted, like he’s feeling something he can’t name, and now you don’t know how to feel either.  He turns away abruptly with an exhale.

“That’s not how this works,” he says, already trudging forward, “Keep moving.  You’re the one who wanted a guided tour.” 

Annoyance spikes up your chest and sharply into your throat, and you jog a couple of steps to catch up with him.

“You’re deflecting again.”

He doesn’t reply.  You wait, keeping pace at his side.  He’s silent. 

“Fine, I have other questions for you,” you say.

“I don’t recall agreeing to an interview.” 

That’s never stopped him- not with the people of Doolin, and not with his fellow Halflives.  And so, you decide to mimic his impertinence, and forge ahead.

“How does the Transcension work?  Is it intentional?  How do you initiate it?”

Keats is quiet just long enough for you to think he actually might not answer.  Then, eyes straight ahead on the next trail forward, he says,

“It’s like an overflow, of sorts.  A steady build up of intent which culminates in a sudden burst.  I have more or less total control over it, but it’s easier to do when I’m feeling particularly… motivated, you could say.  When I have ample reason to hold nothing back.”

When he puts it like that, it’s no wonder he nearly transformed at the cusp of a sexual climax.  You feel the heat rising to your cheeks once more, but now is certainly not the time for such distractions.  And, you remind yourself, you're frustrated with him, and you won't let that frustration get derailed by your attraction to him.

“What does it feel like?”

“Exactly as pleasant as you’d expect warping your physical body would be,” he says, and you’re almost relieved to hear his lighter sarcasm returning, “I’ve acclimated to it a bit, though.  Now, it more or less just requires focus, and purpose.  Then, well, you saw the benefits– I hit harder, faster, and in the meantime, it seems the Folks’ attacks simply don’t harm me at all.”

You nod silently, giving yourself a moment to mull over everything you’ve seen and learned.  In retrospect, you’re quite grateful you’d had time to hear all of Ellen’s accounts of her time in the Netherworld, as you can’t imagine how overwhelmed you would be in this new world facing new creatures if you hadn’t been at least a little prepared.  Even so, the memory of that iron-strong tentacle squeezing the oxygen from you makes you shudder.  Yet with a laundry list of further questions sprawling out before you, one keeps returning to the forefront of your mind.  This blunt tactic seems to be working well for you today, so you say,

“So, why did it nearly happen while you were fucking me?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Take a guess.”

Based on what he’s told you, it must have been that sense of motivation and intent that he described.  In other words, he was wholly and completely dedicated to fucking you as relentlessly as he could, and his body followed his mind to the furthest conclusion of that desire.

“Then… why did you stop it?” you ask, heart pounding as the words leave you.  So much for not letting your desires guide your priorities.  Maybe this place really is getting to you.  

Keats halts in place, and you follow suit.  There’s a lush flower meadow further up the path, and while the near blinding yellows, pinks and purples reflect hazily from his glasses, you don’t need to see his eyes directly to feel them running down your body.  His voice lowers, and he says,

“You saw what I’m capable of while Transcended.”

“I did,” you reply softly.  He rests a knuckle beneath your chin, guiding your face up towards him.

“And you want that?” he sounds incredulous, as though he’s not certain you’re in your right mind, “Do you even realize what you’re asking for?”

“You can’t blame me for being curious,” you say, voice light and breathy, “Aren’t you?  Don’t you wonder what it would be like?”

His thumb brushes across your lower lip.  His eyes fall half-lidded, and you watch the thought pass through his mind so he can examine it piece by piece.  Voice low and ponderous, he mutters,

“Curious, eh..?”

It’s a leading question, of course, and one you already know the answer to.  He may never have considered it before, but with the idea in front of him, Keats is absolutely curious.  Keats is always curious, and you see it flashing in his eyes more brightly than the power of the Netherworld itself. 

[glowingbadger]

Everyone. I've done it.

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. 

[glowingbadger]

To celebrate the season, and just because I wanna try to keep up with this stuff- here's my latest list of recent writings! Here's your chance to check out anything you may be interested in and have missed :)

Honkai Star Rail Welt Yang longfic, chapter 3

Folklore Keats longfic, chapter 1 Keats longfic, chapter 2 Keats longfic, chapter 3

Fire Emblem Three Houses Yuri in the cathedral Seteth, Dedue - aftercare headcanons

Fire Emblem 9/10 Laguz threesome headcanons

[glowingbadger]

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.

“I’ll get the tea, you read.”

He holds his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright.  My, someone’s feeling motivated.”

“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.