Raven Chapter 1 Chocolate Cake and War Crimes 10
Raven
Watching Anik eat chocolate cake is a special kind of torture.
If I had a corporeal mouth, it would be watering.
I’ve never tasted anything, but his happy grunts have cemented chocolate as priority one for when I get a body.
Right after orgasms. And the undying devotion of the men I’ve been… let’s call it ‘curating.’
Two of those are on my list because, based on sound alone, they’re some of the best things existence has to offer. The third? I'm going off visual evidence, and let me tell you—the evidence is overwhelming.
I park my ghostly ass on the kitchen counter—a perfect, effortless perch. I've been at this for... what? Forty years? Give or take a decade. Time moves differently when you're not exactly alive. The first chunk is just static—flickering in and out, barely aware I existed.
Then I solidified—like custard. One day I was thin, watery nothingness, and the next? Thick. Rich. Creamy. Or, at least I hope I’m all that and not just a curdled mess. Either way, at least I’m here. Still dead, still invisible, but aware. Present.
Took me about ten years to make "not falling through solid objects" feel like breathing instead of a full-time job. Another decade after that to master sitting—actually sitting, like a person, not just hovering near furniture and pretending it counted.
And then? Nothing.
For almost twenty years, nothing. I could sit. I could watch. I could exist in a space without phasing through it accidentally. But I couldn't do anything more. No new tricks. No progress. Just... floating and waiting and slowly losing my mind.
Then I found five reasons to try again, knowing it would be crucial for my inevitable future as a wholly realized, flesh and blood woman.
Manifestation's an art. Might as well get good at it. One day I will be flesh and blood, and when that happens? No entry-level existence for this bad bitch. I've got experience . Five years of watching, learning, cataloging. That's gotta count for something.
Not that it helps with the loneliness. That part's a constant. My entire existence takes place in a cosmic lobby. Not alive enough to participate, not dead enough to move on.
Sure, I have three super awesome besties who can see me—two ravens and one very large squid. I can talk, vent, rage, cry, or just sit in their vicinity, but none of them can actually talk back. After a while, the one-sided existence takes its toll.
Five-ish years ago, it got so heavy I just… let go. Stopped trying. Started fading back into the static.
The only thing that pulled me back? Watching them.
These five idiots who have no idea they're the reason I'm still here.
Yeah, the view helped. But it was mostly them—how they moved as a unit, how they laughed, how they clearly gave a shit about each other—that hooked me.
After decades of watching humans fumble their one precious life out of fear or laziness, watching them was a relief. An antidote, really.
And somewhere along the way, they rewired me. All those years of yelling into the void, of frustration and longing distilled into something simpler. My existence, my rules. Want something? Take it. Enjoy it. No apologies. No guilt. This lobby is empty . It’s not like I’ll get written up.
I’m using this time to learn. Building my post-corporeal bucket list from meticulous mental notes. I tried the classic ghost move, possession, for a solid year. No dice. Apparently, I’m not that kind of ghost. The only thing I’ve ever possessed was a rage strong enough to kick a pot into pieces.
Turns out, intense emotion is my poltergeist mode. The problem? I can't manufacture the rage on command. It has to hit me like a lightning strike—unpredictable, uncontrollable, and gone before I can learn anything from it.
But it also happens to be the most important development to date. I'm not just viewing anymore. I can, for beautiful fleeting moments, reach through and interact. It gave me a new outlook on life. Or death, I guess.
So, I have a list. A post-corporeal to-do list, painstakingly researched via forty years of the world’s weirdest, most frustrating documentary.
Item One: Orgasms. Obviously. If people are willing to meet literal strangers—arranged via tiny magic rectangles, no less—for a shot at one, they’ve gotta be soul-selling good. The experience must be transcendent. Non-negotiable.
Item Two: Chocolate. Specifically, the kind that makes humans moan. Women in particular go absolutely feral for it. And since I’ve got the ghostly equivalent of a pair of see-through boobs, I’m clearly a woman. Therefore, I’m entitled to chocolate by divine feminine law. It’s science, really.
Item Three: The Undying Devotion of My Curated Men. I want in. I want the unit, the loyalty, the warmth.
Everything else is just bonus material after that. World domination's an honorary mention, but let's be real—mastering my own body first seems like a more achievable milestone.
And I'm not about to settle. Forty years of raging at beings in every walk of life as they talk themselves out of happiness—out of themselves—taught me that much.
They borrow rules that don't fit, chase things they don't want, stay small because it's safe.
Not me. I've got my list. I've got my men. The rest is just details.
The scrape of Anik's fork against the plate yanks me back. He licks the last bit of chocolate from the fork, and my mind goes to filthy places. I've seen what people can do with their tongues—the evidence is in those moans.
A fresh wave of gratitude hits me that none of my guys bring their dates home. I'd probably figure out how to manifest a knife out of sheer, possessive rage.
Actually... wait.
Maybe they should.
If rage is what gets me through to their side then watching some random woman put her hands on what's mine? That would definitely do it. With enough of that rage I could probably stab a bitch straight into corporeality.
I file that away. A backup plan. A desperate backup plan, but still. Options are options.
Does this mean their gentlemanly discretion—the thing that's preserved my sanity since the day they wandered into my existence—might also be the very thing keeping me stuck in this in-between space? Every date they don't bring home is a chance I don't get to be furious enough to break through.
Of course. The gods are scheming against me personally, so naturally they'd make sure the one thing that could save me is the one thing my guys refuse to do.
I don't know why they don't bring people home—could be any reason. But if I had to guess? Emerson would definitely stab any stranger dumb enough to intrude on his living space. The rest are probably just smart enough not to test that theory.
Bad Raven, stop daydreaming about violence.
My gaze drags over the expanse of Anik's shoulders, down the line of his back, and just like that, the violent daydreams evaporate.
Replaced by much, much filthier ones. The front door opens.
His ocean-blue eyes flick toward the sound.
He rises, runs a hand through his short-cropped black hair, and carries his plate to the dishwasher, all rolling muscle and effortless grace.
"Meeting!" Forrest calls from just inside the door once his shoes are off. He toes them onto the long bench against the wall—the one with a hook and a basket for each of them, though only Anik's basket actually contains keys instead of random garbage—and hangs his jacket on its designated hook.
I watch as the gargoyle makes his way to the living room, walking in his typical I-have-a-stick-up-my-butt manner. It’s an incredibly attractive butt, don’t get me wrong, but the man could definitely loosen up.
Once he settles into his usual chair, I hop off the counter and float over, letting myself settle onto the forgotten stool shoved into the corner.
The solid wood doesn’t so much as pass through the hair I imagine is on my ass.
Sometimes I forget how far I’ve come. A stool like this was, once upon a time, an impossible dream—I’d have phased right through it.
Now, I can just… sit. It's a little thing. But also? A huge thing.
It’s all the little things. Learning to sit without falling.
Staying inside a moving car. And the big one: breaking that pot.
Learning that a surge of pure feeling could reach across the emptiness and shatter something…
it changed everything. It made “possible” feel real. It gave the dream a foundation.
Of course, I can’t just open a book or boot up a computer to figure out how.
I’m stuck with observation and sheer stubborn will.
So, I work with what I’ve got. At the end of the day, that’s this weird, lonely existence—and a front-row seat to the lives of the most fascinating men I’ve ever seen. Might as well make the most of it.
As the guys settle, my eyes land on Forrest. His chocolate-brown hair falls in loose curls, styled back from his face. He lays his head on the back of the chair, his light green eyes closing as he breathes deeply.
I study the angles of his face, hoping I'm even half as attractive when I finally become corporeal. It belongs in magazines—cut from stone instead of birthed, with that perfectly sculpted jaw and those high cheekbones… or else I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of completing my to-do list.
Once everyone is present, I look them over, gauging the meeting's seriousness.
Anik is on his phone, probably rearranging his schedule for this impromptu summons.
Emerson twirls a pen around his fingers—a sure sign he was either yanked from his tinkering or is teetering on the edge of a breakthrough.
Kieran has a fresh smudge of paint on his cheek, his fingers tapping a silent melody on an invisible keyboard, while Dre sits next to him, the picture of patient calm, waiting.