#a stone fireplace and white walls high rise

[miarren-chill-klaine]

Loft-Style in Chicago

[scuddisher]

DRUMMING ALONG THE STONE WALLS.

An idea and a placement of a hand lead to an even longer night for you and Aegon.

RATING — MATURE & EXPLICIT (18+)

PAIRING — prince! aegon x staff! gender-neutral reader

GENRE(S) — drabble, smut

WORD COUNT — 1k

WARNINGS — mature content, takes place right before aegon is king, short-lived cuddling, & mutual-pining.

SMUT WARNINGS — sexual content, soft dom! aegon, spanking, very mild dirty talk, dry-humping, pet names used: darling & sweet thing.

RELEASE DATE — OCT 22ND 2024

AUTHOR’S NOTE — 100% commending @werejustlefttodecay for a) this concept b) aegon brainrot & c) manifesting the fixing of this blog so i can read & write again... kate ily sm

Something you found all too easy was riling up Aegon. Even in the midst of the night, his entire chamber grew cold from the winter air. Aside from the dimly lit fireplace and his bed—where his restless form laid still beside you.

Your head had found his arm, soft breaths on his skin causing chills throughout his body and visibly on his skin.

Although you simply pressed into his mattress weekly to drain him to sleep or distract him from the duties of his soon-to-be claim to the throne, the man couldn't enjoy your warmth any more than he does now.

A soft peck to his arm, and you could see his cheek bones rise with a grin. “Don't get me started again.”

His voice was a tease, tired enough to doze off any second but alert to your motions. It was easy to make him shiver, no matter the time.

You could stare at him too long as he stood before the council and people until a smirk was on his lips. Make him look down and blush at a distance from showing skin even as he trained with his sword. Felt the looks of his brother Aemond and heard his scoffs as Aegon seemed to drift off in thought at the diner table as you stood mere inches from the table and awaited service for the royal family.

But now, skin on skin. That was easy, simplified.

You rose from your resting position to place your chin on his chest, watching his eyes move from the orange, crackling fire to your gaze.

“Hmm?” An innocent response.

“Hmm?” He mocked back, eyes turning darker as his pupils dilated to better see you in the darkness of the room.

“Get you started?” You teased, pressing a kiss to his jawline. “How could I?”

Your lips were soft, leaving small patterns of wetness and warmth as you trailed down his neck. The rumbling in his chest was a vibration of want going through his body until you felt him wiggle beneath the sheets to relieve the touch of you at his lower half where only your leg touched him. His jawline became clearer as he gritted his teeth, the late of the night and soon to be early morning causing his eye sockets to darken from hardly any rest.

It only egged you on more. His tired form practically begging for you to put him to sleep. Easy. It took seconds for you to move above him, to ground yourself above his hardening length and find a comfortable rocking that had him grunting and raising his head. “How would I?”

“You always manage.” His voice was deep and groggy, hands instinctively placing themselves on your waist.

“To rile you up, my prince?” The man seemed like putty below you.

But that was all it took for him to rock up into you while simultaneously flattening his palm in the air and landing a smack to your ass. Your legs seem to widen over him as you straddled his waist, pressing into him with just as much friction as he did. You could feel the sting on your skin below your underwear, the smack hard enough to have your body shaking.

Aegon saw your reaction the second his hand made contact with your skin, the slap echoing in his chamber along the stone walls like a high-pitched drum beat. His smile was from ear to ear, watching your eyes flutter with surprise.

“Huh?” His head fell back into the pillow, white locks strayed about on the satin fabric. “That’ do something to rile you up, dear?”

You were practically speechless, the sensation still sending vibrations up your spine and into your crotch. The man beneath you was too impatient and aware now to be silent, his smart tongue like the ocean water in his mouth at the sight of your silent blush.

“Poor thing…” Aegon, not one for pet names unless they were said in lust or to belittle someone, was enjoying his late treat. “I have to be up so early.”

You could feel the waft of air before the second smack to your ass, lighter than the first but just enough force to make you grind into his cock through the thin fabrics of your underwear. Your wince didn't go unnoticed, nor did his soft moan into the dark air.

“And here you are… keeping your prince wide awake with your sinfulness.”

His lips quivered before his bottom lip was bitten by his front teeth, thin skin turning red from his force. You could see the sweat drip between his breasts down to his abs. The scent of arousal in the room thickened, and before you knew it, a slick spot was staining from your underwear into his.

“A-Aegon.” His name spewed from your lips like a swear word.

Brows furrowing, the next spank at your ass was hard enough to make you whine and hiss. “Ah!”

He had left a handprint, one perfectly felt by his hand as the heat transferred to his palm and made the lines of his hand begin to sweat. Holding the mark on your ass, you ground yourself into him, feeling him twitch and thrust up against you for more friction.

Aegon’s teeth gritted once more, his body lifting until he sat upright and his face was almost against yours.

“Prince.” Stern, wanting, his opposite hand gripped into your hip until that too seemed to bruise.

He was fighting for release, anything he could grasp at was suddenly on the table—but his clutch at your figure and unpredictable grinding up into you had you whining. As you felt his cock twitching again, felt the rush of his seed threading through the fabric of his underwear and adding to your own, the last rise of his hand made you shutter his name. “Prince Aegon!”

Except this time, it was both of his hands on the cheeks of your ass. The pressure had your thighs holding to him, pressing into him as you came and shook in his hold. His press at your ass had you falling into his frame, face finding placement at his shoulder to breathe him in.

“That's more like it, sweet thing.” He chuckled. “Maybe you'll get it right on the first try next time.”

© scuddisher — all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission. do not post my content on other sites, especially claiming them as your own! reblogs and feedback are seriously appreciated <3

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: This is my first time ever writing fanfic. I have been reading fanfic on this godforsaken app since I was 12, and have been encouraged blindly by my best friend to post this. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2: Steam

The walk back to your chambers was a quick journey. The hair on your arms stood up, as the ever present feeling of being watched surrounded you. The soft sound of your footfall echoed in the mostly empty wing of the Red Keep where your chambers resided.

The art on the walls of the Keep had been changed to Queen Alicent’s tastes. Bland colours and entirely not Targaryen, replaced the once brightly decorated halls and walls of your old home. You followed the torches until you reached the heavy oak of your doors, having them opened by a Knight of the Kings Guard; his white cloak standing stark against the dark corners of the corridor. 

As he pushed open your door you asked him to summon your maids. 

“Could you please fetch Aella and Saria for me? Have them prepare some water for a bath.” 

He bowed his head, “Yes, my Lady”, pulling your doors shut.

Your chambers were the same as the ones you had as a child, most of the furnishing and decor had not changed, though some things had. The room, however you could tell, had been unused since your departure many years before.

The windows looked out towards the sea, the moon softly reflecting on the water, flickering with the waves. A shadow could be seen above, a great beast flapping its wings to push itself and its rider higher into the sky. Its looming shadow slipped between the clouds rolling in, and you prayed a storm would blow in from the sea and knock Aemond off of Vhagar and into the ocean below him. 

Vhagar was the largest dragon in the world, fitting for your uncle as he had the largest ego in the world. You often joked to your brothers that he was most likely compensating for his manhood. Unlike his brother, you had not heard of his conquests with any women, or men. He was entirely elusive, a man with little or nothing to say, that many knew naught about except for his anger. 

Lost in your thoughts, Aella and Saria knocked on your chambers and you bid them to enter. Aella was young, no older than two-and-twenty. She had bright curly red hair that was always tightly pulled away from her face in braids that formed a low bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a deep brown and she had a dusting of freckles upon her nose and cheeks.

Saria was the opposite. A few years older than you, her hair was as black as night, and silky smooth, worn in a similar style to Aella, but with flowing bangs that framed her face. Her eyes were a bright blue and her skin was a deep olive.

Aella and Saria came with you from Dragonstone and had served you for many years. Both were kind and trustworthy, and you would sometimes dare to call them your friends. 

The girls carried two large metal buckets each; steam rising high out of them. The two maids walked across the stone floors and placed them against the far wall. More maids walked in, carrying more steaming buckets of water and a large metal tub, placing it next to the burning fireplace, and began to fill it.

“Will you be joining the King for dinner, My Lady?” Aella asked, lifting one of the buckets letting the water carefully fall in as to not splash upon her or the ground.

“I will,” You replied, “I have not seen my Grandsire the King for many years. I’ve missed him,” You paused and thought, “and Prince Aemond extended a very warm invitation for me to join.” You looked up to see Aella and Saria give you a knowing look.

They had both witnessed the one-eyed Prince torment you since your recent arrival, and have listened to your younger selves stories of his sudden random bullying before the loss of his eye. Such a sudden shift in him which had surprised you both. 

Some days it was as though he had forgotten that he hated you then, talking to you excitedly about something he had learnt in the library, before realising his mistake and scowling, stalking off away from you. 

You had never truly understood the shift, but it was only ever in the open, before the eyes of court that he did it. If you were tucked away in private, he would speak to you kindly as he always had. You had shrugged it off as a child, but as you had gotten older, you realised that perhaps Alicent had been the reason for it.

“I wish to look my best this evening. It has been a long time since I have been in the presence of my family, and I want to make sure they know of how I have grown.” 

Saria came behind you and began to unlace your dress, pulling it softly over your head. 

Your slip was loosened by a tie at the front and it dropped down, pooling at your feet. The large copper tub had steam rising over the top, the light from the fire reflecting off of its side created a beautiful light that danced upon the wall.

Lifting your foot you stepped over and into the water, letting the stress and anxiety of the day melt away as you sank deeper into the tub. Leaning up against the high lip of the back, Aella lifted your braids from your neck and over the top, slowly untangling your hair and brushing out the strands.

Saria walked across the room and over to a large wooden wardrobe, which sat beside the bed. Dancing dragons were carved into the doors, with the faint remnants of paint covering them, with soft gold leaf detailing lining the trim of the wardrobe.

It was one of the last things left in this room that was yours, making you think that perhaps Queen Alicent did have a heart after all. Opening the two doors, Saria reached in and began pulling out gowns to present to you. 

“What about this dress Princess?” She held a deep red gown with a high neck. The shoulders pointed upwards and held the sleeves of the gown together with gold chains. The long sleeves were inwardly lined with a golden silk and there were black embroidered Godswood branches reaching along the hem and bust of the gown.

“Beautiful but no, I am wanting black for this evening.” 

Aella continued to braid your hair back, whilst you rested in the tub. 

Saria went back to the wardrobe and brought forth another dress. This time it was a black, short sleeved one. Gold embroidered flames licked at the bottom of the gown, which split at the front up towards the fitted corset of the waist. A golden skirt peeked through the split, which shimmered like the fireplace.

The neckline was modest and although it was one of your favourites to wear back home in Dragonstone, you felt that the dress was more of a summer gown, and the coolness of the night that nipped at you made you think this dress would be too thin.

“I think I want something more mature. They haven't seen me since I was young, I am older now and wish to show it.” 

You closed your eyes sinking further into the water to think for a moment, Aella pouring oils into the bath to soak your skin.

“Are any of the new dresses from Dorne?” You inquired, opening one eye to look at Saria.

The dark haired girl paused in thought, then hurriedly walked back to the wardrobe. 

The next time she stood before you, she held a new gown you had not worn nor seen before. 

“This is new from Marba, the tailor in Dorne.”

It was a dark black, sweeping gown. Its neckline plunged sharply into a deep V, dark black leather wrapped tightly around the waist and was embroidered with black vines that looked like dragons tails. The sleeves were long and open, that hung off by the shoulders that were lined with drooping gold chains. The inner lining was a deep blood red.

It was unlike any gown you had seen before.

Slowly you stood, Aella holding out her hand for you to take to help you out of the tub. Steam slowly rising off of your body as she pressed a warm towel to dry you, softly pushing your undergarment over your head to wear. You walked towards Saria, who held out the dress for you to inspect.

Up close, the black embroidery shimmered like threads made of Onyx, and the leather was finely stitched together to pull the waist into a tighter shape. The chains on the sleeves were thin and wound together like long chainmail braids, so delicate it draped softly and weightlessly as to not misshape the gown.

The plunging neckline was like most dresses witnessed in Dorne, but not nearly as often in King's Landing.

“It is beautiful, thank you Saria.” You smiled, “Help dress me, I’m sure they are expecting me soon.” 

Saria held the gown and helped you into it, lifting it over your head and pulling it down. The inner lining was soft on your skin and the leathered waist was a new but not unwelcome weight against you. Slipping your arms through the sleeves you heard the soft jingling of the chain detailing, they looked similar to a warriors chainmail, and you thought for a second that you looked as if you were dressed to go to war. 

Though this thought was not entirely unsubstantiated. Queen Alicent, your two uncles and aunt all still to this day wore green, were referred to as the Greens and were still waging a silent war against your mother and you all.

You thought of how your uncle Aemond would react to seeing you in a dress like this, but that thought was short lived as Saria began to tighten your gown, pulling in your waist which then lifted your breasts. You giggled at the prospect of irritating the prudish Queen Alicent, as Aella began to fuss with the finishings of your hair. 

The dress fit you perfectly, and your hair was swept back in small intricate braids which were held together by golden charms, the rest of your hair sat softly down your back. 

“You look beautiful Princess,” Aella spoke breaking the silence, “they are sure to see how you have matured with your years away from the Keep.”

 She and Saria smiled softly and dabbed small drops of perfumed oils behind your ears and upon your wrists.

Ensuring that you were ready, Saria and Aella began to clean your chambers as you walked to your door, having the Knight open them for you.

Taking a deep breath you stepped out and began to walk behind the Knight. His white cape swayed behind him as you walked down the corridor to feast with your family again after many years apart. 

[qualitymarbleindiaofficial]

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[giorno-plays-piano]

Can I request a dark king Steve and inexperienced princess please? Thank you❤❤

First of all, I’m so sorry it took me so much time to finish this request. However, I’m very grateful to you for it because it made me remember my favorite mini-series Gormenghast 😌💖 Hope you’re going to enjoy this!

Boy in the castle

Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x princess!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, death of minor characters, forced marriage, allusion to non-con.

Words: 2430.

____________________

When coup d'etat had happened - for the first time in centuries - your old nanny almost had a heart attack, locking you two in your chamber high up in the tower and barricading the window. The bastard boy would kill you, she kept repeating over and over until your head hurt. He is wicked as the Devil himself, she said, holding a heavy fireplace poker in her old shaky hands as a weapon. He will stab you in the back as he did to your royal father or poison you like he poisoned the Queen. 

That time you thought it would be much easier to push you throw the window and make you fall from the tower instead. Why bother with a knife or a poison? But you didn’t voice over your thoughts to your old nanny, knowing well her old heart wasn’t strong enough for this conversation. Strangely, you felt nothing hearing of the death of your parents. From your books you knew people were ought to mourn their families, but sadness had never come to you, anyway. Could it be because you only saw the King and Queen several times a year since you had been three years old? Maybe so.

Nevertheless, your nanny kept talking and talking about the dangers waiting for you outside of your room: the new King would murder anyone who posed a threat to him, and he had most likely already killed your younger brother, a true heir to the throne. You shrugged your shoulders at her words in return - you saw the boy as much as you did your parents. Despite being both a princess and King’s and Queen’s firstborn, most of the time you were confined to your chamber up in the tower where the only one serving you was your old nanny, a woman who had been taking care of you since the time you were born. You only encountered other people on special occasions like your honored brother’s birthday or the first day of a new year when you were allowed to leave your chamber.

You couldn’t feel sorry for those the new King had killed - the one who had never felt compassion from others barely knew what it meant to care about another human being. Of course, you loved your nanny, that foolish old woman who still slapped your back hard if you didn’t sit straight in your chair while reading, but you had long found peace with the thought that one day she would die, too, leaving you all alone. You weren’t scared of that. You had always been alone, locked away and forgotten even by the faithful servants of the King.

Maybe that was why you weren’t worried about being killed by the bastard boy who came to power. Being backstabbed certainly wasn’t pleasant, but it was a quick death, maybe even an easy one: in some books you read people were skinned alive or burnt at the stake, and you imagined it to be much more painful.

Silly girl, your nanny had told you then, weakened by the lack of food - it was the second day of your imprisonment after coup d'etat. The new King could do so much worse things to you, the only woman belonging to the old royal dynasty.

At the end of the third day when you were delirious from lack of water, the guards had broken down the heavy wooden door of your chamber, and a shy little maid got in, carrying a large tray of food. The new King had probably picked the poison, you thought then when the girl poured water right into your mouth and it run on your dry, parched lips. moistening your skin and hair. She fed you some chicken soup while the guards forced the food down your nanny’s throat. Oddly, neither her no you died that day.

What could the bastard boy possibly want from you, your nanny asked over and over again, passing from one corner of your chamber to the other while you cleaned yourself in a metal basin filled with cold water. Wasn’t he supposed to kill you like all other members of the royal family? You thought so, too, but didn’t speak out loud to the old woman, knowing of her poor nerves.

When several man dressed as court attendants came to your chamber in a week, they announced your marriage to the new King, and a few maids assigned to you took your screaming and cursing old nanny away, assuring you no one would harm her. You, on the other hand, were brought to the castle, an army of maids following you to what they said was your new chamber, a large room with several windows and walls decorated with peculiar floral paintings. It was beautiful, but you felt you missed that small room high up in the tower with no one but your old foolish nanny by your side.

The new King was fearsome yet fair to the ones under his control, the maids told you, all eager to speak to you as you were left alone by the guards. He was a kitchen boy once, they said, a bastard son of some lady’s maid who left him right after giving birth, afraid to be punished by her mistress. Weak and ugly with his body like a twig, the boy was smart enough to rise in his ranks over years, becoming the servant of the court magician - you saw him once or twice on your brother’s birthday celebrations, you thought. Weaving his net around all right people of the royal court for years, in the end Steven Rogers overthrew the old King, the man who cared about no one but himself, and the Queen who was more worried about her cats rather than her people dying of hunger.

The new King was a good man, all of them told you once they bathed and clothed you, combed your wild hair and put some flower oil behind your ears and on your wrists. It was good he decided to marry you, the one forgotten even by your people.

Be nice to him, they warned you before escorting you to his chambers, be gentle and choose your words right when speaking to him, and then you’ll be safe and sound. The new King wasn’t a bad man, oh no, he just suffered so much inside the castle walls.

When you entered his chambers, the ones belonging to your father before, you saw so much light coming from open windows it made you hold you breath for a second. You had only been here once - on the day when your brother, the successor to the throne, was born - yet you still remembered how dark and gloomy was the room lit by dozens of candles smelling like pig fat. It was so odd to see the same room that looked so different now.

The man standing up from a heavy mahogany desk turned towards you, and you saw his handsome face: his eyes were of dark blue color like the twilight sky; his skin pale but cheeks a bit rosy as if he had just returned from outside; when you saw his full lips, you thought they were too sensual for a man, though not that you knew much about men, anyway. Truly, the new King looked like he belonged here - maybe even more than your father, old as ancient skies, with his back hunched and crooked. He wasn’t dressed in a heavy dark mantle of your father but in an embroidered and slashed doublet, ankle-length breeches fastened with points, a sword of your father hanging by the man’s side. Oh, he looked so much more like an Ancient King than your father ever did.

“People said you are ugly.” You said, watching his face with curiosity and tilting your head to the side - your old nanny hated this habit of yours. “But I don’t think it is true.”

“I have been ugly.”

He didn’t speak loudly, yet you heard his low voice perfectly clear in the silence of this huge chamber, his expression calm but eyes unsettling.

“But one day I have drunk the potion the court magician prepared for your father, Your Highness.”

Funny, you thought, coming a little closer - you struggled to walk in this heavy crimson dress with many layers, the neckline adorned with precious stones generously. It was probably one of your mother’s dresses she never wore.

Watching his dark blonde hair shining in the sunlight, suddenly you remembered something, something you had long forgotten, and you stopped, watching the blue eyes that now seemed familiar. A little boy with his body so feeble he could get swept away by the wind. No, no, he couldn’t be. It was impossible.

“You’re the boy who fell off the Moon.” You stared at him with your eyes wide, your lips slightly open as you saw the little guy whose name you didn’t remember - the one who had fell on your balcony when you lived in the castle for a couple of months while your chamber in the tower was being repaired.

He was a funny boy, skinny as a rail with his hands so white you thought he had always been cold. When he turned up on your balcony, you had been reading and almost screamed at the loud sound of him falling. Gladly, you didn’t make a sound - the guards were everywhere in the castle, and they’d surely take him.

You remembered the boy saying he was a moon knight, showing you how he handled the invisible sword he carried and, once you two sat in front of the fireplace, he told you many stories of all places he visited and things he saw. Gladly, he disappeared before your nanny showed up, carrying a tray of food in her shaky hands, but the boy came the next day, and then the day after that, and after that one, too. He kept coming for seven more days before the reparation of your chamber had been completed, and you moved back. Sadly, he couldn’t get to the Tower, saying the angle wasn’t right to jump off the Moon.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am the boy you let into your room years ago.”

A part of you refused to believe him - the new King is too big and handsome to be the little boy whose arms were so skinny you thought you could see his bones through the skin. Besides, for many years you kept thinking the Moon knight was just a dream you saw. But what if the new King told you the truth? What if it was him?

“I remember standing on one knee in front of you and pretending giving you an invisible ring as something to remember me by when I’d return to the Moon.” His face lightened up for a couple of seconds, and suddenly you saw the familiar twinkley eyes and that shy little smile when the new King curled his lips. “Isn’t it peculiar I have been thinking about those days with you when the Royal Chef whipped me till my back bled? When I was strangling him, all I thought was the day when I see you again, Your Highness.”

Uneasiness washed over you once you heard the man talking. Living alone in the tower, you knew very little of a life in the castle, but you knew murdering someone was wrong. 

“Why did he whip you?” You asked, furrowing your brows when the man in front of you chuckled. “You killed him for that, right?”

“I killed him because he was the most disgusting son for a bitch you’d ever met, dear princess.”

You winced at his harsh words: your old nanny had never even once sworn in your presence except the day when the new King killed your father, but, of course, the man in fancy clothes knew nothing of etiquette and good manners. 

“I’ve killed the court magician, too.” The new King continued, marching to you like one of the guards you saw once in a while, and you felt the urge to retreat to your room immediately. “I’ve killed much more people, your father and mother, too, and I don’t regret it even the slightest bit.”

You made a step back, looking at his face growing darker once he sensed your fear, and you were on the verge of running away the very next moment, thinking he was going to murder you, too.

“Are you scared now, princess? Do you know what I’ve done to get so far? Do you understand who owns the castle, your tower, even you, Your Highness?” With each question he was getting closer and closer until you showed him your back and sprinted towards the heavy doors beside you, clenching your dress and lifting it up to move faster. “Do you know what I’ll do to you, darling?”

You didn’t, and you had no desire to figure it out, finally reaching the door when the man beside you pushed your body into the wood with his, his hands on the door, preventing you from leaving.

“I’ve lied and cheated; I’ve drank the potion that broke every bone in my body and healed them back; I’ve killed your father and all those who stood in my way.” His words turned into a low, guttural growl as he pressed your body into the wood. “I’ve did everything to own this goddamn castle that made me feel so unhappy, so miserable and pathetic. I loathe this place. I loathe you. God, I loathe you so much.”

He was going to kill you. Dear Lord, you should have listened to your old nanny.

“You made my feel like I was someone. It was because of you I couldn’t stay just a kitchen boy. I wanted to have what you nobles had. I wanted to control all the ones who looked down on me.” He nuzzled into your hair, and you felt his firm touch on your shoulders. “God, I wanted to have you, but, unless I had the castle, I couldn’t get to you, princess. Do you know what I’ve done to get here? Do you have the slightest idea, darling?”

“Please, don’t.” You whispered quietly, afraid to raise your voice as you felt his angry breath on your skin.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, for I’m too far gone.” Moving your dress up in haste, the new King put his knee in between your legs, ignoring your whimper. “Whatever you have, I’ll take.”

___________________

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[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 6- Betrayer Moon

Summary: Temeria holds a beast that has been said to have slaughtered many. With the sweet sound of coins offered you’re ready for another wild hunt.

Warnings: lil smut we starting out with, gore and blood as per usual, fluff 

Masterlist

Outside the winds are cold and snowy as the night cascades its great darkness over the land of the Continent. But none of that holds any kind of significance as you lay in the warm bed of a village tavern, Geralt's muscular body pressing flush against your heated skin. You hold tightly onto the tousled bed sheets as he thrusts into you over and over again, nothing but the sweet sounds of his grunts and your pleasant moaning filling the darkly lit room but for a simple fire in the hearth.

He deliciously rocks you into the mattress as he gently kisses your sweaty temple, sending bolts of electricity coursing throughout your entire being as you await your building climax. With each new thrust of Geralt's manhood into your entrance, you try and hold back a scream but to no avail. He quickly silences you with a heated kiss, both of your tongues dancing in the dark with one another as he pushes your legs apart even more, his large body taking you all in.

He's a lot to handle but you can take it, no matter what he throws at you. Soon he's a moaning mess as he dumps his load into your clenching walls, hitting your own high just the same, you suddenly claw at his back as he pumps himself into you a couple more times before slowly leaning up to take a good look at your blissfully beautiful face. He gently pulls out of you, falling onto the bed at your side as the both of lay in silence, the only viable sounds coming from your heavy breaths and the crackling of the fireplace.

"So, I heard something interesting today." You begin, turning on your side to lean yourself into his chest as he stares at the ceiling, a satisfied smirk gracing his handsome features.

"Do tell." He quietly mumbles.

"I was conversing with some of the whores by the market today, asking about what interesting creatures have met their eyes and whatnot. When wouldn't you know it, another Witcher had come through this very village." He raises an eyebrow, curiosity catching his interest quick, "Said he fled Temeria with some miners coin when his ass was supposed to be killing their monster. I think foul play." You inquire, absentmindedly running your fingers over his battle scars, Geralt's intrigued by your words but is honestly enjoying himself too much to care about anything else at the moment.

Sighing in deep content he shifts his golden gaze onto you, "Tonight I will blissfully ignore my problems." He muses, closing his eyes as you continue to lightly trail your fingers against his skin, "Just uh...keeping doing that." A drunken smile gracing his sweaty face, as you break out into a grin while your eyes fully take in his glistening muscular form that's laying butt-ass naked right next to you. Oh, how did you get so lucky with a man like him?

The rest of the night is spent inside one another here and there, until you both fall asleep in an exhausted heap of tangled limbs and messy blankets. The next morning you two get dressed and head for Temeria, Geralt wisely leaving Roach with the stable boy until you both come back to retrieve her, whenever that may be.

The hike to Temeria went rather smoothly, no one to bother you and the cold of the winter weather doing nothing to freeze you, considering you're practically immune to feeling cold, another wondrous perk of being half vampire.

As you walk out of the shadowy woodland you look up to see a large abandoned castle stout upon the top of a rocky hill, thick forest surrounding it. Looking ahead you notice as the trail suddenly dives into the earth, lamps held up by steel poles guiding the way in, but before this you stop to read over a poster pinned to a wooden pole.

"Temeria, realm of monsters and cowardly kings." You turn to Geralt with an amused smirk upon your face, "Well it's nice to know they don't hold anything back." You laugh before turning to walk down the descending trail, Geralt smiling as he watches you go.

Your time in the mines was a quick one, the miners and the kings men on the verge of a tiny battle that was stopped by Geralt's calm inquisition. The high guard or whoever the fuck, lead you and your Witcher out of the mines and into the shadowy snow covered woods, you're guessing with interior motives but nonetheless you follow.

As you're walking next to Geralt, with the kingsmen on their steeds to either side of you; all of a sudden you catch the scent of another being lurking in the shadows. Another heartbeat thudding in the night, then not even ten seconds later do the guards fall from their horses, enchanted by some sleeping spell. Geralt quickly pulls out his silver sword as you bare your opened hands, emitting crackling purple lighting from your fingertips, this is sorcery at play and you know just how to fight it if need be.

"You can put down your sword...and calm your lightning. I'm not here to hurt you." Speaks a woman's calm voice, her shadowed silhouette walking into view.

"Says the witch hiding in the woods." Mutters Geralt defensively, sword still held out in front of him as you slowly lower your hands, dissipating away the lightning. You can tell this mage has come with no ill intent, even if you don't adherently feel very fond of such beings, you're wise enough to understand that not all are terrible.

"Sorceress." Corrects the curly haired woman.

"Witch." He growls darkly, you lightly touch him on the shoulder, silently asking him to calm is unneeded anger, he slowly brings his sword to his side.

"Triss Merigold. I serve King Foltest." She serenely replies. A simple mage.

"So he makes a show of kicking us out...then sends his errand girl to slip me some coin so we kill his monster." Proclaims Geralt smartly, believing he's just figured her out.

"Not a very original plan for a king." You add, your brows furrowing in thought.

"It's my plan. My coin. And I don't want you to kill the beast. I want you to help me save it." Assures Triss.

"Save it?" You ask.

Wanting to hear more she takes you both into her area within the castle where she goes into more detail about the happenings in the woods. Geralt leans against a counter as you sit on a wooden table, the both of you facing Triss who stands by a desk and chair directly in front of you.

"Six years ago, stable hands statred vanishing at the castle above the city. Before long, citizens were disappearing throughout all Temeria. Foltest's royal guards soon realized the creature was coming from the crypt where the king's sister Adda is buried. Rumor has it she was having an affair with a young man in town when she died."

oh the drama, you wanted to laugh when she said that but wisely chose against that.

"Was she pregnant?" You finally ask, your curiosity getting the better of you. Maybe that's why this beast is killing people?

"If she were, that would make her child the sole heir to the throne as Foltest never married." Explains Triss as her expression changes to a thoughtful one, "The king fled the castle, ignoring the rising death toll. After Nilfgaard overthrew their king, the Brotherhood couldn't risk it happening again, so they sent me here three months ago to cure the creature."

"Vukodlaks are freak mutations." Says Geralt, mind reeling with what this creature truly is.

"They can't be cured." You add as Triss' brows furrow, "A vukodlak is a type of mutated werewolf, its a beast that conceptualizes in the womb of a dead woman, this woman however must be pregnant. It's rare, but it happens."

"How strange, maybe if I take you to the creatures latest victim then you might have some understanding as to what it actually is."

"Worth a try."

Triss leads you and Geralt through the pre-burial section under the castle where all the dead lay awaiting their final home in the ground. The place reeks of death, spices to mask the dead smell, and too many salts and herbs doing their part to delay the decomposition process.

"Two thousand orens if either of you can tell me what exactly killed these people." Says Triss as all three of you scan over the cloaked bodies laying on wooden tables.

"You didn't want the people to know that it bested a Witcher. And you let them believe that he fled with their coin." Mutters Geralt.

"You two clearly weren't acquainted." At the end of the long cavernous room does she stop at a stone tub of white salt and sand, you can smell the dead man underneath. You walk past both of them before standing in front of the tub.

Taking a breath, you reach down to wipe away the white sand until the caved in chest of the fallen Witcher is revealed. You stick your hand inside the opened chest cavity to gather a mental image of what could be missing. You look over at a curious Geralt, "His hearts missing along with his liver."

"Only one creature I know is that picky an eater. A striga." Explains Geralt while you remove your wandering hand from within the broken rib cage to wipe it off on your pants. You then turn back around to face Triss and Geralt, noting how the mages face begins morphing into that of befuddlement.

"Strigas are old wives' tales." She replies, not completely sure of herself.

You shrug, "They're very rare as are the vukodlak, but they can happen. However the only way to make one is through a curse." You add, crimson eyes trailing over the mutilated body of the dark haired Witcher. So this is really what became of that other Witcher, better him then Geralt, nonetheless he fought bravely.

"Someone wanted Adda dead." Realizes Triss as Geralt hums in agreement.

"But the curse didn't stop with Adda. It turned her daughter into a monster." Triss' head tilts in surprised puzzlement at your troubling knowledge.

"Her daughter?"

"Strigas are female. This striga's a princess." Concludes Geralt with a sigh, his gaze searching for your own perplexed expression as you turn around to face him and Triss who still looks rather disturbed.

"Well then, lets see if this king of yours is willing to let us help." You quip at Triss as you begin leading the way out of the large burial room. "Can't be that difficult now can it?"

——

"Miss Merigold, you were dispatched to settle a family affair, not to enlist a mutant mercenary and a rouge hybrid for a game of sleuthing." Argues one of the kings guardsmen as King Foltest hungrily rips apart a turkey leg, rather disgustingly if you're being honest. He even smells of meat and sweat.

"This is no game, Captain. Tonight is a full moon, Geralt and Y/N have already proved themselves to be invaluable. We believe we can cure the creature." Implores Triss urgently as she vouches for you, Geralt, and her pertinent point at hand. You just lean yourself against the rooms wallpaper as Geralt stands next to you, feeling a bit doubtful that she'll be able to convince any of them.

"You say she's a girl. Then you will refer to her as Her Royal Highness." Directs the kings guard before his other man, who instructed for you and Geralt to leave Temeria only yesterday, walks over to give his two cents.

"Segelin." He says introducing himself before continuing, "I believe urgency warrants flexibility in a court decorum. The Witcher's theory is nonsense. Princess Adda was the people's angel. Who'd wish to murder her?" Implores the man Segelin as his eyes wander over to you and then to Geralt, eyeing you both suspiciously.

"What about her lover?" You inquire, folding your arms over your leather armored chest.

"Seditious rumors. Idle courtesans trading out boredom for jealousy." Quickly replies the kings guardsman giving you a distasteful look.

"Perhaps if you'd call off your guards, if we were able to search the abandoned castle, we could find clues as to who cursed her." Explains Triss, attempting to convince the king. That's not a bad idea.

"Except, these two monster hunters would kill the princess as she sleeps, and collect the miners' coin." Argues Segelin as you simply roll your crimson eyes at the grey bearded man. What's got water up his breeches?

"Call her a princess. Call her a unicorn if you'd like to." Begins Geralt, "She grew inside Adda, feeding on her petrified womb."

"Have you no respect?!" Shouts the guardsmen defensively, the king just continues his gruesome assault on his turkey leg as he listens.

"Mutating. Growing for years till she got so hungry..." Geralt steps closer, the guardsmen laying a quick hand upon the hilt of his sheathed sword as Geralt continues unfazed, "she was forced to slither out. Rotten muscle, bent bones, two spidery legs, claws dragging in the dirt." You watch in satisfaction as the kings eyes flash with disgust. You've got him.

"An overgrown abortion." You add shrewdly, pushing yourself off of the wall as you walk next to the long table, the kings face cast down in deep thought as the other men throw you nasty glares.

"Enough." He snaps, setting down his half eaten leg of turkey.

"Your Highness?" Begins the loyal concerned guardsmen.

"Leave." Growls the king menacingly, his men nodding before making their way for the door, Triss, Geralt, and you following.

Opening up the door first, Geralt politely opens it, offering his hand for the others to follow out, you giving him a wink as you tail the guardsmen who's last to leave. As soon as you reach the doors entrance you quickly shove the guardsmen into the hallway before Geralt quickly shuts the doors on all of them, making sure to lock it as they shout their angry protests.

You listen to the pounding on the wood as you calmly walk past Geralt to the right side of the long table, leaning your hand onto the clothed wood as he casually rests an arm over a great oaken chair, opposite of the king.

"Who's the princess' father?" Immediately asks Geralt with a curious tilt of his head, the king glaring bitterly.

"My men will kill you two, bastards." He warns darkly, Geralt pulls his arm away from the chair to slowly approach him, you standing your ground while he walks past you.

Eyeing up the plump king, you slowly drag your fingers over the wood while taking small steps closer, "Your threats don't shake me, but it's funny...you learn your sister was murdered, and you didn't even flinch." Your sly remark has the king's eyes staring daggers at his roast turkey, while Geralt hums in agreement, walking himself towards a window before turning around to lean himself on a wooden cabinet as he faces the king.

"But the moment I mention the girl's father.." King Foltest purses his lips together, his eyes downcast onto the floor, "Why were you never married?" Questions Geralt smoothly, the king lets out a sigh as he leans back into his chair.

"You are speaking to a king." He proclaims with no heat is in his words, other then something else that he seems to be hiding from you both.

"That's exactly my point. Why not produce your own heir? Why not kill the striga and avoid this revolt? Why drag this all out?" Suggests Geralt, his brows furrowing together at the strange reason for everything that's happened. You walk over closer to the king, his beady eyes following you the whole time, you've already figured out the possible truth. And why must it be so disgusting too?

Raising an eyebrow, you reveal a small smirk to the glaring king, "Between the three of us, and I would dare not tell...who is the striga's father?" King Foltest appears to want to say something, almost willing to answer your question. But instead he looks to the window as he slowly rises from his seat, bringing his gaze back over to Geralt.

"I remember hearing stories about Witcher's when I was a child." He says, voice low and gravely while eying up Geralt, turning his sullen gaze upon you now, "And that of dhampirs. Is it true what they say? That you're neither living nor dead, unkillable but for silver?" Sneers the sweaty king, anger emitting from his every word, "That the mutations that grant Witcher's their...abilities. Also erase your emotions? Must be." He criticizes sharply eyeing the two of you with hate, "Cause only a person devoid of all heart could accuse a brother of bedding his murdered sister while urging him to kill her." Suddenly the doors burst open, a small handful of yelling guards racing in with their weapons bared, you don't even flinch as a second later the king throws a hand into the air, silently commanding them to halt.

He turns to you then back to Geralt, "Leave Temeria. Never return." His command is noted as Geralt gives him a nod before turning to walk out the door. You follow suit and smile at a nervous guard who looks like he might have just shit himself. The both of you silently walk out of the castle, deciding to make a new plan of attack.

——

Crouching on the roof of the abandoned castle as the wind and snow blows past your face, you slowly crawl closer to the front gates. Where two incredibly anxious guards converse about how much longer their post is until they may leave. Quietly you pull out a loose piece of the castles roofing, before chucking it into the direction of a crow where the bird and the ceiling make a loud rackety noise as they take off elsewhere. To your utter satisfaction the two nervous guards yell and book it down the cobblestone pathway and away from the castle.

Well that was easy enough.

Pleased with your harmless mischievousness, you decide to find your own way into the castle while Geralt takes the front entrance. You find a broken rotting part in the roofs wooden beamed structure where you then purposefully slip through, falling down to the floor, catching yourself at the very last moment as you levitate your body the rest of the way for a silent and painless landing.

The castle smells of mystery and dead rats as you walk quietly throughout the gloomy thing, suddenly your ears pricking to the sounds of Geralt and Triss rummaging around in someone's room down the hall. With a smirk upon your lips you stalk closer, listening to them speak about letters from Adda's mother as they both begin walking for the door.

As soon as you catch sight of Triss' oblivious face do you finally make yourself known, turning your skin the color of bluish pale grey, the whites of your eyes turning to black as your scarlet irises practically glow red. You hiss, baring your pearly white fangs, her face contorts into pure dreadful fear as she lets out a surprised scream. Geralt suddenly rushing to her side, his magic at the ready before his concerned face slackens to throw you an amused glare.

Cackling you turn back into your more presentable self, "You two find anything?" You wheeze as Triss gathers her bearings.

Breathing heavily she practically stares daggers at you, "Oh yes, just a fucking heart attack!" She breathlessly retorts, throwing you a harsh glare as Geralt walks past her. The corners of his lips pulling up into a smirk as he catches your entertained gaze, you smiling back at him like a fool in love.

"You're an ass." She mutters, shaking her head at you while she follows Geralt down the dreary shadowed hallway. An enthralled grin upon your beaming features as you tail behind them.

——

Once back inside Triss' lair of sorts within the castle walls, unbeknownst to King Foltest, the three of you let Segelin in on what they found in the ruined castle. He stands, eyes cast onto the letters, "A Queen Mother cursing her own children for their affair." He plops the old papers onto a table, "This could destroy the throne." He says dismally while leaning, both hands pressed to the wooden table.

"Sancia wanted Adda to get rid of the child." Says Geralt, concluding all that appears to be written down in those letters between Adda and her Queen Mother.

"It seems she refused. Repeatedly." Adds Triss while you all stare at the back of the man.

Segelin sighs, "And now she's taken that curse with her to the grave."

Triss clasps her hands together, "You've served the family for decades. Was Sancia involved in dark sorcery of any kind?"

He turns to look at her, "No. Of course not." His expression reveals no faults, yet you feel something is not right here. He's not nearly surprised enough about all of this.

Touching a dangling green plant that hangs out over a wooden cupboard, you raise a brow at him, "What was your relationship to Adda?"

He rests his hands casually against the long desk behind him, "Well, I like to think that she saw me as a confidant." He smiles, "And a protector, even. We used to talk at great length about her troubles. She could be very naïve."

"She ever mention her brother?" Asks Geralt from his place by the wall, a foot or so away from you and Triss' plants.

Segelin looks down at the letters, "Certainly not like this."

"She was ashamed." Says Triss as Segelin turns to face her.

"Or she was frightened. What if the relationship was not.." He pauses a moment like he can't even bring himself to say it, his eyes trail over the three of you, "..consensual?"

Geralt hums in thought at this indeed interesting bout of information, he looks to Segelin, "You think he raped Adda, then cursed the child to cover it up?"

"Well, kings have done more for less."

Geralt's eyes fall elsewhere, "True." He mutters as you mull over everything previously said. This doesn't sit right with you at all.

You take a step away from the plants, "There's only one wrinkle, though." Both Triss and Geralt watch as you stand almost threateningly in front of Segelin, they have not a clue what you're doing. The greying man eyes you nervously, you narrow your eyes at him, "Your scent was on her sheets."

Triss takes a step foreward, "Y/N?"

Your crimson eyes never leave him once, "Old ones...and new ones."

He leans away from you, "What would I be doing in a dead girl's bed?" He accuses, face shifted into a repulsed grimace. You lean in closer so that your mouth remains mere inches from his ear, he's visibly uncomfortable.

"I smelt what you were doing."

You move backwards to stand in from of the conflicted man, he says not a single word as you patiently wait for him to break. The moment lasts a couple seconds more, you can hear how loud his heart is pounding within his chest. His lip quivers, breathing increasing with anxiousness, "Foltest had no right!" Shouts the angered man while you scowl and step away, "He seduced Adda! Abused his position. He was always nagging her for attention. Always nagging! But he didn't love her....I did."

"You cursed the woman you loved?" Denounces Triss like a disappointed mother.

Segelin shakes his head, "I cursed Foltest, not her."

"Countless are dead because of your jealousy."

"Countless are dead because of Foltest!" Protests Segelin, "He spoiled Adda with his seed. He refuses to kill this striga. He lies to his people. And yet you wag your finger in my face."

"If you wanted him to suffer, you could have just exposed the affair." Counters Triss while the three of you stare down the heated man.

"And hurt Adda?" He says softly, "Never. Her memory will not be sullied, not while I'm alive to protect it." Geralt glances from you to him.

"Tell us how to lift the curse."

Segelin pauses a moment before looking defiantly up at your Witcher, "No. Foltest will watch as Temeria turns against him. Just as he turned Adda against me." Geralt hums in response.

Fed up with his excuses you walk up to him, he slightly cowers back before keeping straight again, a snobby expression upon his greying features before you crack him across the temple. Sending him falling to the ground in an instant as he plunges into unconsciousness.

"Y/N." You turn to face Triss.

"What? You were all thinking it."

——

Waiting atop the crumbling castle roof where this striga is soon to be, you watch from above as Geralt and King Foltest speak about how you and him will handle the princess. He gives the king Renfri's brooch as a gift for the princess incase Geralt does not live to see the light of day. You watch the king and his men finally leave, letting Geralt enter the dying castle as he looks up towards the roof for a second before turning his gaze for the wooden doors.

Taking the same route as earlier in the day, you soon find yourself in Adda's room. Segelin tied pathetically to the wooden beams of the dead princess' bed as your unwilling captive. Geralt brooding by the window as he thinks of what to do next, none of you truly having a solid clue as to what should be done about this royal striga. You watch when the greying man glares at you, blood smeared across his lips from your abrupt assault not even an hour ago.

"The both of you! This is madness!" He cries angrily, tugging at his cloth restraints, "What are we doing here? What's happening?" He wonders while searching desperately around the room for a nonexistent answer.

"How can we lift the curse." Mutters Geralt, his leather armored back to you and Segelin.

Segelin shakes his head, "No! This is not right. Foltest must pay for what he did." Whines Segelin once more, you simply fold your arms in irritation as the man looks to you for a sign that you care, which you most defiantly don't.

Rolling your eyes, you scowl at him, "You're already too blind to even comprehend your own faults. This is what you get for your childish actions." You mutter bitterly as he glares hopelessly at you, frustration clearly evident on his dirty face.

"Carry me out. I order you." Demands Segelin as Geralt turns around to face the desperate man. "Tell us how to lift the curse." He orders, Segelin huffs in frustration, avoiding Geralt's intimidating gaze.

In a blur of black and grey your hand is suddenly around his neck as his eyes go wide in stunned alarm, your squeeze isn't enough to choke him, but you're hopeful it's enough to change his mind. "I'd advise you to listen well, your life is already standing on the edge of a knife." You hiss maliciously in his ear before releasing him, he lets out a dramatic gasp as his wide eyes follow your every movement.

He turns his attention from you to Geralt as his mouth opens to finally answer, "Sh-She was hiding from the Brotherhood. She sold me a lamb....Sh-She told me to wait until a full moon, to wait and then to kill it." He stammers, Geralt crouching down to meet his eye level, "And then I recited some silly chant. And then I bathed in the lamb's blood until sunrise. Until the rooster crowed three times. And that is all. I swear. I swear. Now please let us leave." Begs Segelin desperately as he fruitlessly pulls against his constraints, your face falling into a frown, understanding immediately what this idiot has done.

"What was the chant?" Wonders Geralt, his brows furrowing in thought while he stares daggers at Segelin who looks down in frustration.

"Uh..It was years ago." Protests Segelin as he tries to think up the chant, "It was Elven. Um..." Suddenly he begins reciting an Elven curse, your eyes going wide in realization as Geralt shares a quick wary glance with you before racing over to his bag of potions, earning a confused expression from the bound man.

"Wh-what is it? The..I...I've done what's been asked. What more can I do?" He wonders in blissful ignorance as you let out a pissed off huff of air.

"You've done more than enough you perverted fool, unless you can keep a fucking striga out of her crypt until a fucking rooster crows three times." You snap while unsheathing your dagger, his face falling in frightened understanding as Geralt fumbles around with his potions, trying to find the right one to take before the action starts.

Segelin's eyes go downcast, his whole aurora turning to pure dread, "You're gonna have to fight it till dawn." He murmurs softly, staring at the far wall as Geralt downs a potion, his eyeballs turning into two pools of inky darkness. You turn, hastily walking for the door as Geralt quickly follows behind you.

"No. No. Come back here! Please. Please! You'd leave a man bound to die in such indignity?" He cries desperately, pulling on his restraints but to no avail.

"You're not a man." Growls Geralt as he takes his place by your side, the two of you walking down the dreary hallway as the snow falls lightly from outside the nearby broken windows, you catching the scent of the beast on the cool night air.

"Remember not to kill the princess, Y/N" Implores your Witcher with a smirk, you simply roll your eyes.

"We'll see if you can last till dawn my love, I don't doubt it." You retort, a suggestive tone hidden in your voice that's most definitely caught by Geralt.

The hallway breaks off into another section of the abandoned castle, you giving him a nod before turning in that direction, deciding it best to take on the royal beast from two sides if he gets caught up in some trouble. You silently walk down the dusty corridor past rotting wood and broken glass, cracked pieces of stone and the occasional human bones.

The enthralling shriek of the striga bellows throughout the castle walls, it's high pitched scratchy scream sounding like a knife that's stabbed you in the ears. Without another thought you race down the entrance-way towards the sounds of a great messy struggle, the princess has found Geralt, and she doesn't seem too pleased.

Turning round another stony corner, you halt dead in your tracks as your scarlet eyes zero in on the striga who's completely manhandling your Witcher, throwing him this way and that, deflecting every punch he's throwing at her. He suddenly rips a lamp from the wall and uses it to crack her across the side of her grotesque wrinkly head. She stumbles back at the violent impact, pain running throughout her body before she quickly recovers, hurling him backwards with a fiercely strong blow.

As Geralt falls onto his back you swiftly race down the hallway as the striga climbs on top of his armored body. She doesn't hear you coming, or when you electrocute her without warning, sending her flying into the nearby wall as she screeches in pain. You stop to help Geralt up, your right hand crackling with energy as he stands and glances down at the light emitting from it, then over to the pissed off princess. Who almost immediately recovers from her abrupt assault, she stands, her umbilical cord dragging as she stalks over towards the two of you.

In an instant she charges, a piercing scream sending your ears into agony at the frantic noise as Geralt lunges for her, grabbing her shoulders as he throws her against the brick wall.

For the next couple hours would you and Geralt take turns beating on the striga, down this hallway and that, into doors and wooden walls, crashing into cabinets and breaking more cracked windows through the struggle. Every fucking time she would recover and throw it back at you ten fold, like nothing had even happened in the first place.

Racing across the hall to Geralt's aid, you electrocute the royal beast just before she's about to bite into his exposed jugular, she falls back as you get closer, preparing to hopefully knock her ugly face unconscious for a while. You're slowly getting more and more fatigued with every couple minutes that fly by, this fucking striga giving you a real run for your money. No matter how much stamina you have.

But as you get within a few feet from her, she whips around, slashing you across the face with her razor sharp claws. Sending you flying into the wall as a hot stream of blood pours out of your freshly opened wounds. Dazed, you try and raise yourself from the ground and watch as Geralt gets pinned down by the striga once again. You blink back your blurry vision, painfully raising your hand as lightning brightly emits from your opened palm and fingertips just as Geralt uses his magic to break the stone flooring from right out under him.

Himself and the striga immediately falling through the broken floor and straight to the crypts below. Rising to your feet, you can feel as your facial wounds begin to fuse the skin back together again, your injury a thing of the past except for the strips of blood that mark it's path.

You hastily limp over to the hole in the ground, looking down to find Geralt laying in the rubble before slowly getting up. Without another thought, you jump down, landing hard on a pile of rocks as the unconscious striga lays motionless next to you. Pulling yourself up from the wreckage, you tiredly shuffle over to the center of the room as Geralt puts an enchantment onto the doorways so that the creature cannot escape.

"I don't know about you but I could think of ten different ways we could have spent tonight." You jest, breathing heavily as you hold onto your aching side, Geralt hums in reply before turning around and freezing, his face morphing into wariness as he gives you a concerned look. You turn around to see what's bothering him, only to find absolutely nothing, which is most definitely the problem.

"Oh fuck." You whisper as Geralt cautiously walks over to you, the both of you looking around the room as you stand back to back.

You hear a dull rapid thudding of a heartbeat before suddenly the striga jumps down from the crumbling ceiling to pounce at Geralt, she lands, whipping her hand across your chest as she picks him up, throwing him into the nearby stone pillar. You stumble back at the abrupt impact, watching as Geralt gets his ass beat by the pissed off striga, it throws him into another pillar, quickly turning around to race for the open doorway. But before it can get through, the white force field knocks her back, she snaps around once more shrieking in rage, bolting on all fours towards Geralt.

You pull your bruised and tired body onto your feet, reaching your hands out to send volts of hot white lightning into the vessel of the striga, sending her into a cruel stone pillar as she screeches in misery. When you look to your left a beautiful streak of orange sunrise emits from an opened spot in the roof, you breath heavily as the striga and Geralt take notice of the sunlight. Your eyes go wide as the creature races for the safety of her dirty crypt, you trailing behind her as Geralt jumps to his feet to follow.

Your boots pound against the gravely stone of the abandoned crypts as you valiantly throw yourself onto the furious princess while she attempts to launch herself into her resting place, she falls into the wall as your hands smack onto the cracked floor.

"Get in the fucking crypt!" You scream at Geralt as he makes a mad dash for the opened tomb, heeding to your rushed words without a second thought.

You watch as he falls into the stony coffin and shutting it just as the striga launches herself onto the thing, her cries and horrid wails sounding noisily throughout the large drafty room. Picking up a fist sized rock you chuck it at her, cracking her perfectly across the back of her grotesque head.

"Your royal pain-in-the-ass, come and get me." You taunt, lightning crackling from your fingertips as the angry princess snaps her attention to you.

She jumps down and immediately pummels you into the rocks as you send harrowing sparks of electricity into her body that thankfully throws her backwards, your vision going blurry once again. Gods your head hurts. Dark spots cloud your sight as you rest on the rocks in exhaustion, your side most definitely hurting as your eyes flutter closed.

You awaken to the sounds of Geralt as he opens up the tomb and steps out to walk over towards the princess, a concerned and astonished expression crossing over his dirty features. Pushing some ruble from your legs you finally stand and slowly walk down the small stairway as Geralt leans down to see if the princess is actually okay, considering her naked mud covered self is facing away from you both.

You can hear as her heartbeat picks up in pace, but before you're able to warn him, the princess turns around and in a confused rage pins him to the ground just as she sinks her teeth into the side of his neck. She falls back in fear as Geralt's pained gaze finds your own bloody face while you race to his side. Your eyes going wide as he lays upon the stony ground, blood seeping out from his mouth and ripped neck as you try and put pressure on it.

Tears slowly begin building up in your shimmering irises, "No. No. No...Geralt, look at me...look at me." You desperately plea as his golden eyes try and stay open for you, but he's slipping as more blood spurts out from his wounds, "Don't you fucking leave me you prick, not now of all times, or places. Geralt!" You cry as his eyelids flutter shut, his breathing slowing down as you try and cover his bleeding neck the best you can, not sure what to do. If you leave and try to get help he'll bleed to death, but if you stay then his chances are less grim but still uncertain.

Your mind swirls with what's the best course of action when suddenly you hear the rushed steps of Triss coming to your aid, and just in the nick of time.

——

Leaning yourself into the welcoming comfort of Triss' plush lounge chair, you watch as she mixes some more healing ingredients into a marble bowl at her work counter. You touch the side of your torso where a white linen wrap tightly hugs around your aching side where you fell on Geralt's silver sword. It throbs under your soft touch, but due to your immaculate healing capabilities your wounds will not bother you in a couple days time.

Turning your head lazily to the right to find a sleeping Geralt laying on the bed, recovering from his own injuries, you idly smile at his peaceful yet considerably less dirty form. Suddenly his eyes fly open, a puzzled expression upon his handsome features as Triss calmly turns around.

She smiles fondly at him, "Your scars. You heal quite nicely, if not for Y/N's blood you would most certainly be dead." She concludes knowingly as Geralt gives her a confused look, "She dropped some of her blood into your wounds to speed up the healing process. It was more effective then I had first realized." He turns to face you, a relieved sigh escaping from his parted lips.

You smile back at him, "Don't worry about the princess, she'll be fine, Triss has arranged for her to stay with the Sisters of Melitele." You chime in with a shrug, "Also she had her first bath."

"You should know Foltest issued a statement. The honorable Lord Ostrit gave his life to slay the vukodlak. Miners are gathering ore for a statue." Adds Triss with a grin as Geralt attempts to get up, "Anyone else would've killed the princess. You both chose not to." She finishes as Geralt painfully rises into a sitting position, a grimace upon his sweaty face.

"We'll take our coin now. I need to get back to my horse." Grunts your eager Witcher as he sits on the side of the bed, pressing his hand against his wrapped torso. Triss only grins in reply, walking over to hand him the leather sack of coins. He quickly takes it with a nod, Triss turning to flash you a knowing smile before excusing herself from the area.

Turning to Geralt with a frown, you search for his eyes as they glance around the room before landing on you, "Lay down you idiot, I watched you bleed out and go as pale as a ghost." You lightly argue, he sets the coins onto the makeshift bed as he finds your frowning gaze once more, "If I hadn't been there to give you some of my blood...fuck...you'd be dead. So don't you dare try and get up or I'll give you a reason to be in pain."

His stern face suddenly breaks out into an amused grin, "I'd rather not face your wrath my dear, although I wouldn't mind a couple more hours here if you decide to lay next to me." He suggests with pleading eyes, ones that know exactly how to win you over.

Leaning into the soft back of your seat, you cross your arms over your chest, "You're sweating, honestly still smell a bit, and your sheets are stained with blood..." You add with an inquiring raise of your brow, "How could I ever say no to such an alluring offer?" He breaks out into a beaming smile at your humored words, his heart just about fluttering in his muscular chest as you suddenly rise to your feet, walking over to him before crawling over to his other side near the wall. You turn to face him, a hand propped up against your head while you watch him lay down once again. His back touches the mattress as he turns his head to face you, a blissful smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Yes. That's the face right there, the suave steely golden eyes that I've fallen in love with. No matter how beat up you get...you still make me feel things."

"What kind of things, hmm?" He wonders with a lazy smirk as he watches your face break out into a small smile.

Trailing your delicate touch over his old scars, you look over to him with tired eyes, "Things I wouldn't even dare share with the very stars in the sky, nor the moon herself. And I tell her everything." You muse before leaning over to kiss his exposed shoulder. You listen as he hums in delight while you scoot yourself close enough that your whole body is flush against his, "Just sleep for now, love. You've had quite the rough night...and that's putting it lightly. I honestly thought for a moment that...that uh...I might have lost you." He searches for your hand, holding it tightly as a small way to comfort you while he locks eyes with your own downcast ones.

"I wouldn't dare think of ever leaving you alone in this world, not for a second. Y/N you mean more to me then all the coins and jewels combined, more then...uh..."

Laughing you shift your face to gently kiss his bare shoulder before looking up at him once again, "Geralt, there's not a lot of things that you love. That's honestly some short list you've got there...but it matters not, I'm your favorite person in the world and that's all I need to know."

He smiles adoringly at your closing eyes, sleep tenderly calling to you by the second as you hug him closer. He stays silent, wanting to listen to the calming thumps of your relaxed heart beat as your mind drifts into slumber. Closing his own tired eyes, he finally lets sleep take him into darkness where no monsters of any kind wait to hurt him. He's safe in your arms as you're safe in his, the two of you blissfully enjoying one another's company after a taxing hunt.

-

Tagged: @notahappytree​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @sokkasdarling​ @kmuir1​@haleypearce @diegos-butt​ (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work)

[ziee]

Blinky x Reader (18+)

Arcadia. Back once more after the 15 years you've been gone. You were a friend of the Domzalski's, and the un-paid babysitter of their baby son. The day they won the lottery, you cheered in excitement for them. And the day they fell into the sea, you cried for them.

The heartbreak of your 2 best friends struck you so severely, you couldn't stand being in Arcadia any longer. The memories, the high school all 3 of you went to, the restaurant you went to after every celebration. You just couldn't bear it. The last memories of the small town were bidding little Toby and Nana goodbye.

But now, you're back.

Nana had contacted you, saying she needed help with Tobies. Half-blind and all, old and raising a teenager, you could see why. You didn't want to be out of your best friend's childs' life completely at the loss of his parents, so once in a while, you phoned your adoptive nephew. Just checking up on him, seeing how he was.

You had accepted, of course. Slightly jumping at the opportunity and a reason to come back to Arcadia, you called in sick for an indefinite amount of days and packed a suitcase. Filling up your car, you hopped into the driver's seat and started the long drive.

You were kind of thankful that you didn't have to buy a plane ticket, hating planes and airports, but the long, lonely roads brought into account new emotions. This is the first time you're going back to your hometown in 15 years.. You're going to see the high school. And the restaurant. And.. Their house.

The house you saw them buy, build and love. You remember watching them set up a room for the new baby. Deciding the colors, layout, and designs of the wall. You remember getting sloshed in the living room, accidentally breaking one of the photos upon the fireplace. Your kind of glad you did, seeing as you took the photo and hung it in your house.

The photo of the 3 of you.

The days were long in your small car, the best you could afford. Stopping at family dinners and shitty motels to rest. The cycle stopped on day 6, finally reaching the sign with bold letters spelling out, 'Arcadia'.

You picked up your phone and dialed Nana. She picked up after the 3rd time. "Hello dear! Y/n, are you coming soon?" She spoke happily, a bag crunching in the background.

"Hi, Nana. I just got into Arcadia, I'll be there in less than 10 minutes!" You smiled as you heard the old lady scolded one of her many cats.

"Alright dear. See you soon." She ended the call before you could bid farewell. You chuckled and rolled your eyes, setting your phone down into your cup container. You took in a deep breath as you entered the small town.

Driving past the buildings that seem so familiar but have changed so much, you felt an array of emotions. Happy your here. Confused as to why they would change things. Sorrow as you remembered multiple memories in the areas you passed.

Driving into the neighborhood, your car stilled at the infamous yellow house. Their house. You stared at it through your window, looking into their own as light shone from within. You sighed and started your car again.

Eventually, you pulled into Nana's driveway. Strolling up to the doorsteps, you knocked 3 times before waiting. A shuffle, a huff, and then the door opens. You smiled as your eyes suddenly felt teary. "Y/n! Oh dear, come inside, come inside." She urges you inside, holding a foot out to prevent a black cat from escaping.

You enter the warm house, the smell of bread and... Burritos filling the room? You shrug it off as you're ushered to the couch. Sitting down, you let out a heave of relief. You're not sure why. "So, how have you been?" You ask as Nana moves towards the kitchen, presumably to make you some tea.

"Oh, I've been fine. Toby and the cats keep me busy." She laughs as she grabs 4 cups. 4 cups? You could understand that the other 1 would be for Toby, so who was the other one for?

"That's great Nana." You smile, sinking into the soft cushion. Your car was not the worst, but my god the seats were terrible. It felt like nails were digging into your back and ass. Not that good for almost a week's road trip.

"So how are you dear?" She spoke as she took the kettle off the burner as it began to scream.

"Oh I've been better, I mean- WAIT- NANA, LET ME HELP YOU!" You shout, running towards the old lady, taking the opened kettle out of her hands. Unbeknownst to her, she had almost poured boiling water onto her cat.

"Ohoho, your so helpful already." She mumbles, skittering off into the living room. You look down at the tea bags sat in one of the empty cups. Orange Pekoe..  She still knows what kind you like after all these years. Your heart swells as you pour hot water into the cups, your lips rising like a goofball.

Stirring the drinks, 2 of the cups had hot chocolate and the other 2 had tea. You could guess which is which, so you handed Nana a cup while placing your own on the table before grabbing the other 2 mugs.

"I'm gonna bring this to Toby and..?"

"Oh! Toby has a friend over. His international friend, his names Arthur-San." You nodded and headed upstairs. From the top, you could hear loud cheers from inside the room you thought to be Tobies'. You knocked and waited, but you don't think they heard you from the loud volume of a video game.

You sighed and opened the door. Inside, 2 backs were turned to you. One, obviously being Toby and the other.. It was a white sheet. A large, very large in fact, figure was sat beside Toby, wearing a bedsheet. Uh-

"Hey Toby, and Arthur, Nan-" You stopped mid-sentence as the heads turned to you. A large, circle-ish face appeared from the draped sheet. A green, mossy beard decorated its chin, a mouth with 4 long teeth sticking out, and are those- HORNS??

"T-Toby.. Who is that?" You cautiously, and very slowly, set the drinks down onto a nearby dresser.

"Aunt Y/n?! What are you doing here?" Toby gets up and comes near you. You quickly grab onto him, wrapping your arms around him as you run out the door. "Wait- Auntie Y/n, he's a friend!" You turn around and quickly shut the door as you place Toby back down.

"Toby, go get Nana and run!" You scream. He just stands there, sighing. A knock from the inside of the room startles you. "Wingman?" A gruff voice speaks. You shriek as the knob is pulled from your grip, the door opening as the large head sticks out, right in front of you. Its black nose presses against your shoulder, pulling in a long sniff.

"Oh go-" And your fainting. A stone hand stops you mid-fall, preventing you from hitting a hard bottom as your eyes closed.

"I'll call Jim."

-

You awoke on a soft plush. Feeling around, you realize you're on a bed. "Master Jim, Lady Y/n is awaking." A deep voice calls out, sensing that you knew he was close to you from how loud he was. You sit up, rubbing your eyes as you adjust to the light of the room. Looking around, it was just a regular room. Including a monster with 6 eyes.

"AHHHH!" You scream, scrambling off the bed. The moment you do so, 2 teenagers including Toby run into the room. You move near Toby, your eyes locked on the monsters.

"Woah! Calm down Miss Y/n, if we can just explain everything-" You cut the boy with twig legs off.

"Oh, you kids better explain as to why there is a- .. A-"

"I believe the word is 'Troll." The blue monster says.

"Yes! That! Why there is a troll with 6 eyes and 4 arms staring at me right now!" You pointed to Toby, "And you! Explain what happened earlier, with that big guy. Right now." You huffed.

"Is she talking about Aaarrrgghh?" The girl with a blue streak in her hair spoke.

"Aaarrgghh? Wait a minute.. Arthur?!" Your brows furrowed. "Toby, have you been lying to Nana about this 'International student'?" You made finger quotes as you looked upon your nephew's embarrassed face.

"Uhhh, maybe?" He shrugs. You sigh, disappointed in your nephew.

"If you'll allow me to explain, Lady Y/n,"

Oh- no man, or at least you think it's male, has ever called you lady..

"Aaarrrggh and I are trolls. Master Jim as you see over there," He points to chicken legs, "Is the troll hunter. Underneath your world, there is a magnificent other world, filled with trolls and things you couldn't possibly believe." He waves his hands up in the air.

You nod, taking it all in.

"Ugh, this hurts my head." Another world? Trolls? Troll hunter?? Jim moves beside the blue troll whose name you don't know and speaks to him softly.

"Hi, I'm Claire." There's a hand that's shoved in front of you, in which you awkwardly shake.

"Hey, I'm Toby's aunt. Not biological but I knew his parents well." She nodded before removing her hand from yours. You leaned down, whispering into Toby's ear.

"Who's 6 eyes?"

A voice answered you before Toby's mouth even opened. "My name is Blinky. A pleasure to meet you, lady Y/n." The troll paddles over to you, his stone feet making satisfying clicking sounds as he walks. He holds one of his upper hands out for you to shake.

He didn't seem like such a threat, in fact, he seemed like a gentleman. You smiled and shook his hand. His skin was stone, as you could feel the cracks engraved into it as your hand flooded with a strange warmth.

"Nice to meet you too, Blinky." You release his hand after a few seconds of shaking.

"Master Jim and I were discussing a matter regarding you. If you would like, we could show you Troll Market."

"Troll Market?" You question.

"The home of trolls such as myself, and Aaarrrgghh over here." He points behind him, your eyes wander over to the window as you see that large head. The large troll waves a hand and smiles, seeing as everybody's eyes are now on him.

"Has he been out there the whole time?" You ponder. Why isn't he just in the room?

"Rooms too small." You look around, finding it is indeed smaller than your nephew's room. Oh well. You think about the opportunity to travel to this unknown world. Eh, why not. You would be keeping an eye on Toby as well, so that's always good.

"Um, well, if your offering then, of course, I'd come. Thank you for inviting me." You smile at the blue troll. He smiles back, his 6 eyes staring into your 2. His eyes just seemed so soft.. And mesmerizing, having never seen anyone like this before. Your eyes ghost his face, inspecting upon closer details on the stoned troll.

...

"Ahem." Jim coughs. You both suddenly break eye contact as Blinky coughs, making his way towards the exit.

"Aha! Yes, we should be going. Daylight is rising." He muttered as the teens follow him out. You follow, exiting the house as the breeze of the night flushes your already pink cheeks. Your lead to the bridge you had driven over while entering the town, but now under it.

Aaarrrgghh is tossed a glowing stone by Blinky, creating a semi-circle on the stone of the bridge. He punches the wall, creating a crack before it starts to fall apart. Yellow swirls around the stone before creating something like a portal?

The trolls head in, followed by Jim and Claire. "Cmon auntie, it won't hurt you." You begrudgingly sigh and follow him inside the glowing portal. Stepping inside, you wince as you close your eyes.

Not even a second later, you could feel your area darken. Opening your eyes, you see everyone else staring at you. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment. Goddammit. The kids laugh as Blinky looks at with you an indescribable expression.

Is he disappointed? Shocked? Unbeknownst to you, the corners of the blue troll's lips rose. "This way, lady Y/n." His 4 hands motioned you to the crystal stairs, swirling downwards in a circle. Oh my god- Wow.

Everyone makes their way down the steps, in comfortable silence. Coming further down, you stop as you take in the view. The magnificent, one-of-a-kind, breathtaking, OH MY GOD, view. "Wow." You mumble in awe, looking up at the enormous, orange crystal in the center. Everything was so beautiful.

"Welcome to HeartStone Troll Market!" Blinky exclaimed from behind you. The other smiled as they watched your reaction. Stepping down the steps, you ended up beside the 6 eyed troll as you stopped.

"Where should we go first?" Toby asked as you gazed upon the well-spoken mystery. Now taking a better look as the others speak, you watch as his eyes blink simultaneously. How the 2d tooth on both sides of his mouth is cracked. The deep grooves into his stone skin. You paid minor attention to what he was wearing before, but now looking closer you see the 2 satchels sporting each hip on his brown overalls.

Your gazing ventures further down, looking at his flat feet. Heh, they look stumpy. "Great! We'll take you to the forge, where you can see my impressive hammer skills!" Toby proclaimed, steering your head up from your gaze.

6 eyes met yours. Oh god, did he see you staring at him? Did he see you staring below his waist??? He doesn't bring it up if he did, instead leading the 5 of you to the 'forge'.

"This is the forge, where many of our great warriors have trained." Blinky gestures around the grand room. You look around in awe, feeling a little overwhelmed by such a beautiful realm.

"It's amazing." You whisper, settling yourself on the sidelines of the giant arena as the kids grab weapons. Weapons?! Oh god.. Aaarrrgghh comes and sits behind you, jolting you with a loud thud as he sits. Blinky stands beside you, gazing out at the children.

"Indeed they are." Your eyes meet his 6, a glance before breaking contact. You smile, proud of your little nephew.

"Aunt Y/n! Look!" The ginger boy yelled from across the large expanse. You watch as he pulls out a small item, before smashing it to the ground. It sprouts a large, flaming orange hammer. Your mouth widens in shock as you see him swish the weapon around. "Impressive, right? It's my war hammer." He says as he trudges over to you.

"Uh yeah, just please be careful with that." He laughs before skittering off. Guess he gets that from Nana. You sigh as you watch the kids spar, rather impressed by Jim's armor and Claire's staff. After they were done fooling around, you see as Claire checks her watch.

"Guys, it's almost 6:30. We should get going." Mumbling as she puts away her shadow staff. Toby groans, retracting his hammer as Jim takes off the amulet.

"Ughh, I forgot we had school today." You slightly chuckle at the kids' words, being the exact same as a child. Jim, Claire, and Toby all run towards the exit of Trollmarket whereas you stand still. Toby looks behind him, seeing your unmoving form.

"Are you coming, auntie?" He cocks his head.

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, I just thought I would have more time checking the place out.." You trail off, glancing at what you thought to be your last look at the mysterious underground world. From behind you, Blinky and Aaarrrgghh look towards each other.

"Ahem, if I may, Aaarrrgghh and I will accompany Lady Y/n down here while you're at school. If.. That is alright with you?" His dark, red eyes turn to your form. You nod excitedly.

"Yes! Yes, I would love that." His lips form a smile, 6 eyes gleaming at you before turning back to the other 3 humans.

"Now, run along kids. Aaarrrgghh and I will keep Lady Y/n safe." 2 of his hands form a 'shoo' motion as they smile. You move towards Toby, wrapping him in a hug before bidding goodbye. Turning towards your new-found troll friends, you couldn't help but grin as your leaded into the busy streets of the market.

"This place is so beautiful. How long have you guys been living down here?" You wonder, looking around at all the shop stalls.

"A few centuries, after the battle of Killahead bridge, we had traveled until we found the heartstone you see today." Blinky gestured a hand to the bright, orange crystal towards the center wall of the market.

"Hated boat." Aaarrrgghh chimed in from behind, his large statue circling both the conundrum troll and the female human.

"Yes, we all did." Memories flashed in his 6 eyes before he shivered, obviously not liking that part of his life.

"Killahead bridge? What's that?" You question. You're stopped in front of what looked to be a bookstore. The 2 trolls enter, you following closely behind them as you take in the view. Books littered the walls everywhere. Bookshelves, books on tables, and some even on the floor.

"Ah, and that's the reason why I took you here. You seem like a lover of history, as I am. Therefore, Lady Y/n, I have taken you to my lodgings to learn about troll history!" He exclaims, clearly excited.

"This is your house?" Looking around, it does suit him.

"Indeed, now make it as if your own. I will fetch you some books you can read that will fully satisfy a craving for troll history." He runs around the room, 4 arms stacked full of large books that would most likely take you hours to read. Aaarrrgghh yawns from the corner, bored.

A few minutes later, he sets the books down with a thud on a large table. You sit in one of the chairs presented, grabbing one of the books from the top of the stack. Opening it up, you stare blankly. Turning the pages, you realize you can't read the language.

"Blinky, I can't read this." You say, head popping up from the pages, meeting his 6 eyes. He walks over to you, standing closely behind you as he looks over your shoulder. Your heartbeat quickens as you can see the strands of each of his hair. His long ears softly flap as his eyebrows furrow while reading what you can't.

"Hmm.. That is an issue." He sets a hand on his chin, pondering for a quick while before getting an idea. Sliding a chair over, he sits in front of you, grabbing the book from the table into his 2 upper hands. "Well, I'll just read it to you!" He smiles as you nod, eagerly wanting to learn about something you didn't know existed until 2 hours ago.

And so began the many hours of Blinky reading trollish to you. At some point, Aaarrrgghh decided to leave the hole, leaving you and the conundrum troll alone. You arch your strained back as he finished reading the last sentence of the 3rd book. "And those were all the creatures starting with an A!"

"Wow Blinky that was really, informational." Stretching your legs outwards, you bump onto his foot with your own. Recoiling your legs, you speak quickly, "Oh, sorry." Your cheeks flush.

"No worries Lady Y/n." He sets the book down on the table. "This may sound a bit odd," His eyes find yours, "but I've always been fascinated with the human body. If it's alright with you, lady Y/n, may I take a look at you?"

You thought for a second. Of course, you would also be curious about a different type of species other than your own. Plus, although you've only known him for a few hours, you trusted him. You nod, "Yea sure." He visibly relaxed at your answer. "But," You continue, " I want to look at you too."

He blinked, processing your words before smiling. "Of course." You were unsure of what to do now, sitting in silence as you both watched each other. It was only when he scooted closer, the sound of his chair scraping the ground broke you from your gaze.

"If I may..?" He gestured towards your resting arm. You quickly lifted it up and bent closer, showing him your fleshy arm. He told ahold gently, stone hands that were surprisingly warm against your skin. He traced up and down your arm, squishing a few times.

His breath tickled your skin, resulting in tiny goosebumps forming. "What are those small bumps?" He mumbled, eyes fixated on your arm.

"Those are goosebumps. Humans get them when we're cold." You answer, enjoying being the teacher for once.

"Fascinating." He moved down from your arm towards your fingers, squishing, prodding, rubbing. Your hands tingled in his own as he poked your fingernails. "And these?" He pointed towards them.

"Those are fingernails, they're made of keratin." He nodded, placing your hand down.

"Thank you for allowing me to look at you, lady Y/n." You smiled, waving your hand.

"No problem. Now it's my turn." He lifted his lower arm and extended it towards you. You grab hold, a bit taken aback at the size. His hand could easily fit around your whole face. You rub the warm stone, strumming your fingers along it as you play a rhythmic tune.

Unlike you, he only had 4 fingers, every one of them very large. While your head is down playing with his hand, his 6 eyes gaze upon you. Never did he allow a human he just met to poke and prod at him, so why did he allow you? The moment you had awoken in Toby's house, a scream and a stumble he had expected when you saw him, but he didn't expect you to shake his hand for so long.

He would have sufficed a quick shake and a fearful let go, leaving you in his 'ok' books. But, you just kept staring at him, even now, he feels his heart shake a little as you examine his arm. Standing near him willingly, refusing to leave with Master Jim and the others, but to stay and explore more of his world? Oh dear.

"You know," Your voice snaps him out of his daydream, "even though you're made of stone, you're actually very warm." You note as you caress his arm.

"Ah, yes, rather strange isn't it?" He brings an upper hand of his to his mouth and coughs. He could feel as you trace the engravements on his skin, your fingernails scratching him a little.

"Can I touch your belly?" He sputtered at the question.

"My stomach?" You lift your head, watching as his face contorts into a confused expression.

"I mean, uh- never mind." You release his hand and try to laugh it off. Well, that was embarrassing. You feel your cheeks rise in heat as you look at the ground.

"You may." A soft voice beckons you to look up, staring at the oh-so-kind troll, looking down at you with gentle eyes. You smile, giving a small thank you before moving your hand towards the troll's exposed stomach. Settling your hand on the stone belly, you felt him jolt slightly.

Tracing the engravings upon his skin once more, you lean closer and place your other hand onto him. Your eyes focus on his body, not daring to make eye contact. Whereas, his 6 eyes stared intently down at you. Watching, feeling your every move. He could somewhat feel your breath on his stone skin as well. Although he did find it odd you would want to touch his stomach, it did feel nice.

Your hands caress his body, leaning your face in as you stare into the cracked stone. Wonderous. As you slid your hands up, you went a bit further than you assumed as your hands went upon his chest. "Oh- sorry about that, getting a little handsy heh." You remove your hands and scratch your neck as you mentally slap yourself. Goddammit Y/n. You could feel your cheeks reddening.

He says nothing, so you look up at him. His eyes, half-lidded, staring at you with an unexplainable expression. What is..?

"May I smoosh faces with you?"

"Pardon?" You lower your hand from your neck, head shooting up from his words. Smoosh faces? Wait.. Did he mean kissing? "Do you want to kiss me?" You whisper.

"Yes! That's the word." He nodded.

"Then, yes." You nod, slowly leaning back towards him. He swallowed as you closed your eyes, coming towards him ever so slowly. He pushed his face towards yours, his large lips pressed against yours. His teeth touched your cheeks, but he was careful not to hurt you. 2 of his arms came and clutched onto your shoulders.

Unconsciously pulling you closer towards him, you lifted yourself out of your seat and onto his lap. Lower hands settle onto your waist, holding you close as you continue the kiss. He pulled away first, 6 wide eyes settled upon you.

"That was.." You try and find the word.

"Magnificent." He breathed out. His arms slowly slid up and down your waist, caressing your clothed skin. "May I.. Remove your shirt?" Struck with lust, you nodded, lifting your arms up as he removes your shirt. Discarding the shirt to the floor, he leans in and breaths in your scent.

"Blinky," You whisper in his ear, "take off my pants." You slowly grind against him in his lap, breathing heavily. He aides you in removing your clothing, until your sitting on him with only a bra on. You unclip your bra and toss it to the side, your breasts free from the barrier. Your nipples harden at the cool air, gaining the troll's attention.

He asks for your permission, "Blinky, I wouldn't get naked just so you can't touch me." He removes his upper hands from your shoulders and placed them over your breasts. He experimentally kneads, pushes, and rubs your fat lumps. You softly moan, encouraging him to continue.

"You are very squishy.." He mumbles, softly pinching your nipples. You arch your back, pushing your chest further into him as one of his lower hands moves to support your back. You grab his hand attached to your waist and pull it between your legs.

"Touch me here." You release the stone as he complies, his large fingers fiddling between your folds. He takes experimental rubs into you, finding your clit with your help as you release a loud moan. His hands continue to rub your tits, rubbing your nipples with soft strength.

"O-oh.." You grind into his hand as he rubs your button.

"I'd like to take a closer look, if I may?" He puffs in your ear. You nod, frowning as he removes his hands from your body, only to lift you up and carry you towards a back room. Entering the new room, you see a pile of pillows and blankets littering the floor. He sets you upon them before removing his overalls.

You move a hand between your legs and feel your wetness, circling your clit a few times as you beg for him in your mind. He lays his clothes on the side before returning to your side. Settling his face between your legs, he inhales your scent deeply through his large orange nose. "Human anatomy is rather fascinating up close."

He says it as if he.. You sit up, bumping against his nose before he brings his head up, a confused expression on his face. "Blinky, is this the first time you've done it?"

"Done what?"

"Had sex..?" He smiles at your worried expression. "Cause we can stop if you want to-"

"My dear, this is only the first time I've done anything with your kind. As well, I am positively overjoyed to be with you right now. Rest assured, I want to do this." You exhale and smile, flopping your head back down.

"Well, that's a relief. And I am too, Blinky, really happy to do this with you." You avoid eye contact, your cheeks too flushed to be seen. He returns his head back down, his fingers spreading your lips as he explores you.

He blows air, rubs, licks. As his mouth plays with your outer part, a stone finger gently prods your entrance. Sliding into you with ease, you gasp as you thought how a single digit was so thick. You're having sex with a troll, duh.

Soon enough, with all of his stimulation, you came around his finger. "AhhH~" Crying out, he halts his movements as you come down from your high. He leans up as your thighs twitch, bringing his soaked finger to his mouth before licking.

"Was that alright?"

You panted, holding up a thumbs up. "Amazing." He gave an innocent smile, amusing in the situation that had just occurred. You leaned up, sitting on your butt. "Blinky, so um," You gestured towards his blank pelvis.

"Ah, for me to release my, 'intimacy', I will need to be coaxed open. Protective plates will shift, revealing myself." You nodded, crawling closer towards him as he leaned back, parting his legs. You didn't know exactly what to do, so you started with rubbing the stone. Looking up towards your lover's face, he seemed to like it as his 6 eyes fell half-lidded, staring down at you.

You continued rubbing until what he had said happened, his plates parted, revealing not one, but 3 appendages. The middle, being the largest, whereas the other 2 were shorter. "Ah.. Yes, the middle one is the functioning one, carrying the sperm. The others are for added stimulation." He muttered as your hand softly caressed his cocks.

"So, how do you wanna do this? You lie down or me?" You stroke him as he ponders.

"It is your first time with a troll, so allow me to take command." A breathy voice mutters, hands removing yours from himself as he sets you on your back. "I fear the other way around would have you in pain." He was right, cowgirl position usually gets deeper.

You settle down as he scooches near you, hands ahold of his larger phallus. The smaller ones swirl and wrangle as their placed near your thigh creases. He angles the middle one to your hole, as 2 of his hands grasp your waist. Pushing his hips forwards, he slowly slides in, stretching you no man, or toy had ever done to you.

Your hands find his attached to your skin, grasping onto his hand and signal him to slow down. He does, waiting for you to adjust to his girth. It takes a long while as you wait for the pain to settle as he pushes himself in little by little. After a couple of minutes, you finally have him all inside without any pain. Discomfort? Yes, but nothing you cant handle.

As he pulls out, the first few pushes are testing. Testing your levels and discomfort. Hearing the soft sounds you make as he slowly enters you, he speeds up his thrusts. Rocky digits hold onto your skin, moving upwards towards your breasts as another set comes onto your skin. He leans over you as he rhythmically pounds into you.

His smaller tendrils wiggle and surround your opening, gently prodding your hole. You couldn't dare to fit another one inside, could you? He stares at your form, looking for any signs of pain. "Are you alright so far?" He rolls his hips against you.

"Yes! It feels so good.." You lift your arms and place your hands onto his cheeks. He gives you a toothy smile before returning to the task at hand. Your arms fell to clutch his own around you as he gives a sharp thrust. You moan as he bites his lips.

A deep growl resonated within the bookworm's chest as one of his smaller tendrils slowly pushes its way inside of you. You whine as it snakes its way through your hole, wiggling against your walls. You feel so full. You could feel yourself coming undone, a ball in your stomach forming as he slithers inside of you.

The outer phallus slides up your vulva, towards the top of your lips, finding your little pink button. You squeal as you are overwhelmed with pleasure. He grunts over you, clenching his teeth as he continues to thrust. Wet sounds surrounded the room, the slapping of him against you is the only sound in the room.

You clench down around him, both of his cocks still moving as you release onto them. Soaked in your juices, they glisten in the light as they're pulled from you in mere milliseconds before pounding back inside you. You cry out from the overstimulation, your face contorting into many expressions as your opening's abused by large cocks.

As he nears his end, his chest rumbles as he begins to make curious sounds. Deep throaty rasps, before a loud yelp lets out from his tusked mouth. Hot seed envelopes your insides, soaking your walls. He continues to thrust, riding out his orgasm before he settles down. Pulling out from you, he leans to the side and flops down.

You pant and turn towards him, grabbing onto his hand as he heaves. You both lay in silence, catching your breath from such an exhilarating activity.

[deliahscrush2003]

🖼 for Serina please

Thank you @starknstarwars for this lovely ask 😊💜 I actually really enjoy these OC tag memes because they offer up all these aesthetics that I never considered before and help me establish the little knick knacks of my character's personality and the themes that would surround them in their story, so again thank you!

It's always a pleasure to see you in my inbox! I hope your holidays have been going well and that your enjoying yourself. Know that I am manifesting nothing but the best for you in the new year!!

(I have this collection of stones in my room and they're all pretty colours and there's this purple one that I've associated with you so it's sitting in the sunlight right now charging on top of my lavender candle 😊)

TAGLIST: @lokitrasho || @foxesandmagic ||

OC: SERINA SEDA (STAR WARS OC)

MEDIEVAL: Tired eyes. Coffee stains on the table. Listening to the bustle of the city. Unmade beds. Ponytails. Sunlight seeping through the curtains. Chapped lips. Walking barefoot across floorboards. Dusty dictionaries. Black and white reruns. Huge sweaters. The ticking of the clock. Hearing birds in the morning. Fireplaces. Falling asleep during class.

RENAISSANCE: Freckles. The sun rising. Watching the sea. Taking shots of the city. Historical museums. Bright eyes. Looking up at the clouds. Walls covered in artwork. Drawing in the middle of lessons. Tracing your fingers on the sand. Painting for hours. Staying in uncrowded coffee shops. Worn paperbacks. Messy braids. Going to bed with your knee socks on.

BAROQUE: Dark hair. A little sophisticated. Always observing the world around you. Intricate designs. High ceilings. Extravagant musical pieces. Dim lights. Colourless photographs. Fancy furniture. Pale skin. Hearing soft footfalls coming from outside your room. Mischievous looks. Bitten nails. Candlelight dinners. Dark shades of lipstick.

CLASSICAL: Chandeliers. The clinking of a teacup. Laced clothing. Modern architecture. Light hair. Watching the view from the terrace. Hidden birthmarks. Drinking tea in the morning. Wandering about in an empty building. Botanical gardens. Old films. Ancient marble sculptures. Expensive perfume. Breakfast in bed. Reading stories about mythology.

ROMANTIC: Compassion. Short writings on scraps of paper. Blushed cheeks. A bouquet of roses. Reading collections of poetry late at night. Loose hair. Carpeted floors. Attending operas. Faint music playing in the background. Staying under the covers until midday. The night sky. Streetlights. Picking flowers. Dancing around in silk dresses. Scented candles.

SERINA SEDA: BAROQUE.

💜 SEND ME A 🖼 + AN OC 💜

[perlen-gold]

Storm Night

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

Ordinarily it is not the rain that arouses Hawke. He was not awake to witness the birth of the storm, far away from the shallow piers of Kirkwall, across the heaving and hungry sea. After hours of silent hunting, dark and looming clouds have entrapped the aspiring stone buildings of men.

The rain gushes down in endless silvery streams, chasing any four-legged or upright stranglers mercilessly into desperate shelter. Violently, a myriad of furious drops besiege the quivering glass in the windows, its irate cadence ceaselessly drowning out the occasional crackling of the fireplace. For a brief moment the bed room is plunged in an uncanny flash of dazzling light. The columns of the four-poster bed flinch, ghosts briefly awaken upon the seashell white bed sheet. Above gloomy curtains shudder in trepidation as the searing white lightning strikes once, twice, thrice. The skies over Kirkwall are illuminated in wraithlike shadows full of clouded hunters and rumbling beasts, washed over by the piercing of light, and felled in forlorn battle by thunder and bolt.

In the blink of an eye, Hawke’s eye, amber-colored and wide awake, the short-tempered light disperses into the night.

The smell of fresh, hard rain mixed with the herb burn of the dance in the fireside that shelters the bedroom under-fire from the feud outside is nearly palpable. Once more the keen blade of light strikes and transforms the hunters into warriors and the warriors into tombs for the fallen and demised, cleaving through the stormy night.

That which usually rudely awakes Hawke from sleep is neither hunter nor tomb; a kick, unexpected and painful in the lulling reverie of slumber; a sudden stroke hitting some uncovered part of his body that leaves his knee, his thigh, his shoulder, his ribs a bruised mark as purple as ripe plums; an entangling wrench yanking imprisoning feather and fabric away; and sounds, sounds, sounds, muffled, leashed, involuntary, sounds seared in Hawke’s mind.

This night is different, though.

When he wakes up, thunder forces his eyelids fly open. He lies still and he knows something is wrong.

He looks around, searches. That which wakes him this night is the slashing of the relentless rain and the cold spot on the soft mattress beside Hawke.

After a short moment of blessed silence as the storm outside gathers its strength for the next oncoming assault, Hawke sits up and swings his feet to the dry carpeted floor. It is this bare patch on the bed beside him, bereft of any body’s warmth, that has imprinted itself upon his dormant consciousness.

On bare feet he walks out of the room, along the ghostly dark corridor.  Beyond the stalwart stone walls of the Amell estate dark and light continue to lash out at each other as sundered lovers. Listening to the weeping skies Hawke remembers Carver’s wide-stricken eyes and how he swallowed his own boyhood tears for his brother’s and sister’s sake during a similar night. So big a house sunken in a darkness so impenetrable, it is impossible for Hawke to judge whether he has been roused in the middle of the night or at the cusp of dawn and day.

Wrapped in the clattering sound of the endless rain he passes the stairs, two closed doors, the kitchen till a flicker of faintly orange light piques his interest hidden amidst shelves of books.

In bad nights, Hawke will resolutely grip Fenris shoulders in order to shake him awake from his violent thrashing. In good nights, observing his twitching jaw muscles, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’waist, cradling him, bringing him close to his chest so he can breath softly into his ear, easing him out of his sleep just to the verge of awakening.

On those nights that are worst, Hawke will wake to a cold bed and find Fenris swigging down abundant-flavored wine from dark bottles. During these nights, Hawke joins him. They drink, they talk about other things while Hawke laughs and smiles and mounts guard over the distant look in Fenris’ wakeful eyes. Then, occasionally, out of the blue, Fenris might blurt out some mutinous memento, granted by his former life under the unyielding Tevinter sun, that leaves Hawke unsmiling and Fenris with bitterness or – worse still – with a callous shrug.

“And here I thought you hated reading.”

In this particular night Hawke finds Fenris hunched over a book in the lone flame of a single candle. He could illume the lamps and torches in the library without so much as a flicker of his fingers but he refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls up a plain wooden chair and sits opposite Fenris, elbow on the abraded tabletop, one side of his scratchy face in his hand.

“Why?” Fenris retorts brusquely.

Hawke cannot help but smile in remembrance.

“Because last time I tried to teach you, you ended up flinging my poor book aside with the result that it was crouching in a corner quivering from spine to edge. I have not seen it since. It is probably in hiding by now.”

Fenris’ even brow patterns into struggling concentration.

“It is easy enough for you to taunt. I expected you were going to teach me reading but the sole thing you do is unnerve me with your constant correcting and scoffing.”

“And here I thought you liked my dallying.”

On other nights Fenris might look at him, his eyes alight with that dark spring green glare that there dwells perpetually, till a sudden smile flickers across his curling lips. Tonight, he does not give in to his bait, though. There is an edge in Fenris’ voice that is not often prevalent, not when they are quite alone like this. Hawke strains towards it without Fenris’ notice.

The drum of tempest-tossed rain falls upon their ears. Hawke feels his smile grow softer.  

“Maybe you are just a dreadful student.”

“Maybe you are just a dreadful teacher, Hawke.”

A chuckle rises from Hawke’s chest, light and amused.

“I probably am.”

He can see Fenris’ skin is still damp on the undersides of his arms and the nape of his neck.

The deluging torrent is not as loud here but its unyielding tremor splashing the rooftop unforgettable.

Fenris leans back, his elbows raised, his hands abruptly restless on his thighs. With a sweep of the flickering candle flame all his riposting ire seems gone all of a sudden.

“I was a fool to believe I could learn a skill like this.”

Fenris does not raise his gaze when Hawke stands and comes round the table. He draws his chair to Fenris’ side, sitting next to him. Thunder anew rumbles in the invisible night as Hawke clasps Fenris’ right hand. He does so gingerly, with the slightest hint of tarrying deference just before their fingers touch as if to see whether Fenris’ hand will move away, ever so slightly.

After dipping it into blue-black ink he threads a gray-blue quill between Fenris’ almond-colored fingers (a griffon plume, ostensible, when it was actually taken out of a phoenix’ reluctant plumage.)

With great care, slowly, deliberately, the feather tip scratches in high curves and narrow prongs over the mottled sheet of parchment. The scraping sound seems to echo among the endless shelves of books even under the voices of the thunderstorm. Long after the scratching has stopped Fenris keeps staring at the straight arcs and meandering lines in blue-black colors. Brows lowered in reflective toil his fingertips brush over the barely dried lines, smearing them at the outer edges.

“What does it say?” requests he.

Indicatively Hawke’s index finger passes from inky character to character, pronouncing each consonant and vowel with great care. Once he has reached the final letter, the last shred of reluctance is brushed away of Fenris’ expression.  Superseded by a diffident smile that he is not yet poised to evince.

“Show me yours.” he asks, half plea, half demand.

Once more Hawke guides his hand over the torn piece of parchment, tip grazing, ink fanning out as a peacock indigo feathers.

“H,” he pronounces softly but sumptuously, “A. W …”

Again, Fenris gazes at the finished name for quite a long time before he begins writing it down slowly, painstakingly, yet perfectly, unaided. Twice he then writes his own name before switching the quill from his right to his left hand. Gradually, the letters, first bristle, become more fluid with increasing pace.

Arms folded, Hawke leans back and watches Fenris practice. First copying down the portrait of their names, secondly each letter individually, then rearranging them hesitantly and strained-eyed until new words are being born, the characters pronounced meaning suddenly becoming easier with each line. Soon there is not an inch of crammed parchment left to pen on and Hawke produces a whole new sheet from his writing desk while the storm outside howls and prowls with strenuous menace.

Quite abruptly the ink-gleaming letters, bearing a childlike quality, loose their fierce focus. The subsequent line swerves out of line, then steadies, but the next does, too, and the one after that. Then the trembling begins.

At first it is only his hand, though Fenris keeps writing, writing their names, teeth gritted.

Mere seconds later the shaking has befallen his fingers, his legs, his shoulders hunched into his chest. His whole frame shudders under the shivering grip, as iron as his own grip on the quill.

Hawke has stood up.

Soon Fenris’ clammy hand cannot clutch the quill anymore. It falls, twisting itself out of his quavering grasp, dark spots of ink spraying everyway.

Few futile attempts later he stops altogether.

Hawke is standing behind his chair when it starts. With slow movements he wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. He does not count the minutes, muss less the seconds.

Somewhen and somewhere Hawke feels Fenris startlingly cold hand on the side of his face, fingers cradling his charcoal black beard.

Rivulets of time run by.

Then Fenris picks the quill up again.

Leaning into the gentle touch Hawke lowers his weary head and rests his chin atop the crown of Fenris’ head, char stubbles shaving ebony shocks of white hair. By experience, Hawke knows better than to waste any words on that which has just happened.

So silence remains.

As Fenris finishes his next word it gives the impression of an even more childish scrawling.

Softly Hawke reads the letters aloud, feeling the fine strands of pearly white hair rubbing between his beard. “Garrett” Then, quieter, “where did you pick that one up?”

“It was stitched onto the insides of one of your shirts you gave me.”

Hawke feels a smile capturing his lips, first small, then warm and filling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“Come”, he whispers and takes his hand into his, the one that has the scarlet scarf slung about its wrist, leading him back to the warm shelter of the room of their bedroom.

Beyond the drop-gleaming windows the undying rain has lost its edge and grown somewhat quieter, enough to transmute into a deceiving semblance of repose. Back in the wide four-poster bed  they arrange for sleep in the same fashion they adopt each evening, night after night. Hawke lies on his back in the not-so-exact middle of the soft mattress, Fenris at his side, half-spread, half-outflung across Hawke’s chest, one long sharp-ended ear bedded against Hawke’s shoulder, collarbone, heart. As twisted as they might move during sleep – entangled into the warm blankets so one of them has to yank it back from under the other’s body – warped and tousled, on their sides, backs, sprawled on their stomachs – Hawke’s nose may be pitched by Fenris adamant fingers to stop his occasional but insistent snoring, his limps loose with sleep – however slumber may let them wander apart, this is the irrevocable way they settle for sleep.

Fenris’ ear near Hawke’s heart where he can harken its steady, willful beat.

Hawke knows Fenris can hear its wordless, confessing avowals for he can hear Fenris’ equally, a little  arrhythmic heartbeat through his hand on the elf’s back, the answer creeping up the arm he has slung around him.

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

This ineptness is an inevitable part of the man beside him as is the color of his eye or skin and Fenris can no more shed it than he could change the length of his limps or stop the breathing in his lungs.

“I like this.”

“What? This?” Hawke pulls him closer in merriment.

“I like this kind of weather.”

Astonished Hawke listens to the rataplan of the rain. No lightening forks the dark martial skies outside anymore save for a distant rumbling afar.

“Bethany,” Hawke remembers, still startled, “liked storms, too.”

Suddenly, Fenris straightens up and with one swift, vigorous motion he pulls Hawke out of the sheets intentionally.

Out of the bedroom into the hall he is dragged by the elf whose strength is as unsettling as ever. Hawke, no weakling himself and impressively built, once probed the silver-bladed sword (Fenris cherished nearly as much as Varric did Bianca) for several minutes and strained to fathom how Fenris could bear running around with it all day long without having his tendons and ligaments reattached afterwards. How he commiserates and dotes on this brutality of his.

“Oh,” Hawke groans, irony and grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I am not going to like this.”

Down the shadowy stairs, through the unlit foyer, up to the storm-pondered font gate and, in an instant, gushes of rain and wind wash over their faces.  

The moment they leave the safety of the house Fenris opens his grasp on Hawke’s hand but the impulse of his powerful motion propels Hawke forward right into the battle ground of the storm. Before he can blink he is soaked to the skin.

Side by side they stand in the sheath of glassy rain, barefooted, barely closed.

Before them the skies are ashore with waves of gloomy clouds. The ever-raging warrior thunder, lightening his merciless blazing blade, is aloud with booming vengeance here and fighting the skies and the earths alike.

A stroke of electrifying light from afar paints the streets and walls of Kirkwall in sharp relieve, a miniscule, insignificant thorp cowering at the feet of blue and gray and black mountains awash by breaking, spuming , spraying waves of stormy sea.

Water streams down the sides of Hawke’s face, filling the tiny spaces between his seeping beard stubbles. Angry winds gush and billow.

Endless rivulets of rain, sapid with the aroma of the wounded skies, flow in streams along the inside of Hawke’s palms, cascade forward from his slack fingertips.  

Hawke closes his eyes.

In he breathes the taste of the thunder and the light, inhaling the raining waters.

All four of their naked, bare feet are engulfed by ankle-deep flows of water.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke exclaims in a sudden mad fit of laughter, “how can you stand this all day long?”

Since there is no answer, lost in the grace of nature, Hawke finally opens his eyes.

Fenris’ face is only a blur in the embrace of the rains. Winds tear at the strangely pearly white hair glued to his cheeks. Innumerable drops of gleaming water are falling upon the cobbled streets from his naked arms, his pointed ears, the tip of his nose.

So fierce are the winds that their sheer physical strength all but overthrows them – even so, Fenris’ slender shape towers among them indomitable.  His elven face may be blurred by the spray of the gush and rain, his deep green emerald eyes, however, glitter with the rage of the roaring warrior and his blazing blade.

Once again the skies are cast alight and Fenris face flashed, his eyes lit as by a fire within.

Sometimes Hawke wishes he would simply start crying.

He is stepping towards Hawke.

Hawke is giving him a wet smile that he cannot hear through the chaos. His eyes are fixed with studying one single silver bead among a plethora which is running down along his curved neck and disperses wetly into his the well of his collarbone.

“We will both be stone-cold dead by the end of the night.”  

Thirst-ridden Fenris’ eyes blazing virid eyes find his, and his hard mouth, arms entwining around Hawke’s neck, finds his and is pressing against his lips tasting of rain and the aroma of his caramel-shaded skin. Hawke grasps him, savors him not heeding the chatty gossip that might burst from a prying eye behind the dark rain-stained windows around them – who would anyway?

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

In the peach-colored rays of morning light when the horizon will be skewed with skeins of tangerine, Hawke will sleepily wave away Orana’s considerate knock at the door and her regardful eyes peering from behind the bedroom door announcing that breakfast is ready, and Hawke will feel inclined, as ever, to cover Fenris’ long elven ears lest he might give him that glare that brings Hawke to consider a tremendous pay raise each time he does so. Soon, Orana will be wealthier than half of his Hightown neighbors.

For now, however, they trip and splash back inside leaving wet footmarks all over the floor and carpets. Long after drying each other with nowhere near enough towels, the window aglow with firelight reviving honey and daffodil and gold beads, they fall back to sleep, hearts pounding, skins resting, as they always do.

There might and will be many a nightmare in the gloomy nights to come.

But for now, for the remaining fragment of this one short, storm-shaken night, Fenris eases peacefully in his arms.

[mysterioh]

Saajanji Ghar Aaye - Prologue

Bucky Barnes x Desi!Reader 

Synopsis: After a brisk romance in London, Bucky follows you back to your home in Upstate New York where the preparations for your marriage to the son of a family friend are well underway. As the inevitable countdown to your wedding begins, Bucky remains optimistic in his pursuit of your love and your family’s acceptance. 

Arranged Marriage/Forbidden Lovers AU

“Saajanji ghar aaye” means “your beloved has come to your home”. 

A/N: A completely self-indulgent fic from a desi girl who is starving for love and affection and a dash of cultural appreciation. Everyone is welcomed to read, but please respect the culture and traditions. 

I’m a Punjabi Indo-Pakistani. So tidbits of Punjabi/Urdu will be incorporated into the dialogue because I AM HUNGRY FOR VALIDATION. Ngl my language skills aren’t the best but I will put it in anyway. I’ll put translations at the end.

This fic is heavily based off of Bollywood movies.

Natasha was never one to cower in front of a man—or anyone for that matter.  With a personality as bold and fiery as her scarlet red locks, she exuded a sultry confidence that made even the manliest of men take their seat.  

But here, in front of your father, she stood slightly intimidated. It took every ounce of boldness within her to look the man in the eye. And every time she did she found his beady black eyes looking back at her with an empty stare.  Unimpressed and judgemental. 

Natasha had been a friend of this family long enough to know that this was just his normal face.  She knew the stoic front he held melted with just a simple smile from one of his daughters. She just hoped it worked right now. 

“Who is he again?” he asked. 

“He’s my brother,” she blurted. 

"Your brother?"  he repeated with a raised brow. 

"I mean my cousin," she corrected, wrapping her arms around Bucky's arm, shaking him gently as she giggles. "But he's like a brother to me." 

The older man's eyes fall upon Bucky, who looks up at him sheepishly. He's only a inch or two taller than Bucky but stands over him like a formidable iron gate with you peeking from behind. 

"Mr. L/N," he extends a hand. "It's so nice to meet you."  

He looks at Bucky's hand for a split second before diverting his gaze to Natasha. Bucky brings his hand back to his side slowly. 

"And what is he doing here?" He asks. 

"Well," Natasha smiles with a nervous laugh. "He just got back from England—studying at Oxford." She pats him in the shoulder. "He's supposed to be living with me but since I'm here to help with the wedding I was wondering if he could stay here with me?" 

"I-I can't leave him alone, uhm–" she trails off, "his dad told me not to." 

“I don’t run a hotel here,” he deadpanned. 

She laughs nervously.“True. Very true.” She looks over at you silently, signaling for a little help. 

"Abbu," you place your hands on his broad shoulder, pulling him down to whisper into his ear. "We have spare rooms. Why don't you let him stay?" you ask innocently. “Bachara itni door se aaya hai.”

He turns his head to look at you fully with a disapproving look on his face. “It's not nice to deny a guest,” you coaxed with a pout. 

“I don’t trust him,” he states flatly. 

Your mother rolls her eyes at her husband. “Your cousin can stay, Nat. We don't mind at all," Ummi says with a smile despite Abbu shooting a glare in her direction. He was a wise man and knew that retaliation was useless. 

Bucky's face lights up the same way yours does. "Thank you! I will–" 

"But should you cause me or my family any kind of trouble I will kick you out immediately,” your father interjects with a pointing finger. 

Ummi hits him softly on the shoulder. "Oh, stop being so stiff," she hushes him then turns to Bucky. "Consider this your home." 

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh, his grip on the strap of his bag growing tight. He peers over your father’s shoulder to find you standing behind with a quaint, lovely smile brimming with happiness. 

"Don't worry about me," he replies. Abbu's eyes narrow as he crosses his arms. A shiver runs down Bucky's spine. Geez. Does this guy eat nails for breakfast or something? "I promise to stay out of your hair. Thank you so much for letting me stay."

"Thank you so much, Uncle," Natasha says. "It means so much to me."  

Abbu simply nods with a tired sigh and turns to retreat to his study. 

Your mother takes a step towards Bucky with an easy smile and the kindest eyes. A wave of nostalgia hits him, washing him over with the warmth and aroma that were entwined with the memories of his own mother. 

“It’s nice to meet you…” she trails, not knowing his name. 

He quickly takes her hand in his, the strap of his satchel slipping off his shoulder. “James,” he shakes her hand, “but everyone calls me Bucky.” 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” she smiles. “So your Natasha’s cousin?”

“Yeah, her mom’s my aunt,” Bucky replies smoothly.

Lying to such a sweet person felt so wrong. 

“Natasha has been a friend of Y/N’s for so long, she’s practically a part of the family,” she says. “And any family of her’s is a part of ours.” 

A tint of pink brushes over Nat’s cheeks. “Oh, you’re too nice,” she chuckles to herself.  

“Thank you,” Bucky blushes. “I’m so grateful.” 

“Things are a bit chaotic at the moment. My daughter’s wedding is coming up and there's just so much to be done,” she explains. “I hope that won’t cause you any trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Bucky shakes his head, the rest of his body tense. “Congratulations,” he strains.

When his eyes meet yours, you look away, anxiously tugging on the sleeve of your sweater. A small smile forms on his face. He's not worried. Clear and set on his goal, it’ll take a lot more than one overbearing father and an impending wedding to make him back down. 

"Y/N, why don't you go show our guest to his room?" your mother asks as she walks down the hall. "Natasha, if you could just help me with something real quick?" 

"Sure," Nat nods and follows behind her. 

You nod with a sheepish smile as you motion Bucky to follow you. 

He hooks his bag on his shoulder, quickly following you through the grand foyer. His scuffed white Nikes squeak softly against the gleaming marble floor. The interior of the house was designed with the days of antiquity in mind. High ceilings with hanging chandeliers. Romanesque ornaments were engraved into the border of the walls and doused in creamy colors of gold and ivory. You walk up the staircase that curves along the side of the wall where large paintings and portraits hang proudly, displaying the rich history of your family. 

Bucky whistles in awe as he reaches the top step. 

“Damn, Y/N, I knew you were rich, but I didn’t think you’d be this rich,” he gasped. “You’re fucking loaded.” 

“Don’t curse,” you admonished, walking down the hall of rooms. “My parents don’t like it and I’m not rich. My dad’s rich.” 

Bucky chortles. “Yeah, I’ve seen him on TV before, never thought I’d be following his daughter around for a house tour.”

You turn halfway to give him a smile. “Life takes you to unexpected places.” 

“It brought me to you,” he confessed in a whisper.  

You pause and the smile on your face falls. He looks at you with his head tilted slightly to the side and gleaming blue eyes admiring every part of you. It makes your heart ache. 

You turn around and walk towards one of the guest rooms. You open the door and walk in. 

He gapes at the size of the room. Coming from an upper middle class family, Bucky knew he was better off than most, but standing in that room, he started to feel incompetent. 

The room was spacious and the perfect mix of traditional furniture with modern fabrics and accessories. In the center against the wall was a king sized bed covered with cool daring colors and fluffed up pillows. A fireplace is against the wall across from the bed with two matching tufted chairs in front of it. Wide windows with white sheer curtains filtered sunlight into the room with an assorted array of sconces and paintings decorating the walls 

“This room is as big as my entire apartment,” he marveled. 

You smirk. “Too much for you to handle?” 

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “I think I'll be fine.” 

“I’ll let you settle in then,” you respond with a giggle, heading for the door. 

Bucky takes you by the wrist and pulls you into him. 

“Bucky!” you hiss. Heat rises to the tip of your ears as you try to pry from his grasp. His arms are locked around you tightly with no intention of letting go. “Let me go before someone sees.” 

He rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve missed you,” he cooes. 

Your shoulders relax when you chuckle. “I’ve missed you too,” you smiled and nuzzled your nose against his. 

The scent of his cologne takes you back to your time in London. Back to streets of smooth grey stone and rain-splattered windows. It's crisp and cool like the air after a mighty storm. If only you could go back to a month ago and stopped yourself from falling for the man who held you so lovingly. If you had just avoided him instead of falling for him, maybe your heart wouldn’t ache when it realized you could never truly be his. 

You push him away. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Why did you come?” you asked. 

Bucky swallows. You knew why he came. “I came for you.” 

“But I told you not to,” you replied. “My parents won’t allow it.” 

Bucky places his hand on your cheek. 

“Whether they do or not, Y/N, you’re mine and I’m not going to let someone else take you from me. I refuse to let you go without a fight.”

You avert your gaze to the buttons on his shirt and pick at one. “I'm getting married in two weeks, Bucky,” you reminded him. “What can you possibly do in that short amount of time?”

Bucky raises your chin so you'd look at him. He locks his eyes with yours and sees just how deep they really are. Your dark brown eyes—flecked with specks of gold—possessed a sorrow that covered the glimmering happiness that he knew of. 

You’re afraid. More so for him than yourself.  You fear the outcome of your father learning who he really was and the real reason why he was here. 

“Do you love me?” he asks. 

Your lips part, ready to say the words, but hesitate. 

It’s not right. 

You’re engaged to another. Yet, it rests on your tongue, begging for a release. 

“I do. I love you.” 

Bucky lips curve upward, wiping the single tear that falls from your eye. 

“Then don’t worry about anything.” 

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a tight hug. 

He kisses the top of your head, letting his lips linger there. “Nothing’s gonna keep me from you.” 

For you, his word was more than enough.

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[anncanta]

Ambrosia

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing, Jonathan Harker, Original male characters

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Warnings: None

Read on AO3

Or read below

Oh, if fate could be transformed so

So that he can rise to me,

Or so I could go down to him.

Lope de Vega

‘Have you brought it?’

‘Yes, Mr. Count.’

‘Show me.’

The stunted peasant leaned over to the wagon and, reaching out for the heavy wicker basket in it, threw back the lid. Inside, tightly pressed together, laid five bottles of wine, several pieces of raw meat wrapped in thick paper, and a huge fish. After examining the contents of the basket, the person who asked the question nodded in satisfaction and handed the peasant a small bag of dense fabric.

‘For that and a deposit on the next delivery,’ he said.

With a bow, the peasant took the bag and put it in his pocket.

‘What do you have there?’ the man asked, grasping the handle of the basket.

The peasant turned where he indicated. The entire right side of the cart was covered with a simple thick cloth. He hesitated for a minute as if he didn't know what to say. After watching his interlocutor takes a basket out of the cart with one hand – the very basket that he and his friend had hardly loaded there together a couple of hours ago, the peasant cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot.

‘The dead thing is there, your lordship,’ he said hesitantly. He bent down again and threw back the fabric. Beneath it was a very pale, red-haired, middle-aged woman in a blue dress with a wide white collar.

‘Nun,’ the peasant said, looking sympathetically at the woman. ‘Looks like she went to the forest for berries or something else, and got lost. She was sick, I think’ nodding at the woman's white cheeks, he added. ‘She did not calculate the strength, so she ruined herself.’ The peasant sighed. ‘I'm taking her to the city, maybe someone will recognize her there.’

The man put the basket on the ground next to him. For some time he, bowing his head, silently examined the stranger.

‘Where is her veil?’ he asked.

‘What, your lordship?’ the peasant did not understand.

‘If this is a nun, then she must be wearing a cap and a veil,’ the man said. ‘Bride of the Lord. Isn't that what they call themselves?’

‘Yes,’ the peasant agreed. ‘Maybe she lost them in the forest.’ He looked at the woman, brow furrowing. The dead woman seemed neither young nor beautiful, but he was desperately sorry for her.

‘Was that with her?’ a deep voice distracted the peasant from his gloomy thoughts. The peasant shuddered and looked at the large canvas bag lying next to the woman's body. He nodded.

The man opened the bag and looked inside.

‘Interesting,’ he said with a strange smile. Stretching out his neck, the peasant tried to see what he saw there. Nothing special – some pieces of wood.

‘I'll take her too,’ the man said. He lifted the basket again and put it back in its original place, then straightened the hem of his long black cloak and walked over to the box of the cart. ‘You’ll get the cart tomorrow after sunset,’ he said, sitting down and taking hold of the reins. ‘Together with double pay,’ he added, turning to the peasant, who was dumbfounded watching him.

The peasant nodded silently and took a couple of steps back.

‘Your lordship,’ he ventured to call out to the man when the cart had already started. ‘But why do you need her?’ The peasant cleared his throat. ‘She's dead.’

The cloaked man shook the reins and pulled them lightly.

‘You are wrong. She's alive,’ he said with a short glance at the peasant and started the horses at a gallop.

***

Agatha opened her eyes and just laid for several minutes, trying to figure out where she was. It is unlikely that she can count on heavenly bushes, an inner voice squeaked sarcastically. Agatha sighed sadly. She should have known at once that the idea of going alone through the forest to Bistritz was foolish. It was foolish to think that in her condition she would be able to go far. It was foolish to run away without speaking to the Mother Superior. It’s even more stupid to take off, leaving everything behind, just because of what some fishermen told.

Stirring, she pulled her knees up to her chest and sat down, mechanically pulling up the heavy blanket she covered. Lowering her eyes, Agatha stared at it. The blanket was expensive and beautiful, but most importantly, very warm. She straightened up and looked around.

She was sitting on a large, wide bed in a candlelit room, elegantly furnished, but somewhat... old-fashioned. Throwing back the blanket, Agatha got out of bed and carefully took a few steps on the carpet. The carpet was thick and hid under it, – Agatha bent down, peering – the gray stone floor. The same gray were the walls, partly draped with antique tapestries. On one of the walls was a shield with a roughly carved coat of arms.

What is this place, going up to the shield and running her hand over the cold metal, Agatha thought. It looks like a medieval castle. She looked around again and walked to the window. Behind the curtain was a perfectly clean glass covered with scratches. The window was located high above the ground and overlooked... Agatha flung open the sash and leaned out. Probably overlooked the courtyard.

This is all very strange, she thought as she closed the window and returned to the bed. Bare feet froze, and Agatha hurried to put them in her shoes. Her gaze darted back to the shield. The coat of arms on it seemed familiar. But it can't be... An unexpected guess made her rise sharply. Approaching a large desk against the wall with a shield, she examined it in search of confirmation of her crazy idea. But she found nothing – except a stack of blank paper, a few books in Latin, and writing utensils. Above all this was a candelabrum, darkened with time, with five candles illuminating the desk surface. Agatha looked up again. The coat of arms from the shield looked at her with silent dignity.

Taking the candelabrum from the desk, Agatha stood still for a while, then walked to the door and, opening it, looked out into the corridor.

It was completely empty and looked even more ancient than the room.

Closing the door behind her, Agatha moved forward down the corridor.

***

She went down the stairs for so long that it began to unpleasantly resemble her recent wandering through the woods. The massive candelabrum pulled back a hand. When the stone, in places overgrown with moss steps ended, Agatha sighed with relief. Taking a few more careful steps, she stopped at the entrance to the great hall.

The first thing that caught her eye was a long stone table, which looked somehow especially um... solemn in the light of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Agatha looked back at the staircase, the foot of which was decorated with large round lamps – the fire blazing in them illuminated the entire lobby. The owner of this castle clearly has problems with a sense of proportion, turning to the table again, Agatha thought.

At the head of the table was a man of about forty or forty-five, making notes on some papers spread out in front of him. When Agatha appeared, he raised his head and smiled. The smile was deliberately kind and not at all friendly.

‘I see you've come to your senses... Sister,’ from the high ceiling, the man's voice seemed more resonant and booming than it probably was. ‘Come in, share a meal with me.’

Agatha ignored the invitation. Grabbing the candelabrum more comfortably, she walked along the table and sank into one of the chairs at a safe distance from the man. As far as in her position it was possible to talk about safety.

‘You are Count Dracula,’ she said calmly.

‘Nice to meet you,’ the man tilted his head. ‘Will I be honored to know your name, sister?’

‘Agatha van Helsing,’ Agatha leaned against the back of a chair.

Glancing around the room quickly, she made sure that there was no one but herself and the Count in it. Behind Dracula was a fireplace, in which a flame was also blazing. Why does he need a fireplace, Agatha thought. He's a vampire.

‘How did I get here?’ she asked the Count, who put the papers aside and continued to examine her with the same expression of exaggerated courtesy. ‘And why am I here at all?’

He's tall, she noted mechanically. In the books that Agatha read, there were not so many descriptions of Dracula, and those that were, more likely resembled terrible fairy tales or hysterical screams of frightened unbalanced children. One of the treatises said that the Count had fused eyebrows, red eyes, and a horn in the center of his forehead.

‘There are so many questions, but dinner is not touched,’ Dracula replied calmly. ‘I don’t like to discuss business on an empty stomach.’ His long fingers wrapped around the stem of glass next to him on the table. Agatha noticed a ring on his annular – with the same coat of arms as on the shield. A dragon in a crown, coiled into a circle.

Well, it had to be admitted that there was nothing strange or supernatural in the appearance of the count, as in all his outlook. Just a very large man, clearly strong and trained – Agatha did not often see soldiers or military leaders, but she suspected that ordinary people did not have such a calmly confident shoulder turn.

He was also pale. Not like parchment, chalk, or whatever else the same exalted authors liked to mention, but rather like a person who has spent a lot of time in a dark room or simply lives in a country that has not pampered him with the sun. On a handsome face stood out eyes – dark, deep, sharp – and mockingly curved scarlet lips. Unnaturally scarlet, Agatha noted. She glanced at the glass. So that's what is poured there.

‘And I am a treat?’ she asked. ‘But in that case, where is your business partner?’

Dracula smiled. It was impossible to tell whether his smile expressed approval or condescending curiosity.

‘I’m not used to offering guests dishes that I’m not sure of the taste and quality of,’ he said. ‘It's impolite, isn't it?’

Agatha said nothing. Silently she watched as he took a long sip and, licking his lips, returns the glass to its place.

Agatha turned away and looked at the thick brass leg of the candelabrum. Realizing that she was still holding it tightly, she removed her hand and looked back at Dracula. He sat with his palms folded on the table in front of him and looked like a contented host who would be happy to serve a guest. Lowering her eyes, Agatha stared at the plate in front of her. The perfectly clean surface reflected the candle flame and her own frightened profile.

Sighing, Agatha tore her gaze from it and, reaching for the closest food dish to her, lifted the lid. In the complete silence that continued, she put a chunk of cold pork on her plate and took hold of the fork.

The meat was excellent.

For several minutes she ate in silence, and the Count began flipping through the papers again, idly sipping blood from his glass.

When the dinner was over, it became impossible to remain silent any longer.

‘Who brought me here?’ Agatha asked, putting aside the cutlery and defiantly not touching the drinks.

‘Me,’ the Count replied calmly. He carefully closed the document in front of him and looked at her.

‘Did you find me in the woods?’ she asked. ‘Judging by what the books say about you, you could. Have you been hunting?’

‘Have you read about me, Sister Agatha?’

The lips parted in a grin were still scarlet, and he undoubtedly knew it.

‘Are you surprised that books have been written about you, or that a woman can read?’ Agatha herself did not know what was more in her words – a challenge or a desire to drown out her own fear.

Dracula laughed.

‘Neither one nor the other. The first is obvious, and talking about the second…’ he bent down slightly and smiled at her. ‘Sister Agatha van Helsing, I have lived in this world for a little over four hundred years. During this time, the idea of what a woman can and cannot do has changed several times – like everything else, however. So I'm used to not trusting superficial theories and conventional wisdom.’

‘A condition of survival,’ Agatha nodded. ‘But if you hunted, why didn't you eat me right there?’

Dracula threw up his hands.

‘Perhaps I wanted to make you last?’

She shook her head.

‘Hardly. You haven't tried it,’ Agatha resisted the urge to shrug. ‘Rather, you needed to replenish your supplies. If you do them at all. Legends,’ noticing a spark of interest in the eyes of the Count, she continued slowly, ‘legends about you are complex and confusing. From them, it is not so easy to understand what you can and cannot.’ She frowned. ‘To tell the truth, I think most of them are complete nonsense. But there are some interesting points. Especially when it comes to…’ Agatha stuttered. ‘Comes to your attitude to food.’

The count raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

‘For example, the books say,’ pushing the empty plate aside, Agatha leaned her hands on the table, intertwining her fingers, ‘that you are educated, refined and smart. The best among vampires.’ She grunted skeptically. ‘But the main thing is that you are picky. I don’t understand what this means?’

Dracula looked like he had no idea what she was talking about. Agatha strained her memory.

‘Let's say the books are simply inaccurate or their authors embellish the stories,’ she mused aloud. ‘But there are also rumors. You know, there are a lot of them in Bistritz. Well, and not only in Bistritz – and not only among plain folk. People disappear in the city and the surrounding area. Very different people.’

The Count leaned back in his chair. Now he was looking at Agatha with open curiosity.

‘And it's not that they have different social status or wealth,’ Agatha continued. ‘The point is different. But what is it?’ She frowned again, sinking deeper into her thoughts. ‘Physical strength is clearly not in the first place here: even if you forget about me,’ she darkened for a moment, ‘of those who disappeared in Bistritz in six months, only two were tall and strong. But of the other five, – according to the description, rather flimsy – one in his village was nicknamed Sharp-nosed for his delicate nose, another was a carpenter and knew better than anyone else in wood species, and the third…’ Agatha paused, wrinkling her forehead. ‘But all this has nothing to do. And so I thought... Oh!’ she exclaimed, looking up at Dracula. ‘Oh, of course. What unites them is neither external nor material. They are united by their quality.’ She stared at the Count. ‘Do you take something from them?’

Dracula seemed almost impressed.

‘I always said, you are what you eat,’ he remarked after a short pause. ‘Blood is lives, Sister Agatha.’

‘Too vague explanation,’ Agatha made an impatient gesture. ‘Could you clarify?’ she asked, and abruptly fell silent, bumping into his cheerful gaze.

‘I could,’ Dracula grinned. ‘But I don’t think now is the right time for that.’

Agatha swallowed.

‘If you take something from the victims,’ she said, trying to maintain a calm expression, ‘and if this is possible, then each of them had – or has – something that you wanted to receive.’

Dracula nodded.

‘Then why do you need me?’ said Agatha, overcoming the urge to dash off and run away. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

Dracula stared at her.

‘You managed to get my attention.’

Agatha raised an eyebrow.

‘Lying unconscious in the forest?’

‘In the cart,’ he smiled. ‘You were in the cart. The peasant who picked you up told me he was taking you to Bistritz, hoping that they would identify you there, but I think he was going to sell you to the traders of the dead.’

Agatha drew in a breath in silence.

‘He, however, was quite delicate,’ Dracula continued, as if not noticing her reaction. ‘Left you dressed and did not touch your things. Don't blame him.’ He chuckled. ‘You didn’t really look fresh and blooming.’

‘Yes, but why would you…’

Dracula leaned back in his chair.

‘I thought it was interesting,’ he drawled thoughtfully. ‘A nun with a bag of aspen stakes. Rarely seen.’

They looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Agatha averted her eyes.

‘Do you communicate a lot with nuns?’ she asked.

The Count shrugged.

‘If you saw one, then consider that you saw them all. But you are undoubtedly different from them,’ he said, nodding absently to some of his thoughts, and suddenly leaned forward, sharply and quickly.

Agatha gripped the seat with one hand, glancing at the candelabrum. It is unlikely that it could be a serious weapon, but it was still better than nothing.

However, the Count did not seem to be about to attack.

‘The peasant found you in the western part of the forest,’ he said. ‘You were armed,’ Dracula paused, ‘but strangely you didn’t stock up on food and water. And I don't think you were planning on spending the night under a tree. Lost your way?’

Agatha looked down.

‘There is a turn there, and immediately behind it is a road. And this road leads in one direction,’ the Count finished. ‘Leads to me.’

Unleashing her fingers numb with tension, Agatha brought her palms to her face and brushed them across her forehead and cheeks.

‘I…’ she began.

‘You went here, to this castle,’ Dracula did not let her finish. ‘Do not deny – to understand this, it is enough to trace your route.’

He straightened, returning to his former calm posture. Raising her head, Agatha looked for a couple of seconds at his hands lying on the table. Large fingers ended in long nails, hard and sharpened.

‘I've been studying different… strange things for years,’ she said. ‘I was doing this before… even before I got to the monastery. But then it was mostly in theory. Fragmentary observations of primitive creatures do not count. And I generally considered you a legend.’

Dracula looked at her questioningly.

‘A four-hundred-year-old Count who terrifies the whole neighborhood,’ Agatha spread her hands. ‘Typical peasant tales!’

He said nothing, expecting to continue.

‘But a week ago,’ Agatha sighed, realizing that it would be impossible to avoid explanations, ‘two people came to me. Two fishermen. They were scared to death and assured that the sea had brought a walking dead man into their net.’

Dracula tilted his head.

‘According to them, he behaved like a living person and constantly repeated that he had escaped from the Count who was trying to steal his soul.’

‘Johnny. My bride,’ Dracula smiled slowly.

Agatha looked up at him.

‘Bride?’ she asked incredulously.

Dracula's smile widened.

‘Don't you like the term?’

Agatha shook her head.

‘It depends on what this means in your case. I suspect something disgusting.’

‘Less than you think,’ Dracula said quietly. Agatha glanced at him quickly, but the very next second the expression of sadness and regret that flashed across his face was replaced by the old cool curiosity. ‘What's next?’

‘Of course, I didn't believe them,’ Agatha said. ‘Not right away, at least.’

‘What convinced you?’

‘Details,’ she shrugged. ‘If you’ve been fishing and selling your catch in the local market all your life, you can think of a drowned man who walks and talks, but he’s unlikely to be an Englishman in a cambric shirt.’

Dracula grunted in agreement.

‘Perhaps. So you went to him. But why did you change your plans?’

Agatha rubbed her eyes wearily.

‘You won't understand it.’

‘Why?’

You`ve been living too long, she wanted to tell him. In such a life, there is no room for impulsive actions and decisions.

Oh, are they so impulsive?

‘The man you named Johnny,’ she said slowly, ‘by the way, what is his?.’

‘Jonathan Harker.’

Agatha nodded.

‘He was definitely a vampire. Therefore, I became interested in him. But while I was deciding what to do with this and whether to go to Bistritz, the news came that his beloved had come to Harker.’ Agatha paused and ran her hand over her forehead. ‘I thought... I thought she would take care of him.’

Taking her hand away from her face, she looked at Dracula.

‘And that's when it occurred to me…’ Agatha fell silent again, confused under his gaze. ‘It occurred to me that if that person is a vampire, then that means that you… you exist, and it is quite possible that you really are who you are believed to be.’

Dracula didn't answer.

‘And if so, then I do not need him, but you.’

She fell silent again, expecting a new question, but the Count was in no hurry to ask it.

For several minutes Dracula studied her carefully.

‘It's late,’ he said finally, ‘I suppose you're tired. Return to your room. We can finish our conversation tomorrow.’ He stood up and reached for his papers.

In confusion, Agatha watches as, collecting them and bowing graciously, he goes to the exit from the hall.

‘You still haven't explained why I'm here,’ Agatha said after him.

‘Oh, dear sister Agatha,’ the Count turned to her and smiled charmingly. ‘Are you sure that I myself know this?’

***

‘I told Johnny that this castle was designed as a labyrinth.’

‘Labyrinth, are you sure?’ Agatha stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned around.

Last evening, reaching the bed, she fell on it and slept dreamlessly until the morning. Waking up with the first rays of the sun, she laid for a long time, thinking about what happened to her and what she should do now. There was no answer, and, in general, Agatha doubted that it existed.

She wanted to get to Dracula's castle – and she did. Wanted to see the Count – she saw him. And even, – she got up, frowning, and looked at the door to the room, – she survived that night successfully. Without accidents. Wouldn`t she remember, if?. Sliding her glance on the door once more, she gazed at the key sticking out in the lock. The key was not here yesterday. Agatha just snorted wearily. See, what a nobility. It's like Dracula doesn't have a spare one. However, despite the mocking subtext clearly visible in this gesture, the presence of the key instilled a semblance of calm. He wants to play with you, the voice of reason remarked skeptically. Agatha couldn't help but agree. But what could she do?

Getting out of bed and putting herself in order, she went to wander around the castle. Fairly judging that Dracula, most likely, sleeps during the day, and therefore the likelihood of meeting him is minimal, Agatha decided that this was the best opportunity to look around.

For half a day, spent wandering through endless corridors, rooms, and passages, she managed to completely fizzle out and lose hope of understanding them. She was practically desperate when, on the third climb of the same stairs, a familiar voice overtook her.

‘Petruvio, the architect who created this castle, was a genius,’ Dracula, who was standing on the resting-place by a flight above, went down and approached Agatha. ‘Believe me, if he wanted it to be impossible to get out of here, there was no reason that could prevent him.’

‘Well, I wasn't going to... get out,’ Agatha noticed, catching her breath and taking a long look around the stairs. ‘I just wanted to find a pattern in all this. Or at least its likeness.’

Dracula looked thoughtfully and curiously.

‘And it seemed to me that as soon as morning comes, you will immediately rush to the exit.’

‘Didn't you say that I was striving here?’

‘There are predators in this place.’

‘So you're not alone here?’

He laughed.

‘Now I am. Recently. But I’m enough, don’t you think?’

Agatha turned and began to descend.

‘I think that if you didn't eat me yesterday – and at night – then you don't plan to do it right away. Which means I can do something besides trying to figure out when you're going to bite my throat.’

A low laugh came after her.

‘Go straight and to the right, – and you will come out to the great hall,’ she heard. ‘I advise you to hurry up. Lunch will cool down.’

***

‘Not a labyrinth,’ Agatha shook her head and, pulling a large cup to her, drank without looking. ‘Not a labyrinth, look.’ She took one of the sheets of parchment scattered in front of her on the table and pointed to the drawing. ‘It's just very difficult. Yes, complex, but quite logical,’ Agatha leaned over, trying to get a better look at the image. ‘Oh God, and handsome,’ she said, smiling. ‘Where did you find this?’

The dinner was not to say luxurious, but perfectly cooked and delicious. When Agatha was almost done with dessert, Dracula reappeared, carrying in his hands a huge pile of parchments and scrolls. In response to her puzzled question, he threw the heap on the table in front of her, saying that if she was interested in the castle and its structure, she should start with this.

‘Not me, but Johnny,’ Dracula stood at her right shoulder, resting his hand on the table. ‘As far as I understand, he was looking for an escape – and finally found it. And I found him when, having stumbled upon these very papers, I went down to the basement after him.’ In thought, Dracula picked up one of the sheets that had turned yellow with time and began to examine it. ‘I thought the plan was lost. Or – that there was no plan at all. But Johnny was smart, stubborn, and, which is important, cornered. He longed to get out, looking wherever he could reach, and, apparently, eventually got... to Petruvio himself.’

Agatha looked at Dracula blankly.

‘Portraits of Petruvio and his wife on the third floor. The drawing was hidden in a cache behind one of them,’ explained the Count.

She nodded.

‘So this is how he escaped…’ Leaning back in her chair, Agatha looked victoriously at Dracula. ‘Your... what did you call him? Oh yes, the bride. He outsmarted you. He found the drawing, deciphered it, and took off.

‘He jumped off the roof,’ Dracula replied calmly. ‘After he was almost killed by my... well, let's say, the former bride, of those that I kept in the basement. I will not say that she was guided by jealousy. But who knows?’

Agatha felt herself turning pale.

‘You locked him in the basement with her?’ again lowering her eyes to the drawings, she asked.

‘He went down there himself,’ the Count reminded. ‘I suppose in a fit of nobility. He was like that, my Johnny.’ He made a pause. ‘Having got here, for some reason he thought that those who wander in the darkness around the castle were prisoners. Just like him. He wanted to free them. Well, you know, the desire to help those languishing in prison and that.’

They were silent for a while.

‘Is she still there?’ Agatha finally asked. ‘She and... and... others?’

‘No,’ Dracula said quietly. ‘They are gone.’

Agatha nodded mutely. For several minutes she sat, thoughtlessly leafing through the drawings. Her chest ached. And she was cold.

‘Legends say that most vampires are hungry and wild, no better than animals, and maybe worse,’ she said, still not turning around and not daring to look at the Count. ‘None of them remember who they were before and do not realize who they are now.’ She was silent for a while. ‘Therefore, when I was told about a man who by all accounts seems to be a vampire, but at the same time not only knows his name but longs to meet his bride, I just did not believe it.’

‘He is very strong.’

‘It must be,’ Agatha ran her hand over her forehead. ‘It must be, but... never mind. The important thing is that you were right.’ She forced herself to sit up straight and looked at Dracula. ‘Although before that I myself did not realize how much. I went to someone who got on the net. But I did not come to you by chance.’

Dracula pulled up a chair and, sitting down, put his hands on the table in front of him. For a moment he studied her intently.

‘Tell me.’

...

‘So three months.’

‘The biggest.’

Dracula tapped his fingers on the table.

‘That's where your blind fearlessness comes from, that's why you are interested in vampires and that's why the monastery. Are you really a nun?’

Agatha shook her head.

‘Having learned about the disease, I immediately left home. I didn't want to burden anyone with myself. My parents already have enough worries to take care of their overgrown dying daughter,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘They are not rich and are no longer young. I decided... let them live out their days in peace and tranquility.’

She stared straight ahead, avoiding Dracula's gaze.

‘I didn't know… when the doctor told me… told me about it, I was confused. I couldn't decide what to do. What should I... and where...’ She paused and finished quietly: ‘I had no plan. I just... just left. I told my family that I wanted to visit my friend in Amsterdam. They were not surprised,’ Agatha smiled, hearing a questioning chuckle coming from Dracula, ‘believe me, I have always been strange. The small savings that I had was enough for a ticket to Bistritz. On the very first day there, in the church, I saw nuns from the convent of the Saint Mary of Budapest. They collected donations for the construction of the infirmary. And I suddenly thought – why should I go somewhere else? And I asked permission to go with them. The Mother Superior did not ask anything. And also she did not demand anything. So I stayed in the convent.’

‘Stayed to wait for death,’ summed up Dracula.

Agatha nodded and ran her hand over the parchment that was still in front of her. In the center of the corridor shown in the drawing, there was a thin fold line. It was rough to the touch.

‘It's an illusion that when there’s nothing left, it becomes easier,’ Agatha said quietly. ‘But in the monastery I was calm. I... liked being there.’

They were silent for several minutes.

‘How long have you...’ Dracula began.

‘Four weeks.’

‘Until the news of Jonathan's arrival came.’

Still not looking at him, Agatha nodded.

‘I could ask you again what made you change your plans,’ Dracula drawled thoughtfully. ‘But I won't.’

‘Why?’ she fiddled with the edge of the parchment sheet, still not daring to look at the Count.

Dracula was silent.

‘Johnny was strong and brave,’ he said. ‘But if even after falling from the roof he retained his mind, I doubt that he could have done what you were going to ask me.’

Agatha looked up at him.

‘How do you know?’

He shifted with one shoulder.

‘I'm four hundred years old, Agatha. And I've spent enough time in the war to learn how to recognize people who need a coup de grâce*.’

The words whipped, making her tremble, in pain at his righteousness and in shame at her own weakness and cowardice. Releasing the unfortunate parchment, she leaned back in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

‘Do you need special care?’

Agatha almost winced at the businesslike calm that sounded in his voice. She straightened up.

‘No, I don't. The doctor said that my illness... From his experience, such a form ends quickly enough, and most patients survive it on their feet,’ Agatha forced herself to look at the Count. ‘Provided that they do not overload themselves and regularly drink fish oil. He said I was lucky.’

‘And yet you will have care – if it suddenly turns out that the doctor was mistaken,’ said Dracula, looking at her thoughtfully.

Agatha looked at him blankly.

‘You will stay at the castle,’ he said. ‘You will stay and live the life that you lived in the monastery. I am ready to provide you with the library and the opportunity to continue your research if you want,’ he said before she could argue. ‘Were you interested in vampires? You will have round-the-clock access to the most extraordinary of them. And when I see that you begin to weaken – and this is exactly what you are afraid of – weakness and gradual extinction, – I will kill you,’ he finished calmly.

Agatha was silent, unable to move and look away from him. Dracula sat upright, lit from the back by the fire from the fireplace, and his face seemed unreadable. But in the depths of his dark eyes, there was anticipation and excitement.

‘What will you get from all this?’ she asked slowly.

Dracula raised an eyebrow.

‘Sorry?’

Agatha leaned back in her chair.

‘You offered me a table and shelter, probably one of the best libraries in Eastern Europe, the opportunity to continue my experiments and you as a model for my research,’ she said, staring at Dracula. ‘And in addition, when I can no longer enjoy all this, you are kindly ready to kill me, saving me from a long agony. Looks like a perfect deal.’

Dracula watched her with his former deliberately impassive expression.

‘Too good to be true,’ Agatha concluded. ‘What is your interest here?’

He lowered his head, obviously holding back a smile.

‘Agatha,’ he said, looking at her again. ‘Honestly, I thought you are smarter. You are not the only one who is carried away by science and knowledge,’ seeing that she still does not understand, he added. ‘My… experiments touch on a wide variety of areas, and with the right approach, you can become the best of them.’

‘The best... What does this mean?’ Agatha frowned. ‘If you want to appropriate some of my qualities, as you usually do with your victims,’ she drummed her fingers on the table, ‘what's the point in waiting? Why not do it now?’

Dracula tilted his head.

‘As I understand it, you are in no hurry.’

‘As I understand it, you are rarely interested in other people's plans.’

Dracula laughed.

‘Your qualities...’ he said, smiling, ‘your qualities.’ Rising slowly, he walked over to Agatha and bent over her. Agatha involuntarily held her breath. ‘Your mind, your thirst for the new, your desire for truth. All this is here, inside you, so beautiful and alluring.’ He paused, casting a long caressing look at her. ‘And so immature.’

‘What…’ Agatha began.

Dracula straightened up, still staring at her.

‘You are like a vine, which in order to turn into a precious drink must absorb the best properties of the soil,’ he continued with a slight smile. ‘I will let you go to the place where deep knowledge is contained, where your curiosity and impetuosity will be balanced by the wisdom of the ages. You can saturate them with philosophy and biology, chemistry and physics, and whatever else you want. And when this happens, and you are filled to the brim with them, when this knowledge becomes a part of you, then I can enjoy you. Trust me, this will be the perfect bouquet.’

Agatha looked at him in shock for a few moments.

‘Well, fine,’ she finally said, with an effort of will suppressing the shudder that had seized her again. ‘This is an honest agreement. Deal.’

***

The gray castle wall looked bluish-black in the evening light.

Agatha chewed on the tip of her pencil thoughtfully.

‘One more time, please,’ she said.

‘No way,’ Dracula denied. ‘I'm over it.’

Agatha looked at him in surprise.

‘You couldn't get tired,’ she said displeased. ‘You climbed the wall six times and went back down, and you didn't even get out of breath.’

‘I don’t need to breathe,’ Dracula reminded her. ‘Do you know the ‘mental exhaustion’ concept?’ he asked, letting go of an invisible ledge on the stone and jumping to the ground a couple of steps from her.

‘Those who thirst for knowledge must be persistent,’ Agatha replied. ‘Plus, you promised me full access.’

‘I had no idea that it would mean such monotonous... activities!’

‘But this is the essence of the experiment,’ Agatha thrust a pencil into a notebook, laying down the necessary page. ‘If you want to be sure that a stone thrown down will certainly fall, you must throw it at least a hundred times.’

‘I will not allow you to throw me at least a hundred times,’ said Dracula and, turning, walked towards the doors of the castle.

Agatha chuckled. Perhaps she really went too far with the wall. On the other hand, how else to know the limit of his capabilities?

During the three weeks that she spent in Dracula's castle, Agatha managed to make sure that this was not so easy.

What did she not do with him – fired from a musket, from a pistol, from a bow and some strange thing, which, having taken out of one of the cabinets in the library, the Count handed her with a mocking smile, assuring that the needles with which it was loaded, soaked in Indian poison. At the request of Agatha, he plunged under the water, where he laid for hours, jumped from the south tower (and from the north – Agatha suspected that the south tower was not high enough) and landed exactly on his feet, once he was even pierced with a family sword that had been passed on to his family from the twelfth century, – useless: nothing took the Count.

Aspen stakes were banned.

‘Technically I'm dead, Agatha,’ Dracula told her, absentmindedly yanking out the sword. ‘I advise you to put up with it.’

The faint rustle of wings brought her back to reality. Lifting her head, Agatha saw a bat perched on a sheer wall. Restraining the urge to stick her tongue out to it, Agatha shook her head and followed the Count.

...

‘And yet you are too simplistic about things,’ Agatha remarked that evening during dinner.

The Count's raised eyebrow expressed extreme skepticism.

‘If you’re talking about that passage from St. Augustine, Agatha, – don’t waste time – we will never agree on it.’

‘I mean, in terms of practice, not theory.’ Agatha waved her hand. A fragment from a rare edition of the writings of a Catholic saint was discovered by her in the library a week ago, and all this week they had been arguing about it to the point of hoarseness. But now she was interested in something else.

She paused, popping a spoonful of fish oil into her mouth, and shuddered in disgust. Dracula silently pushed a glass of wine towards her.

‘Try at least once to look from the outside at how you live,’ Agatha nodded gratefully and took a sip from the glass. ‘After all, you divide the whole world into those for whom you hunt, and those who could or who hunt you. As if... as if you were stuck in a world where you had to kill another in order not to die. There are almost no nuances in this world, but only black and white,’ she finished thoughtfully.

‘Nuances are a luxury for those who don't need to think about survival,’ Dracula narrowed his eyes.

‘Perhaps,’ Agatha nodded, touching the edge of the glass with her finger, ‘but have you ever thought that the same goal can be achieved more easily and at much lower costs?’

Dracula glanced at her with interest across the table.

‘For example?’ beautiful lips quivered, prudently baring fangs.

‘Well, just look at your ration,’ Agatha continued serenely, ‘does it satisfy you?’

‘Why shouldn't it?’

‘At least because it is primitive and meager,’ Agatha spread her hands. ‘Who are you eat?’ she said, ignoring his angry look. ‘The locals know you and get the castle round here, but you cannot leave it for a long time and go far. You said that you need to sleep in your native land. Plus the need to avoid the sun. That's why they bring you food here. Every two weeks or less? More often it would be suspicious. I assume you are on a strict diet.’

Dracula's eyes darkened.

‘With an economical approach, one person is enough for ten days,’ he said coldly. ‘It happens that you can stretch it even longer. More convenient than a haphazard hunt – even taking into account the maintenance costs and payment for silence for those who choose them and deliver them to the castle.’

‘Are you talking about this Mr. Renfield?’ Agatha grimaced. ‘Strange type. That's who really scares.’

Dracula grinned.

‘He doesn't bite.’

‘He doesn't need to,’ Agatha snorted. ‘And so will you, if you take the trouble to think and listen to what I want to offer you.’

Dracula raised an eyebrow in a questioning gesture.

‘The one you need is not a lawyer, but a doctor,’ Agatha said triumphantly.

...

‘Bloodletting?’ Dracula leaned back in his chair and ran a finger over his lips.

‘It's cheaper and more convenient than looking for someone new every two weeks, and in the future, it will allow you to expand the range of abilities and traits that you want to take, and also – you`ll better try them,’ Agatha nodded. ‘And you can fire Renfield. I think he's crazy.’

‘He dreams of world domination,’ Dracula noted absently. ‘Agatha, are you suggesting me to hire volunteers for my table?’

Agatha smiled at the mixture of disbelief and surprise in his tone.

‘What's wrong?’

‘What makes you think I will like it?’

She narrowed her eyes contentedly.

‘You don't like restrictions. Yes, you have reconciled with some, you had to reconcile – with the impossibility of entering someone else's house without an invitation or finding yourself in the sun, for example,’ Agatha paused. Now Dracula's face was tense and motionless. ‘You studied them and turned them into attributes of your legend,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Where it is something incomprehensible and strange, there is a mystery. It is useful to you. The vampire comes under the cover of darkness – peasants and sensitive girls weep. But the obsession with food and the threat of hunger,’ Agatha leaned over and finished in a low voice, ‘sets you off.’

Dracula's return smile was both predatory and delighted.

‘Just think about it, and I doubted you. Fine, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Let's try bloodletting.’

***

The chandelier horns were like antlers. Perhaps they were the... Well, the frames for the chandeliers were made of deer antlers. Agatha put down her pencil and rubbed her eyes wearily. Perhaps she should devote more time to walks in the fresh air, she thought, otherwise she would soon see deer muzzles under the antlers.

She slowly leafed through the notebook in which she was making notes. Her gaze slid indifferently along the lines, not stopping at anything. Agatha sighed. The work was frankly not going on. From the very morning, she was tormented by dizziness and weakness. They retreated briefly, but soon rolled over again, capturing her entirely and not allowing her to concentrate.

‘Do you practice drawing?’

Lowering her eyes, Agatha stared at the absurd ornament that adorned the edge of the page she opened at random. She chuckled.

‘Helps me think. Or not to think – whichever is more needed at the moment’ without taking her eyes off the notebook, she answered Dracula, who was standing behind her.

‘What goes easier?’ he walked to his usual place at the head of the table. In his hands was a crystal decanter half full.

Agatha shrugged.

‘You yourself know. How are your new victims?’ the topic of obsessive thoughts was unpleasant, and she really wanted to change it.

‘You mean those well-fed Hungarian traders who are afraid of the lancet?’ clarified Dracula, removing the cork from the neck. ‘Rough a little, but interesting. Perhaps it is worth taking the risk...’ bringing the decanter to his nose and sniffing at the contents, he muttered.

‘Yes, I do,’ Agatha nodded. ‘I heard their screams,’ she said. ‘Mere children. Scared of medical instruments. After all, besides this, there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of here.’

Dracula closed the decanter and set it on the table.

‘Fear spoils the taste,’ he said edifyingly, ‘that's why I ordered for them – and for myself, of course,’ he added, seeing the skeptical expression on her face, ‘from Budapest, the best doctor. And how did they repay me?’

Agatha laughed.

They scattered like a flock of chickens. Don't worry so much – you will find new ones.’

She leaned back. She felt dizzy again. How soon will it become permanent, Agatha asked herself. How soon will she need help to leave the room? She spent almost two months in the castle. Agatha smiled bitterly. Diseases don't look at the calendar. The deterioration may come earlier and later than that Romanian doctor predicted for her. How soon will she be unable to hold the pen?

‘Agatha, you haven't heard a word of what I said,’ Dracula's voice reached her.

Agatha shuddered.

‘I... Yes, I'm sorry. What about the traders?’ asked, running her hands over her face.

‘Forget the traders,’ Dracula said angrily. ‘You got half the sentence,’ he remarked, softening. ‘I said that one way or another, everything is for the best: they do not suit me. Overly mundane,’ explained the Count in response to her questioning look. ‘No far-reaching plans, no dreams.’

‘Not like you,’ Agatha could not resist; the dizziness disappeared, but it became difficult to breathe. ‘Sit in the castle and plan daring forays to the nearest village.’

He laughed.

‘And this is the part you missed – I asked about your own dreams and plans. They... I guess they have changed over the past few months, and yet...’ the Count paused. ‘Did you dream about something?’

She sighed. It was painful. Her dreams remained where there was no fatigue, the earth trembling under her feet, and attacks of suffocation. The doctor said it would be like consumption. It could be worse, Agatha thought. Standing up, she looked at Dracula.

‘I dreamed of traveling,’ she said softly and turned to leave.

And then she buried herself in the hard man's chest.

Agatha drew in a sharp breath. She kept forgetting how fast he could move.

He smelled of the evening forest, a little – eucalyptus, and for some reason – chicory.

‘I experimented with spices. I was trying to improve this swill,’ said the Count, nodding towards the decanter standing on the table. Her thoughts must be obvious, Agatha noted indifferently. ‘Tell me where you would like to go?’

Agatha turned away and looked at the brightly burning lamp on the wall for several seconds.

‘To Spain. There is a sunny and warm sea.’

The flavor of chicory and eucalyptus was joined by the scent of pine.

Agatha raised her head to ask where... And froze.

She stood in the middle of a small cove formed by yellow-gray rocks separating from the rest of the shore a narrow crescent of sand and a smooth sheet of blue transparent water. Sprawling pine trees climbed over the rocks. The wind was filled with the scent of pine needles and the sun-warmed sea.

Dracula was nowhere to be seen. Looking around, Agatha took a few steps across the sand and stopped at the edge of the surf.

‘It can't be,’ she said, bending over and immersing her hand into warm water. A crab ran out of the retreating wave and disappeared among the stones.

‘As you can see, it can,’ a familiar voice was heard next to Agatha.

Agatha straightened slowly.

‘What's happening?’ she asked.

Dracula was silent. Taking a quick glance at him, Agatha walked along the coast and came back.

‘Even you cannot travel so fast such distances,’ she said to the Count, who examined her curiously. ‘Plus,’ she frowned, ‘you don't go out in the sun. It's not real,’ she announced the obvious conclusion.

‘This is Costa Brava,’ Dracula shrugged. ‘For me, that's enough.’

Agatha nodded thoughtfully.

‘But how did you do it? Something like hypnosis? Or...’ she choked. She remembered a page from a book she had read two days ago. It said that vampires stupefy their victims. When they track them down, hunt... and attack.

‘What happens to those whose blood you drink?’ she asked, looking up at Dracula.

They never talked about it. Not once since the moment when she confessed to him that she was dying and asked for help. They discussed everything that concerned vampires and Dracula himself, from his bodily nature to his lifestyle, but they never dwelt on how... Agatha did not ask, and Dracula was in no hurry to share details.

‘Why now?’ she said without taking her eyes off his face. A whole storm of feelings – surprise, panic, anger, relief for some reason, suddenly shot up inside her.

‘You looked sick and tired,’ he replied. ‘I thought it might be helpful for you to... take a walk.’

She came closer to him. All other emotions settled into fine dust, only anger remained.

‘And how do you like it?’

‘Surprisingly delicious,’ he smiled.

Agatha involuntarily lowered her eyes to his lips.

‘I need to sit down,’ she said in a low voice.

Dracula pointed towards a thicket of tall grass that flanked the shore.

‘Let's go.’

Sitting on the warm ground and clasping her knees with her hands, Agatha looked sideways at the small glass that appeared in the hands of the Count. He's scoffing, she thought. Turning away, she began to look at the sea. The water was calm and shimmery with shades of blue and turquoise.

‘Does it always happen?’ Agatha asked, turning back to the Count. ‘I want to say...’

Dracula nodded.

‘Everyone sees something different, of course. But the kiss of the vampire works that way for all people.’

The kiss of the vampire. Agatha shook her head wearily.

They sat in silence for a while. Throwing her head back and closing her eyes, Agatha turned her face to the sun. The pine scent was exciting, and she really wanted to sneeze. Suddenly she thought it was not at all like how she imagined what was going to happen when...

She took another deep breath of the heady air of a young summer.

‘Costa Brava,’ she said, opening her eyes and turning sharply. ‘Spain?’

She stared at Dracula inquisitively. He was silent, watching her from under half-closed eyelashes.

‘If you don't like it, tell me. There will be any other place you want.’

Taking her eyes off him, Agatha looked down at the stems breaking out of the sandy soil. She reached out and passed a few blades of grass between her fingers.

‘Like the real ones,’ she said quietly.

And then it dawned on her.

Throwing her head back, she laughed loudly and happily.

***

It was noisy in the yard. Agatha grimaced. Once or twice a week, when new ‘guests’ arrived, the castle and courtyard turned into a focus of chaos. People scurried about everywhere, frightened peasants hesitated at the doorway, looking at each other, and cautiously examining their surroundings, the servants looked at them patronizingly and slightly hostilely.

Agatha insisted on the presence of servants from the very beginning – from the moment when they got involved in an adventure with bloodletting. The Сount resisted, but exactly until the day when two ‘guests’ got astray and lost on the second floor. The unfortunate people were found and immediately sent to Bistritz – accompanied by a doctor and an impressive sum, which was supposed to go to their treatment for a nervous fever. ‘It is better to pay reasonable money to your people than to spend crazy money on the whims of strangers,’ Dracula summed up angrily and ordered staff of experienced servants from Bistritz.

Most of the time they were not visible or heard, and if you did not go down to the kitchen or do not go to half of the servants, you might get the impression that nothing has changed. In a sense, it was. But living in the castle became more comfortable and somehow... calmer. Agatha suspected that the matter here was not so much on the practical side (clean towels and sheets appeared now more often) but in the very presence of living people in the house.

The sound of wheels and shouts from the direction of the courtyard made Agatha put down her notebook and get up from the table. Strange, she thought as she listened, the new guests had only been accommodated yesterday. Who is it then? She went to the door and flung it open.

It was stuffy and cloudy in the yard – the sky, covered with low clouds, in the morning still could not be discharged by rain. Heavy moisture and vague tension froze in the air.

In the middle of the courtyard, a black horse was prancing, on which a young man in an expensive dark blue jacket sat with a grandeur befitting kings and nobles. Nearby, pulled by two more horses, was a small caravan. The doors of the caravan were open, but the passengers, if any, were in no hurry to get out.

Dracula stood opposite the rider, looking at him with an expression of deliberate courtesy that Agatha knew well. Agatha frowned. She didn't like what she saw, although she couldn't tell why.

Dismounting, the young man went to the caravan, after which an exhausted cry came from there.

Dragged by the hand of a stranger, a man in a shabby nightgown almost fell out of the caravan. He was thin, emaciated, and looked like he was out of his mind. Looking around and backing away, he tried to dodge the young man's hands but was not succeed: he was grabbed by his wrist and dragged towards the Count.

‘No, please, don't! Do not! Not him, please!’ the man shouted.

Agatha approached them with a quick step.

‘Stop immediately!’ leaving from behind the Count, she demanded. ‘Let him go now!’

The young man and Dracula turned to her.

‘How dare you treat him like that?’ Agatha exclaimed before any of them could say a word. ‘Count, what's going on?’ she turned to Dracula. ‘Who is this man?’

Your housekeeper is very... initiative, Count Dracula,’ the young man threw over his shoulder, trying in vain to pacify his prisoner. ‘It's funny. Come here, madam, help me.’

‘I meant him,’ ignoring the address, Agatha pointed to the man in the shirt. Turning away from the young man, she looked at Dracula. ‘What's going on here?’ she repeated.

‘He's a gift for the Count,’ said the young man impatiently. ‘Look at him – he obviously escaped from the castle. I discovered him not far from here and found it necessary to return him back. What are you standing for? Keep him!’

With an effort of will, accompanied by a new cry of despair, the prisoner escaped from the young man's hands, but instead of running away, he cringed and froze in place, bowing his head and trembling. As if he was ashamed, Agatha thought in surprise.

‘Agatha, let me introduce my old friend, the Viscount Jean-Louis de Gransy,’ Dracula, who silently watched the scene played out in front of him, died away and stepped forward. ‘Well, hello Johnny,’ he said softly, walking up to the man in the nightgown.

***

‘We need your help, doctor,’ Agatha said, bursting into a small parlor. Turning her head slightly, she gave an encouraging look to the haggard Harker leaning on her shoulder.

A plump reddish man sitting at a desk in the parlor raised his head.

‘My God, Miss Van Helsing, who did you bring me?’ looking at the newcomers, he exclaimed.

‘Suffering,’ Agatha smiled weakly. ‘Help me, Phileas, he can barely keep his feet.’

‘No wonder,’ going around the table, the doctor instantly appeared next to them. ‘He looks like he rose from the dead,’ he remarked, supporting Harker from the other side.

‘Almost so,’ Agatha nodded. ‘Don't ask.’

‘It's part of my job.’ They led Jonathan to the table and sat him in a chair. ‘Agreeing not to ask questions in exchange for a unique experience, a good salary, and the ability to convert almost the entire southern part of the castle into a hospital at my disposal. Where else would they suggest such a thing? ‘The doctor shook his head and turned to Harker. ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but you know you’re not breathing, young man?’

‘I suppose he does,’ Agatha brushed her forehead with her hand. She sat for a minute, evened her breath, absentmindedly watching the doctor, bending over Jonathan, making a cursory examination. When he finished, the doctor turned to her. His face was pensive and serious. Agatha just silently shrugged in response to his questioning look. The doctor nodded almost imperceptibly and stepped aside.

Agatha smiled involuntarily. Phileas Worchester was a brilliant doctor, educated in London, Berlin, and Bonn, despite job offers from the best scientific departments in Europe, forced to settle in Budapest for personal reasons. Dracula found him there a month ago. According to the Count, he was attracted to the doctor by an irrepressible thirst for knowledge, combined with the ability to perceive the incomprehensible and strange as a game and a challenge and not an annoying obstacle on his own career path. Later, having met the doctor, in addition to the qualities noted by Dracula, Agatha was able to appreciate Worchester's deep erudition, as well as his tact, restraint, and kindness.

‘As I understand... um... Mr. Harker's health is not in danger at the moment,’ she said, looking at the doctor, and, receiving an affirmative sign in response, added: ‘If so, I ask you, Phileas, leave us for a little. Mr. Harker and I... need to talk.’

Worchester gave another silent glance to Jonathan, who was huddled in the chair – he seemed completely absorbed in his own turbulent feelings, and was hardly aware of what was happening or where he was – then turned it to Agatha.

‘I'll be in the hospital,’ he said shortly. ‘If you need my help, send for me immediately.’

‘Thank you,’ Agatha smiled again.

For several long moments, after the doctor left, there was an oppressive silence in the room. Unable to look at Harker, Agatha sat with her hands clasped in her lap, desperately searching and finding no way to start a conversation.

After Dracula spoke to him in the courtyard, there was a change in Jonathan. Having until then been restless and, it seems, wanted only one thing – to get out of the castle and be as far from the Count as possible, when he heard him, Harker sharply raised his head, and there was no disgust, no madness, no fear on his emaciated face. Watching how they stand opposite each other, looking into each other's eyes, Agatha tried unsuccessfully to give a name to what she saw.

Regret. Understanding. Compassion. And fatigue.

Agatha did not remember who was the first to break the silence – quite possibly it was the Viscount – but the feeling of relief that seized all those present, who again had the opportunity to return to everyday phrases and conversations, crashed into her mind clearly, like the words of Dracula, uttered for a couple of moments later.

‘Please, Agatha, arrange Mr. Harker in the best way,’ he said, not taking his eyes off Jonathan. ‘I want his needs and desires to be met immediately. If he needs medical attention, he must get it now.’ The Count was silent for a little. ‘Tell Dr. Worchester this is… my patient. Notify everyone who lives here and those who serve that Mr. Harker can dispose of my house as the most welcome guest. No one,’ Dracula stopped, hesitating, ‘no one dares to disturb his peace or threaten him. He is under my protection.’

Agatha nodded without answering. Turning slowly to Harker, who did not seem surprised by this short speech, she offered Jonathan a shoulder and they left the yard.

‘Listen, Mr. Harker. Jonathan,’ returning to reality, Agatha said, ‘I know that you are tired and you must want to be alone,’ holding out her hand, Agatha touched Harker's pale palm. ‘But may I ask you…’

Harker shuddered and looked at her.

‘Do you want to know how I got caught?’ he asked with a sad smile.

I want to know what my cowardice cost you, Agatha thought grimly.

‘You speak as if what happened,’ she said softly, ‘happened then... and now, it’s your fault. This is not true. You have suffered. You suffered, looked for help, and did not find it.’ Agatha closed her eyes and opened them again. ‘Including my help.’

Harker looked at her blankly.

‘You don’t know about this,’ Agatha said quietly, ‘but when you fled from here and ended up with those fishermen, they sent for me.’

Harker turned his head as if trying to get rid of the obsessive thoughts. On his yellowish-pale face, the departed pain and anxiety again appeared.

‘I didn't want... I couldn't... I had to... had to run away,’ he whispered quickly, as if delirious. ‘Should have been away from here. I didn't want... didn't want to come back here. Return to him. But I was scared.’

‘Scared?’ Agatha did not understand.

Jonathan lowered his head, then lifted it again and parted his lips. Above and below, on strong jaws, two pairs of elongated incisors protruded.

‘I was afraid for Mina, my fiancée,’ Harker said tightly. ‘At first, I called her. I wrote a letter... I don't remember what she looks like, but I needed... I needed to see her.’ He shook his head as if he was trying to organize the thoughts that rolled over and over him. ‘The people who took me in found her. I so wanted to meet her,’ he said sadly, ‘but when I saw from the window a woman leaving the carriage, when I realized that it was her... I thought... I thought that if I... I couldn't allow... couldn't allow her to get hurt.’

‘I understand,’ Agatha said dully and squeezed his hand again in hers. ‘You are a courageous man, Mr. Harker. You have acted selflessly and honorably.’

‘I ran away,’ Jonathan replied bitterly. ‘I hid in the woods for several weeks. I ate... I don't want to remember. That man found me by the road. I think I got lost and just walked in the wrong direction. I didn't want to come back here,’ he said again, looking into Agatha's eyes. ‘He made me.’

‘Of course, he made you,’ Agatha nodded. ‘Don't worry about it anymore, Jonathan,’ she said.

Harker stared at her for a minute without saying anything.

‘You don’t serve him,’ he said, shifting his gaze to their joined hands. ‘You don’t serve Count Dracula,’ he repeated, looking at her face again.

‘No,’ Agatha said.

‘And you are not his prisoner.’

‘No.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘It's a long story,’ smiled Agatha. ‘And you are tired and need peace and quiet. I'll tell you everything without fail,’ she stopped Harker, who was ready to argue, ‘in the end, I owe you. But not now, okay?’

Harker nodded. His gaze was still incredulous but it seemed less tense than a few minutes ago.

‘I have to leave,’ Agatha said. ‘I'll call the doctor. He will help you get settled here and take care of you.’ She paused and sighed. ‘Jonathan, I know how it sounds, but what Dracula said there, in the yard... It's true. You are safe here. Just trust me. No one else will harm you.’

Harker looked at her very attentively and suddenly said in a legible and clear voice as if in front of her was not an exhausted prisoner and a vampire fleeing from himself, but an English gentleman, refined and well-bred:

‘I believe you, Miss Agatha. Thank you.’

***

‘You're not his housekeeper.’

The Viscount, who was standing at the table in the great hall, turned to the sound of footsteps and looked at Agatha. Agatha closed the front door behind her and walked over to him.

She thought that in the week that de Grancy had been at the castle, she was more tired of him than she was of many in a year or two. Considering that she and the Viscount hardly saw each other, and he spent all the time in the company of Dracula, it was really impressive.

‘Not a relative – the last remaining of his family it`s been a hundred years since lying in state. And not his bride: as far as I know, he kept those downstairs in the storerooms.’

Agatha remembered how she first went down with the count to the first floor, or rather, to the basement, the windows of which were located almost at ground level. There was nothing in the spacious stone room – except for half-rotted boards and shards of glass piled up in a heap. When Agatha asked what was stored here, Dracula replied: ‘The past’, and they never returned to this.

‘He says you are a guest,’ the Viscount continued smoothly. ‘But if so, why are you doing his kitchen?’

‘The hospital.’

‘Irrelevant. Hospital?’ De Gransy looked at her in amazement. He looked around as if he was not sure of the reality of what he saw around him. ‘So is it true? Those people who…’ The Viscount fell silent. ‘The Count told me about the bloodletting experiment, but I thought he was just kidding. My God, is this really Count Dracula's castle? Where am I?’

Agatha felt irritation and fatigue begin to overcome her.

‘I assure you, Viscount, you are in the castle of Count Dracula,’ she said. ‘Do not be surprised: everything in our world is subject to change.’

The Viscount's eyes narrowed. Now, standing close, Agatha saw that his eyelashes were very light, contrasting with the dark brown shade of his thick wavy hair.

‘Count Dracula,’ said the Viscount, looking into Agatha's eyes, ‘taught me everything I know. He introduced me to the nuances of hunting, tracking, and stalking, and explained how to choose the right victims. Thanks to him, now I can call myself one of the most educated and sophisticated people in my circle. And I assure you that what I have achieved is not the end. Count Dracula taught me and people like me to value every drop of blood I drink and to select this blood as carefully as a jeweler selects the best of precious stones for his masterpiece.’

Agatha listened in silence.

‘And you want to say that someone who is capable of this breeds food on the farm and drinks the blood of uneducated peasants?’

‘Not all peasants are illiterate,’ Agatha shrugged. ‘I’m afraid, Viscount, since you became a vampire, much of… what you have learned is out of date.’

De Grancy's eyes flashed.

‘Not as much as you think,’ he said, still staring at Agatha. ‘So this is who you are,’ he said. ‘Very curious.’ He paused briefly, examining her. Agatha involuntarily straightened and tensed under that appraising gaze. ‘But at least it’s clear now why he didn’t talk to me about it,’ said the Viscount, smiling badly.

‘What do you…’ Agatha began.

‘Come on,’ de Grancy interrupted her. ‘You understand as well as I do what I mean. It must be sad to realize,’ he remarked mockingly, ‘that in spite of all your pressure and insolence, in spite of all your closeness to him, he is ashamed of you so much that he calls you a guest .’

‘I am his guest,’ something inside her froze, responding with pain in her chest.

‘Come on,’ said the Viscount again. ‘Stop it. Your appearance on my arrival, your self-confidence, all these arrogant looks. The way you behave and look at him. How you fuss around this crazy Harker, as if you were not the same trophy and whim, and you are not consumed by jealousy. All this betrays you headlong, beautiful lady. I'm only afraid that you are in vain expecting reciprocity from him.’

The sky in the high window not far from her was dark, colored the color of ancient stone. All week, clouds swirled over the castle and over the forest. The sun looked out for a short while and hid again. It’s probably going to rain, after all, feeling sweat on her forehead, thought Agatha. Startled, she turned to the Viscount.

‘You're wrong,’ she said, staring into a clean-shaven, mocking face. Two lines of a light mustache fluttered above his upper lip. ‘I’m afraid, Viscount, you have misunderstood something.’

‘No, that`s you who have misunderstood,’ the Viscount grinned. ‘Guest is such a euphemism,’ he made a theatrical pause, ‘very popular in high society. It is very convenient to use it when you do not want a scandal and at the same time, you want to politely lay siege to someone.’

‘It's not like that,’ Agatha herself could not understand why she was talking to him on this topic, why it was so important for her to prove that he was wrong.

‘The Count called me a guest,’ she said, ‘because it’s quite true.’ Agatha didn't expect it to be so difficult to say. For some reason, she again remembered the broken glass and boards on the basement floor. And for some reason – immediately – a Transylvanian forest, low hanging branches, wet undergrowth and the broad back of Dracula, walking in front of her. A couple of weeks ago, she managed to persuade him to try going out for walks on days when the sun is hidden behind the clouds. ‘I'm just a guest,’ she said, closing her eyes.

Opening them, she saw that the Viscount was looking at her with a mixture of disgust and curiosity.

‘I'm not here for long,’ the words sounded before Agatha could comprehend them.

The Viscount raised an eyebrow in interest.

‘What is it? Are you bored with the Count's company?’

Agatha turned away. The wind blew from the open window, but it was hot and did not bring relief.

‘I'm... not well,’ she said, looking at the Viscount again. ‘I guess my stay here is a matter of two or three weeks.’

If not less, she thought. The blood rushed to her face in a wave, and inside it stabbed with half-forgotten sadness and pain. She desperately wanted to be away from this man. It is unclear why she spoke to him at all.

Agatha turned to leave and immediately braked sharply: the Viscount de Grancy stood in front of her, blocking the path.

‘Funny,’ he drawled. ‘What a... stupid lie.’

Agatha instinctively took a step back.

‘What are you trying to say?’

The Viscount gave her a sarcastic grin.

‘Are you unwell? You? Unwell so much to count your stay in this mortal world for weeks? And what is your great sickness, madam... Agatha, isn't it?’

‘Miss Agatha van Helsing,’ Agatha straightened her shoulders. ‘My state of health, Viscount de Gransy, does not concern you in any way. I'm sorry I was embarrassed to talk about it. But since this has happened, I expect that in accordance with your title and upbringing,’ she paused, narrowing her eyes contemptuously, ‘you will show respect for the woman and for the person who has suffered a serious illness.’

The Viscount grinned, showing perfectly straight teeth.

‘And you really believe that, don’t you?’ he asked unexpectedly.

‘I believe in what?’ Agatha had an unpleasant feeling as if she was missing something, but she could not understand what exactly.

Instead of answering, the Viscount moved closer to her and took a short breath.

‘You look quite fresh. And you smell nice,’ he said, still smiling.

‘Appearances... can be deceiving,’ Agatha replied mechanically. ‘It’s none of your business anyway,’ she repeated angrily. ‘I…’

‘He drank your blood,’ de Grancy interrupted her. ‘Drank many times,’ he pointed with his eyes to Agatha's neck, just above the loose-fitting starched collar. ‘And you tell me that you are sick?’

The strange sensation that had haunted Agatha from the beginning of their conversation – as if the floor beneath her feet had become thin, like spring ice – intensified.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said quietly.

‘Don't you?’ the Viscount feigned surprise. ‘Or do you really…’ he paused and, frowning, walked around Agatha. ‘Everything can be, however,’ added with a crooked grin. ‘How long do you live here?’ he asked, walking over to the table.

Agatha held back a sigh of relief. The proximity of the Viscount was oppressive and rough, like the mats of clouds over the forest, which still could not rain.

‘Three and a half months,’ it`s long, she realized suddenly, too long. According to the most optimistic forecasts, she should have long been...

‘Not bad for someone so sick that every new day seems like a blessing and a gift from heaven,’ de Grancy said in tune with her thoughts.

His thin mustache moved, reminding Agatha of the legs of flies.

‘What are you trying to say?’

The Viscount did not listen to her.

‘So you really didn't know. My God, he's a genius!’ clapping his hands, he burst out laughing. ‘The blood of the terminally ill is murderous for vampires,’ de Grancy said clearly savoring every word. ‘For us, it is poison, as for people – some kind of belladonna.’

He hardly knows too much about people, Agatha thought out of place.

‘If you were really as bad as you say,’ the Viscount continued, meanwhile, ‘one gulp would have been enough for the Count to understand this. And throw you in the trash. But he didn't. You are probably delicious, Miss Agatha, although you cannot say that, looking at you. And your ignorance and agreement, no doubt, made you even tastier.’

Agatha looked at him in silence, feeling the noise in her head slowly build up. Bright pictures flashed through her mind one after another. Travel to the Costa Brava, dinner in Rhodes, walks in London, evening in some of the distant tropical countries. Her first appearance at the castle and conversation with Dracula. ‘You will make the perfect bouquet.’

Agatha closed her eyes. She felt sick. It can't... it can't be.

‘I've always considered him my teacher. Always admired him,’ the Viscount's voice reached her consciousness, tearing the thin membrane of contempt with which Agatha tried to protect from him. ‘He was always different from all of us. Was smarter and better. I knew he was a real gourmet, but I couldn't imagine that he... could cook.’

Rage and pain arose suddenly, sweeping away at once the numbness and dull melancholy.

‘Go away,’ Agatha hissed ferociously, glancing at de Gransy. ‘Leave immediately, or I…’

‘Or what?’ he responded. ‘Is a chicken leg planning to rebel? It's too late, my dear, lying on the master's table to be offended that the reflection in a silver dish is not to your taste. Should you complain? Your taste has been fully taken into account. It is the only reason for your stay here.’

‘You…’ began Agatha, but the Viscount did not let her finish.

‘And here is our hospitable host,’ he said, looking somewhere over Agatha's shoulder. Agatha inhaled. ‘Let me express to you my sincere admiration, Count Dracula,’ the Viscount said, stretching his lips in a smile. ‘Never before have I seen a meal furnished with such skill.’

Agatha stood without turning.

‘Viscount de Grancy, I believe our business is over,’ she heard Dracula's voice behind her.

‘I suppose so,’ the viscount's tone was light-hearted and complacent; conspiratorial notes sparkled in it, like embers not extinguished in a fireplace. ‘I think now we can go to feast together.’

‘In that case,’ Agatha still did not turn around; Dracula's intonations were calm and full of careless courtesy ‘I dare not detain you any longer. I'm sure France is tired of waiting for you.’

With distant curiosity, Agatha watched the Viscount's eyes widen, and an expression of disbelief appeared on his face, almost immediately, however, replaced by the usual arrogant disdainful.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said slowly, casting a glance at Agatha, ‘I have a lot of pressing concerns at home. They demand my immediate presence. I think you too,’ the Viscount added, lowering his voice a little, ‘will find something to do.’ For a brief moment, his face almost completely lost its aristocratic veneer. Suddenly, with crystal clarity, it became clear that this was not a human being. Not a beast. Just a living dead. ‘I will not bother you. Bon appétit!**’ he said, looking at the Count, and, turning, disappeared into the doorway.

When the sound of footsteps died down in the courtyard, Agatha turned slowly.

Dracula stood at the entrance to the great hall and silently looked at her.

‘What for?’ she asked.

‘Agatha…’

She stopped him with a gesture.

‘I'm not talking about why you lied to me, not about why you made me suffer, counting the days and weeks until death, which will not be. Why let me consider you my... friend and trust you... it doesn't matter. I want to know one thing: why did you keep me here?’

‘Agatha…’

‘Why did you do this?’ she repeated, not responding to Dracula's attempts to get her attention. ‘What is it in my blood that you came back to it again and again, – deceiving and making me believe that I will die? You could kill me right away, you could lock me up and drink slowly, without all these complicated plans and ridiculous intrigues. But you didn't. Jonathan,’ Agatha winced, remembering what de Grancy said about her and Harker, ‘Jonathan thinks that you like... or liked to play with victims, but you are not. You rather like... to dance. Intrigue is not your thing.’

Dracula walked over and stopped opposite her.

‘It's not that it's especially tasty. Yes, the perfect bouquet, but not the one that fool de Gransy thought about,’ Agatha said looking into his face. ‘There is something more complex, more... more personal. But what?’

Dracula was silent.

‘How long have you known that I am healthy?’ she asked.

‘I suspected it from the very beginning.’

Agatha nodded.

‘But you weren't sure. And Costa Brava was a test, wasn't it?’

He shook his head in agreement.

‘Including. I wanted to be sure. When I took you away from that peasant, you looked tired and weak, but I did not notice any signs of serious illness. So when you said that the doctor... How old was he, by the way?’

‘About fifty... sixty,’ Agatha frowned. ‘Perhaps more.’

Dracula nodded again, as if what he heard confirmed some of his calculations.

‘I thought so. Were you born in Holland?’

‘What does it…’

‘You grew up on your father’s farm, where they carefully monitored what and in what quantity grew on their land,’ Dracula continued. ‘And judging by the way you dreamed of traveling, you rarely leave it.’

‘Yes,’ Agatha said, confused. ‘But why…’

‘You spent this spring outside the home,’ said Dracula.

‘Yes, I'm back…’ Agatha wrinkled her forehead. ‘My father sent me to stay in Amsterdam to visit my aunt. I returned at the beginning of the summer.’

‘Then the symptoms appeared.’

Agatha looked at Dracula with wide eyes.

‘I don’t understand,’ she admitted.

Dracula smiled.

‘Amsterdam is a port city,’ he said. ‘Not only goods and people arrive on ships in the harbor, but also other casual passengers.’

Agatha shook her head.

‘Passengers?’

‘Animals, insects, plant seeds,’ nodded Dracula, ‘some are innocuous, the action of others is intrusive but harmless, and there are those that are capable of seriously causing trouble. One of these grew in your aunt's garden,’ he said, looking at Agatha, who was completely confused. ‘Ambrósia artemisiifólia, ragweed, imported to Europe from the New World. It blooms in early summer, sometimes it starts earlier, and its pollen causes very unpleasant reactions in those who are sensitive to it, from lacrimation and runny nose to respiratory problems, up to suffocation.’

Agatha looked at Dracula in amazement.

‘But the doctor…’ she said in confusion.

‘Ambrosia was brought from America no later than one thousand eight hundred and seventy-three,’ Dracula interrupted her. ‘It is well known as a foreign weed, but generally little studied. The first reports that this plant causes painful reactions appeared in the same year. But medicine is conservative. Even if your doctor was fifty, he still did not hear about it, and if he did, he was hardly interested in the details.’

He fell silent as if giving Agatha an opportunity to digest what she had heard. Glancing briefly at him, she ran her hand over her forehead.

‘The symptoms worsened after I settled in the castle,’ she said uncertainly.

‘But despite your passion for the study of nature and keen observation, it did not occur to you to associate them with the yellow thickets in the yard and near the forest,’ said Dracula calmly. ‘I'm still going to order to weed them out. However, they have almost faded.’

Agatha blinked, remembering how she wandered around the castle, admiring the golden blossoms, and how she invariably returned from these walks breathless and tired. She blamed everything on growing weakness.

‘Did Phileas know?’ she asked absently.

‘He knew you were healthy,’ Dracula replied. ‘The rest is none of his business.’

Agatha was dumbfounded for a minute. Then she lifted her head and looked at Dracula.

‘You heard the diagnosis of the old village doctor and went to the monastery,’ he said.

Agatha shook off the embarrassment and shame that stirred inside.

‘Don't try to knock me out of my mind,’ she said angrily. ‘It's about your mistakes, not mine.’

He smiled.

‘Mistakes.’

She turned away.

A recent scene in the southern part of the castle, which she witnessed by chance, came to her mind. It was late evening, and Agatha, having finished her business, was going to visit Harker – according to the doctor, he felt much better so that her visit had no practical benefit: she just wanted to talk.

As she approached the door of Jonathan's room, she heard voices coming from behind it.

‘I can not. I can not. I'm a monster,’ Harker's voice said. ‘I cannot and will not put her in such danger. And she won't want to... When she finds out, she won't want to see me.’

‘Your blood is full of her love and faith in you. I almost choked on them.’

‘Nice to hear.’

‘I'm glad I was able to please you.’

Having recognized Dracula in the second interlocutor, Agatha wanted to leave immediately, but something held her back.

It was quiet outside the door for a few moments.

‘You're not afraid for her, Jonathan,’ Agatha involuntarily shuddered, hearing in Dracula's voice the same cold notes that sounded in it when he promised her to kill her. ‘I know you as well as you are, and like all people, you are far from perfect. But you never lied to yourself before.’

Something rustled in the room and footsteps were heard as if Harker had risen and began to walk from corner to corner.

‘You’re not afraid for her,’ Dracula said again. ‘You're afraid of yourself,’ he raised his voice, stopping Jonathan's attempts to argue with him. ‘And you know it.’

There was silence.

‘I…’ Jonathan said.

‘But in that case,’ Dracula interrupted him, ‘you must know something else.’ Footsteps were heard again, and his voice became softer and more muffled. ‘The further you are from her now and the longer you hide, the more surely your fangs will close on her neck later.’

The pause was long and full of horror.

‘It's only a matter of time, Jonathan,’ Dracula broke the silence. ‘Think about it.’

Agatha did not wait for the end of the conversation. Turning around, she leaped from her place and, not caring about not revealing her presence, rushed away.

‘Agatha.’

She blinked awake. Dracula stood in front of her and looked at her anxiously. Agatha averted her eyes again.

‘You could have told me,’ she said quietly, staring at the torch shadows dancing on the far wall. ‘Could have told that I... Do you have any idea how I felt all this time? Can you imagine what I…’

Having uttered the last word, she froze. A vague understanding, like scattered chords of familiar music, flashed inside.

‘What would happen if you found out?’ Dracula's voice sounded next to her.

‘I would leave. I don’t know,’ Agatha said absently, still absorbed in her own thoughts, trying to focus and grab... ‘Would you let me go?’ asked.

‘Why shouldn't I?’ he replied.

Agatha stared at him.

‘If I want to…’

‘You're free.’

He looked at her without looking away.

Flickering on the periphery of consciousness, thought suddenly took shape. Agatha frowned in disbelief and nodded distantly to herself.

But is it really that simple?.

‘You can leave right now if you want,’ Dracula once again drew her attention. ‘If you think that you have nothing else to do here, I will not hold you.’

It became quiet, and in the silence, Agatha suddenly felt the sharp smell of humid heavy air, saturated with the expectation of rain.

Glancing at Dracula, she nodded again.

‘My research has come to an end,’ she said after a long pause.

‘Are there results?’

She smiled.

‘I made a discovery.’

Polite silence answered her.

‘I found out what Count Dracula is afraid of,’ Agatha said. ‘What is he really afraid of.’

Dracula gave her a long look.

‘I would know,’ he said, ‘I was in your…’

‘No,’ Agatha shook her head. ‘I realized it just now.’

He stood motionless and looked at her.

‘You can still kill me,’ she said. ‘Then you won't know.’

Dracula stared at her without looking up.

‘I'm listening,’ he said shortly.

She smiled again and, making a sign to Dracula to follow her, turned and moved towards the exit from the great hall.

‘Do you know what surprised me the most when we walked in the forest?’ she asked, stopping halfway with her back to the door.

He looked questioningly.

‘How much of an animal is in me?’

She laughed and stepped back.

‘Your obsession with this is much greater. No,’ Agatha said seriously. ‘When we walked in the forest, when we went into the thicket, I was amazed not by how animal you are, but by how human. When you did not see, the sun's rays touched you, and you did not notice it.’

‘It can't…’ Dracula began.

Agatha took another step back.

‘All those three things that are written in the books – the inability to enter the house without an invitation, fear of sunlight, and fear of the cross – these are not three things. In fact, there is only one.’

Fumbling for the door handle, she opened it and walked out backwards. Sunlight burst into the hallway, pouring glistening liquid gold over Agatha's figure.

‘Count Dracula is afraid of the same thing that I am,’ said Agatha, smiling. ‘The same thing that we all fear in the end. And from which he could not tear himself away all this time in my blood.’

Dracula stepped forward and stopped on the other side of the door. For a few moments, he remained in the semi-darkness of the hall, looking at Agatha.

‘But if this is so, and my idea is correct,’ she continued without taking her eyes off him, ‘for him, in fact, neither someone else's house, nor the cross, nor the sun are dangerous.’

A second later, she found herself in his arms. In the stream of sunlight, feeling Dracula above and below, and around and feeling the tremor of his large body transmitted to her.

‘Agatha,’ the voice of Dracula, burying his face in her shoulder, sounded a little muffled, ‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you're wrong.’

Agatha tried to move away.

‘But are you…’

‘All this time,’ he again pressed her to him, kissing her cheek, ‘all this time I could not stop, not because I was unable to tear myself away from that in your blood, but because I was unable to tear myself away from you.’

A large drop of rain suddenly touched Agatha's face. Behind it – another, and one more, and a minute later she and Dracula were already standing under the warm summer shower.

Moving away from Agatha, but continuing to hug her, Dracula raised his head and looked at the sky.

‘It's a pity,’ he said quietly, ‘that wasn't enough for me.’

Agatha smiled, blinking the water off her stuck eyelashes.

‘Doesn`t matter. There`ll be more.’

* A coup de grâce (/ˌkuː də ˈɡrɑːs/; French [ku də ɡʁɑs] for ‘blow of mercy’) is a death blow to end the suffering of a severely wounded person or animal. It may be a mercy killing of mortally wounded civilians or soldiers, friends, or enemies, with or without the sufferer's consent.

The information was taken from Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coup_de_gr%C3%A2ce.

** Bon appétit! (French) – Enjoy your meal!

[queen18xo]

The Wolf And The Cat Chapter Two

Julian stood in the spacious room and not for the first time he noted how ghastly and decrepit the interior of the keep had become. Witchers were dwindling in numbers, and Kaer Morhen was one of the last remaining Witcher's keeps, all the others had inevitably fallen victim to the harsh years.

The room was barren, the few items of furniture scattered across the room rotting, his bed was no more than planks of wood nailed together with a moth-eaten mattress sprawled across it. There were holes of various sizes in the stone walls, decades of rubble dotted across the floor. The brick archway above his door was cracked and crumbling. There was a decent-sized fireplace; the exterior was made of worn bricks which had begun to crack much like the stairs throughout Kaer Morhen.

A table stood in the middle of the room; it consisted of uneven planks of wood, all the planks varying in length. The wood itself appeared to be slowly rotting. There were cracks across the floor, the sight of which caused Julian to feel slightly unnerved, as he had no desire to go tumbling through the floor should it collapse beneath him. The keep was in a shocking state of disrepair, and Julian felt troubled seeing it in such a sad state.

Julian was still safely tucked into his least constricting armour; the armour itself was light, allowing him to reach the Wolves keep quicker. His light armour allowed him a more comprehensive range of movement, however, it was not adequate at protecting him from damage or cold weather. Thankfully his long billowing black cloak still provided him with some warmth as he stood in the drafty room that had now been claimed as his. He had a long white tunic hidden beneath his chest plate; the damp tunic clung to his body, the white slowly stained a murky grey from the weeks of travel he had endured. Julian's face was scrunched with disgust as he turned to face the White Wolf, who stood behind him watching the Cat, golden eyes gleaming with cold indifference.

"Could I trouble you for a change of clothes, dear?" Julian asked, his mannerisms had always been courtly, regardless of growing up with two Witchers for fathers. Geralt's brows furrowed in confusion, unused to being addressed politely, Julian grinned, the look of confusion suited Geralt in his opinion, not that the Wolf was likely to care about his opinion.

"You will have to wear my clothes," Geralt grunted out, the fact that no one else would be willing to share clothes with him went unsaid. Geralt's impassive expression didn't fool Julian though, the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his arms crossing over his chest as if to create a barrier between himself and the unfamiliar Witcher showcased his discomfort.

"Look I can-" Geralt grunted stomping out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly in the barren hallway separating their rooms. Julian watched the man’s retreating back, his mouth dropping open with an affronted huff as he mentally berated the older Witcher.

Julian remained where he stood, tapping his foot impatiently as he awaited the White Wolf's return. Upon said return, the Witcher in question threw the bundle of offered clothes into Julian's face before storming back out the room, growling low in his chest as he left. Julian squeaked in surprise as he was assaulted by the clothing, his hands flying up to catch the items before they could continue their descent to the floor.

"Well, that was rude," he observed, walking further into the room and slamming the door shut behind him in an unnecessary show of his annoyance. He hadn't precisely expected a warm welcome from the Wolves, but Geralt was supposed to be the tolerable one, and yet so far he had cut Julian off mid-sentence, thrown his clothes at him and barely spoken to him. Geralt was gruff and abrasive, and Julian found it particularly aggravating. His face flushed with annoyance he made his way to the rickety bed to change.

Julian peeled the restrictive material of his tunic from his torso, replacing it with Geralt's. The Wolf's tunic hung loosely from his frame, the dark colour made a stark contrast against his milky skin. He opted not to wear Geralt's trousers; they were much too large for his dainty waist. He breathed in deeply, the White Wolf's alluring scent surrounded him entirely, he breathed a sigh of relief, tension flooding from his aching muscles for the first time since losing his father, the Wolf's natural musk unexpectedly comforting. ~~~ Walking through the keep was daunting; there were countless bedrooms as well as larger rooms which no longer seemed to serve a purpose. There were an excessive amount of staircases, all of which had begun to fall apart, most appeared to be unusable from the passing glance Julian spared them.

On silent feet, Julian tracked through the empty corridors of Kaer Morhen, the wind rattling through the halls, the cold breeze raising gooseflesh over his skin beneath the long sleeves of Geralt's tunic. Rubble littered the floor, staircases turned to piles of rock, walls which echoed and groaned as they crumbled to pieces all created an ominous environment which had Julian on edge as he tried to locate the kitchen.

He could already feel the heat emanating from the kitchen; he could hear the scuffle of feet and hushed conversations; of which he had no doubt he was the topic. Julian could smell meat stewing, the crackle of the fire could be heard as he paced the neverending halls of the Wolves keep. He stood, back pressed to the cold, rough exterior of the entrance watching as the four Witchers bustled around the kitchen, unaware of his presence.

The kitchen had two large wooden tables in the middle of the room, unlike the table in his chambers; these tables appeared well cared for. Across the table were various scraps of meat and vegetables, bloodstains soaked through into the surface of the hardwood. Beneath table spilling from large wicker baskets sat an assortment of seasonal fruits and vegetables.

Two fires were roaring: one large, one small, inside the larger fire dangled a steel chain attached to a pot; there was a second chain which appeared to have broken, there were no more than a couple of inches of it left. The smaller fire sat beside the large one. It had a little pot dangling above the vicious flames, beneath the pot was a slight stone arch, in front of the arched stone rested small bundles of wood ready to stoke the fire should it lose any heat.

Beside the arched entrance to the kitchen were uneven wooden shelves which had been precariously nailed into the rough stone wall, the shelves had a wide range of spices and herbs all contained within jars, the Wolves had haphazardly thrown the little containers across the shelves.

In the far corner of the room sat a pail filled to the brim with water, there was no steam rising from the surface, A cloth draped over the side of the wooden exterior. Julian rightly assumed the pot was for the Witchers to wash their hands while cooking. A fond smile crept onto his face, Vesemir always had been a stickler for good hygiene.

Opposite the entrance, across the room, was another arch; this one, however, was lined with high vaulted windows. Three tall windows stood beneath the archway allowed natural light to stream into the otherwise dark kitchen. The arch itself was crumbling, holes of various sizes dotted across it, occasionally the Witchers would hear the echo of small clumps of stone falling to the floor.

"You can't let him stay here, Ves; he doesn't belong here." Lambert barked at the older Witcher, who growled in return. Geralt stood stoically in the corner across the room, his burning golden gaze boring into Julian.

"Why don't you take your issue up with me pup?" Julian snarled grinning maliciously at the youngest Wolf as he made his presence known. He stalked into the room, his sharp teeth bared as he approached Lambert.

"Think you can take me Cat?" Lambert growled lowering his stance, preparing for the inevitable fight.

"I don't think sweetheart; I know." Julian purred, his low drawl borderline seductive, he flicked his eyes between Geralt and Vesemir anticipating one of the older Witchers intervening. However, both stood to the side. Geralt was as expressionless as ever and Vesemir looked on with an amused smirk.

Lambert growled propelling himself forward. Julian bent his knees, lowering his stance he lept into the air, one of his long legs wrapping around the young Wolf's throat as he flew overhead, the movement trapping the young Witcher and pulling him to the ground. On the floor Lambert groaned loudly, gasping in lungfuls of air, he tapped Julian's leg twice, and the older man quickly released him. Julian offered out a hand to assist the other but found it rudely smacked away. Julian chuckled darkly, shaking his

"Whatever, pup," the older Witcher shrugged.

Julian found Geralt's gaze locked on him once more, the man's eyes tracing over every inch of his body. The way his warm eyes bored into him made him feel uncomfortably exposed. His cheeks flushed under the man's unwavering exploration of his body.

"Will you eat dear?" Vesemir called to him, a knowing glint in his eyes as he looked between the Wolf and the Cat, a small smile playing on his lips.

"No, I'm rather tired it seems. I think I will retire for the evening, thank you." Julian choked out, Geralt's expression briefly flashed with concern as the Cat's striking blue eyes flickered up to meet his from beneath his long lashes. As Julian made his exit, Geralt for the first time, found himself wanting to follow a Cat.

[timeaftertime-chriscornellfanfic]

Chapter 39 - Drown Me In Your Thirsty Veins

Seattle Washington, November 4 1990

(Andi is 20, Chris is 26)

ANDI: "Ok, Mrs. Cornell, here is your prescription and you are all set," one of the girls behind the counter at the pharmacy says as she hands me a little bag.

"Thank you," I smile as I take the bag from her. I swear it's still crazy to me to hear people call me 'Mrs. Cornell'. It almost sounds surreal in a sense.

In the few weeks that we have been officially husband and wife, we have been practically inseparable - well we always were before of course but even more so now, though I'm not counting the times when I slip of course. The next morning after I came back, Chris took me to city hall so that we could actually make our marriage official and even though I hated myself for slipping and missing the whole entire thing, Chris told me that my future self came back to marry him at the ceremony, which confused me at first, but at least I was able to be there, even if it was my future self. Then to celebrate, we went back to the tattoo artist that originally did my ring tattoo and had him finish it. Chris still keeps my wedding band and engagement ring around his silver chain necklace, never taking it off.

I haven't slipped since the wedding but my neurologist decided to up my dose of Lorazepam anyways. No one knows why I slipped at the wedding. I've been taking exactly what is prescribed to me like clockwork but for some reason, it just happened, and it wasn't like my normal time slips either. The dizziness was overwhelming. It just felt different. Anyways... hopefully these pills will help.

As I head out the doors looking down at my prescription, I flip my curls out of my face to see Chris leaning against his baby blue Ford pick-up in his leather jacket, a plain black knit sweater, black jeans with the cuffs rolled up over his red Doc Martens, taking a drag from his cigarette while he squints his eyes from the rising smoke. His beard is perfectly trimmed and his curls that are down passed his shoulders, gently sway in the cool November breeze while he waits for me. Seems like he's always waiting for me.

"Hey beautiful," He says sweetly exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Hi," I smile back as I walk up to him, lifting myself up a little to press my lips to his. I give him a few quick kisses but then he just grabs me by the nape of my neck and presses his lips harder to mine making me giggle against him.

"You ready?" He says when I pull away from him.

"As I'll ever be," I say and he chuckles giving me one last quick kiss and then moving to open the passenger side door for me. He helps me in, then closes the door and heads around to his side and climbs in. I immediately take over the task of finding some tunes, popping in a cassette with Guns N' Roses blasting through the speakers. Chris glances over at me with a smirk as he butts out the last of his cigarette.

"What can I say, I love Slash ok?" I smile and give him a shrug. He laughs and gives me a sweet smirk again. He then turns his attention to the steering wheel, pulling out away from the curb and we take off down the streets of downtown Seattle.

We are heading up north to London Bridge Studios for Chris to do some recording with Jeff, Stone, Matt and Mike McCready. Chris's grandfather has a cabin near the studio, so we decided to use it for a place to stay which will also give us some much needed alone time in between recording.

Over the summer, Chris had been working on some songs in the wake of Andy's passing and Jeff was the one who had suggested that he record the songs, in sort of a tribute to Andy. Since there were also a few other songs that Chris had written that sort of didn't really fit the esthetic of Soundgarden, he thought of maybe putting them all on an album. One last time to say goodbye you could say.

About an hour and a half later, we arrive at the Cabin which was located down a winding back road that was apparently only maintained during the summer months. There was only just a little bit of snow on the road but it still made the drive a little slippery. I guess Chris's truck needs some new winter tires.

Once we were parked, I climb out of the truck while Chris grabs some of the bags from the back, then comes around to take my hand leading me up to the front door. Hi fishes in the pockets of his leather jacket to find the keys while I pull closed my leather jacket, feeling the chill in the air. It's definitely a lot colder up here than in Seattle. Once he opens the door, he lets me inside first.

"Damn, it's cold in here too," I say.

"Yea it will be for a little bit, 'til I get the fire going," He says as he sets some of the bags down at the door. "I'm just gonna grab the groceries from the truck, I'll be right back babe,"

As he heads back to the truck, I take off my Doc Martens, carry the bags over to the bed which was straight ahead on the far side positioned next to the wall and slip off my leather jacket.

The cabin is one big large open room with a large fireplace and a little kitchen off to the far right side with a small fridge and stove that looked like it was from the 1940's - which it mostly likely was. The couch and love seat surround the fireplace with what looked like an animal fur throw rug in the middle, and a TV positioned high up on a stand in the far left corner.

Chris then comes back in with the groceries and a couple of guitars, setting them down by the door as he begins to take of his red Doc Martens. I then walk over to him, taking the bags of groceries and walk over to the kitchen to put them away.

"Ok, let's get a fire going," Chris says as he walks over to the fireplace, grabbing some of the kindling and some of the wood logs that had been already cut from a few months prior and placing it inside. He then takes the long lighter off of the mantle and lights the fireplace and it instantly roars to life.

"Are you hungry?" I ask as I close the fridge, stashing the grocery bags on the counter.

"A little," He says as he walks up behind me and wraps his arms around me.  

"My god, I'm so cold," I say and snuggle into him for warmth as he brushes my curls from my shoulder, placing his lips to that spot under my ear. The scent of his cologne so fresh and comforting, as it fills my nostrils.

"Me too baby," He says, his voice deep and smooth. His lips move to my earlobe, his beard tickling me as he does so, sending chills down my body. He slowly reaches in front of me, carefully unbuttoning my red plaid shirt and once he reaches the last button, I turn to face him, pressing my lips to his. His hands make their way up my back, his fingers skipping across my skin as I lace my fingers through his curls, his tongue swiping across my bottom lip.

He then swiftly picks me up and I laugh in surprise, wrapping my legs around him as he carries me over to the fur rug in front of the fire. He lays me down giggling with me, my shirt now open revealing my black lacy bra as he kneels in between my legs.

"I thought you said... you were hungry?" I ask, watching him lift up his sweater, revealing his perfectly toned chest and abs. His gorgeous curls fall down around his shoulders as he tosses his sweater on the couch, the silver chain necklace laying against his skin glistening in the warm fire light.

"I didn't say it was for food," He says with that sly smirk, his incredible blue eyes fixating on mine as he moves over top of me, unbuckling my belt, popping open the button to my jeans and pulling the zipper down. I bite my bottom lip as he immediately pulls my jeans down over my hips tossing them aside then carefully holds my ankle, pulling off my white sock, tossing it with my jeans and I couldn't help but laugh at how ticklish it felt.

"Chris, don't, don't touch my feet please," I laugh.

"Shhhhh trust me...," He laughs and takes my other ankle, pulling off my other sock. He then gently moves his hands up my calf, opening my legs further as his fingers brush across my skin, moving up my thigh to the rim of my black panties.

I close my eyes and take in a deep breath letting it out slowly as I feel his fingers play just inside the rim of my panties, feeling his blue eyes watch me as I react to him. Once his fingers begin to softly stroke my clit, I let out a whimper, slightly arching my back to the feeling of his touch.

"Shit, baby... you are so wet already," He says and I quickly nod letting out a gasp as his fingers tease around my slit without actually going in. I want him so bad already but I need to let myself enjoy it. He then stops for a moment, slipping his fingers out from the thin fabric, then pulls them down over my hips as I help wiggle out of them. Without even wasting a single second, he positions my legs perfectly, then spreads me open, his lips instantly making contact with my clit.

I moan as he places gentle fleeting kisses all around my clit, his lips feeling so hot yet soft at the same time. His thumb brushes the outside of my slit, still teasing but not actually going inside which was driving me absolutely insane with incredible pleasure.

"Fuck... Chris you're so fucking good," I manage to get out in between my moans. Then as if he felt the need to up his game, he gives my clit a few licks , then begins to suck, feeling each gentle pull while his tongue intermittently flicks in perfect timing.

I moan even louder than before as he slips a finger, then another inside me stroking perfectly as the crackling sound from the fire fills the room. It wasn't long before I could feel that wonderful sensation deep inside me, begging to explode. As much as I tried to hold back and just enjoy him playing with me, my body had other plans. Without so much as a warning, I cry out a string of sudden profanities that even a sailor would blush at as Chris plays me though the entire event. It was almost like I had lost my complete sense of awareness of where I was and what time I was in. Like I wasn't even on this plane of existence anymore. I wish time slipping was this incredible.

"Stop, stop... oh my god, Chris you have... to stop," I pant.

"Are you sure baby? It seems like you don't really want me to," He says as I try to stop myself from responding to his touch, but he just makes me feel so good.

"No, I mean yes... you have to stop," I continue to try to catch my breath with my eyes still squeezed shut. I quickly cover my face in my hands, not wanting him to look at me anymore. I'm not exactly sure why but I just feel so vulnerable, like I don't want him to see me at all.

"Baby?" He chuckles and it was all I could do to will myself not to cry.

Why in the fucking world is this making me cry?

I hear him unbuckle his belt and after a few quick seconds, I feel his lips place sweet kisses to my stomach, slowly moving up to my ribs and I start to giggle, feeling his beard tickle me. Chris then starts to giggle as I start to laugh while he continues to place sweet kisses on my chest.

"I... love you... so, so, so, so much," He says softly laughing in between his kisses as I take my hands away from my face, wiping the stray tears from the corners of my eyes. "... and I love how I can make you cum so hard that you react that way to me,"

"So you want to make me cry?" I laugh still wiping my eyes.

"No, no... I mean - " He cuts himself off as I laugh.

"It's ok Chris, I know what you meant. I'm just embarrassed about crying after... that, but holy fuck, I don't know what or how you were doing whatever you were doing but... fuck..." I try to explain as I remember the exact moment, feeling the tingling sensation returning to my clit. He then grabs my hips and pulls me to him and I laugh again as he laughs with me, his lips moving to that spot under my earlobe.

"You don't need to feel embarrassed at all. You don't even know how incredibly sexy you are, do you?" He whispers in my ear and I can feel his cock, so insanely hard as he teases my entrance with just the tip.

"No," I say shyly.

"Well you are baby," He whispers pushing himself inside me, slowly and sensually and I instinctively wrap my legs around his hips, locking his legs with mine, arching my back while he moves in and out of me. I feel my entire body lose control as he hits the perfect spot inside me, filling me up completely.

"Holy shit," He pants and pulls out of me.

"What?" I exhale.

"Nothing, I'm just trying not to cum yet," He says as he looks down at himself.

"Chris, I don't care," I pant. I just wanted him back inside me. He then pushes himself back in and I swear I thought I was going to lose it. He just feels so incredibly hard and thick. He lets out a loud moan and touches his forehead to mine, as I cry out seemingly louder than before. I flick my eyes open to watch his expression, his eyebrows knitting together, then furrowing.

"Oh, fuck yes!" He cries out and I feel him release inside me as I pant, trying to catch my breath. "Oh my god baby, that was... holy shit,"

Panting, he collapses down on top of me and I giggle to myself full of pure bliss from him. We roll on to our side, and he lifts himself up on his forearm as he pulls out of me to look down at himself for a moment. I then place my lips to his cheek and then down his jawline to his neck as he continues to breathe slightly heavy.

"Sorry babe, give me a second here," He says and he moves away from me, and gets up, fumbling just a little and I giggle. He quickly makes his way to the bathroom which was beside the kitchen and comes back with a towel, wiping himself down, then coming back to me, moving my leg to help wipe me down too.

"I kinda... made a mess," He smirks shyly,

"It's ok," I giggle.

"Look... look what you do to me," He says kneeling in between my legs again, glancing back down at himself, his curls falling across his face and I can see that he was still fully erect.

"Awe, baby... maybe I can help with that," I say, completely turned on again at the size of him and how he was still so hard after that. I sit myself up, flipping my curls out of my face and immediately take him in my hand giving him a few good squeezes.

"Oh shit," He exhales as I place my lips to the tip of him, giving him a few sweet kisses first, then begin to suck lightly while his entire body tenses. I give him another squeeze as I suck harder and more determined, earning moans of encouragement with each stroke. He then leans against the couch, repositioning himself with his legs straight out in front of him, I kneel in between as his fingers lace through my hair, drowning in my dark curls. I moan a little as his fingers play with my hair feeling so good as I do my work on him.

"Fuck, you are so fucking good at that," He praises, his breathing becoming more intense.

I stop for a moment, running my tongue all the way down his shaft and slowly back up to give me a moment to catch my breath. Then I continue sucking, flattening my tongue along his shaft stroking and squeezing whatever I couldn't get in my mouth.

"Baby, come here," He breathes and I give him one last good suck as he pulls me to him.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask.

"No, no... I just wanna be inside you again," He says, those blue eyes of his intensely fixated on mine as I position myself perfectly on top of him.

As soon as I lowered myself on him, I knew I wasn't going to last long at all. His hands move to my hips to help guide me and it was all I could do to keep myself together. I throw my head back as he reaches up moving my shirt off my shoulder, pulling my bra strap down and pressing his lips, gently nipping and moving down. I moan arching my back moving with his rhythm as he frees my breast from the confines of my bra, his lips teasing, his tongue flicking my nipple was all I could take before I could feel that wonderful sensation creeping up once more.

"Chris, I'm gonna cum again," I pant as he breaks his lips from my nipple.

"Me too baby," He says as his thumb brushes my nipple. I take in a deep breath and touch my forehead to his and once more, we release together, moaning and crying out as one.

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 5: Let’s Start a Garden

Lance takes a moment alone with Keith, and they figure out what they want from each other.

First  Previous  Next

Lance keeps a grip on Keith’s hand as he leads him through the seemingly endless hallways. Keith's grateful, albeit begrudgingly. He'd get lost in seconds without the Altean.

“I want to show you something,” Lance whispers. “I suspect neither of us wanted this, but still. You are far from home, and I’ve given much thought to making you comfortable.”

Keith says nothing.

“I hope the circlet is okay.” Lance tries again. “I told my resident genius to make sure it wouldn’t bother your ears.”

Keith falters a bit, not having considered that Lance might have put any special thought into the piece. It's nice, he assumes, gold with a red stone of some kind in the center of it, it dips down a spot or two in the front and back and settles between his ears. Lance's wraps all the way around, a flawless circle siting lightly on his head, that glowing blue stone perfect in color.

Perfect, like the rest of him. An overbred little whore.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he whispers, truthfully. “One like yours would, but this one is fine.”

Lance seems fairly pleased with that. "Good, because Pidge nearly strangled me when I asked them to change it."

They reach a set of double doors.

“These are our quarters. You’re not at all confined to them, but do remember where you are. And where this room is. You may need it.” Keith nods, tension coiling in his stomach like a heavy rope. He feels sick. It’s good he hadn’t been able to eat the food. "The scanner, here-" Lance gestures gracefully to a scanner next to the doors. "Will only recognize your hand print and mine. And Adam's, but if he didn't have access, he'd have Pidge break him in. And Pidge can get into pretty much anything. I'll show you their space as soon as I can, in case you need anything or need to snoop around."

Lance opens the door, still gripping his hand tight. Keith’s not sure if he feels comforted or trapped. The guards standing watch follow him with their eyes. He notices that the one on the left has milky white orbs instead of opalescent irises.

“I imagined you would spend a lot of your time here while you grow accustomed to living here. I tried to make it more suited to your tastes.”

Lance guides him into the room. Before Keith can take a look around, Lance draws him closer, undoing the clasps on Keith’s vest, slipping it off for him. Keith sighs, pinching the fabric of his close-fitting shirt. It’s not the sort of thing he’s used to, but he can bend his spine again, which is a definite improvement.

He turns, looking around the room. Behind him, Lance removes his own vest, pulls a bottle of something from a drawer in the wall, applying it to a cloth to clean the paint from his face.

It’s nice. The enormous, round, four-poster canopy bed notwithstanding, the quarters have a great deal of open space, with room for Keith to pace. He notices a ladder leading to a second floor of sorts, a simple ledge around the circular tower that contains the main room. A warm fireplace, already burning in front of a sofa and some chairs. There's no smell, so Keith assumes it smells sweet in here.

There’s a tray of food on an end table.

“I've been told that Galra like high places, despite living in dens. That space up there is yours to furnish. Just let me know what you want and I’ll procure it. Or I can show you how, and you can do it yourself. There is a pile of cushions up there by the window already, in case you want to get away.

“This switch here will dim the lights,” Lance explains, lifting their re-joined hands to a dial on the wall. “It should be more comfortable for your eyes. I’ve heard that they’re sensitive. Through that door-” Lance gestures with their hands. “-is the bathroom. And through there-” Lance gestures again. “-is a garden. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before, or so I expect. I hope you like it.”

Lance begins fiddling with the many pieces of gold in his ears, the caps covering the pointed tips. There’s a sigh of relief as he removes some of the heavier pieces. Of course he has the audacity to complain about earrings when Keith-

Keith slips away, taking small, cautious steps to the garden door. He lifts his hand to the gilded handle, hesitates, turns back for permission.

Lance smiles, gesturing with his hand. “All of this ours, Keith. Do as you like.”

It’s a garden, to be sure, but not at all familiar to Keith. There’s a strange, curling tree with green wood, it’s swirling branches hanging overhead, heavy with long strands of blue leaves. At its base, flowering plants with purple, yellow, and red petals. Small, pale, glowing... things... hover among the branches, slipping in and out of the flowers’ deep throats. The moss is soft beneath Keith’s weird, tall shoes.

Keith reaches up, trailing a leafy tendril between his fingers, and the leaves chime a soft, tinkling melody like wind chimes. Keith gasps, snatching his hand back. He smiles, small but still there.

Lance quite suddenly looms behind him, and Keith tenses. The smile is gone, his cuticles tingling as he resists extending him claws. He has a duty.

Remember where you are.

“It’s a singing tree. Romelle really likes wind chimes. She told me about them. I thought this might be a decent substitute. Our quarters are unorthodox. Normally, and before now, my quarters were near the center of the castle, in a high tower. I relocated out here to the corner with this invention in mind. There are places where the walls open and let in a breeze. I thought you might find it pleasant, but still safe if you wish to hide yourself away in here-” Lance stops talking quite suddenly.

Lance is clearly trying (and failing) not to talk his ear off, perhaps aware that Keith isn’t much of a talker. “It’s... nice. Thank you.”

Lance doesn’t respond.

Keith winces. “Sorry. I do like it. I just…” He couldn’t have sounded any less sincere. He tries to hide his dismay, his fatigue. A hand finds the small of his back and Keith jumps, instincts kicking in before he can push them down.

“You really think I’m going to touch you, don’t you?” Lance sounds disappointed.

“You are touching me!” Keith protests. “You’re doing it right now!”

“That’s not what I meant. You know that.” Lance regards him, those opalescent blue eyes gazing hard into Keith’s face. The Altean has layers. “You’re not a fool, though you are a poor actor.”

“You have a reputation. I don’t expect you to care.” Keith bristles, the strip of longer fur down his spine ruffling beneath his snug clothes. Lance just sighs, carefully drawing away.

“It’s a farce, Keith. See, I’ve spent much of my time fooling about. Openly. Brazenly. No one expects anything at all from me anymore except more fooling about. Now, I am married, and have new duties to my spouse and new duties to my people and yours, lifting a heavy burden from my aging fathers’ shoulders. Imagine how delighted the people will be when I cease my foolery and rise to the occasion. It will be much easier to gain their favor if I seem to perform some small miracle.”

Keith remembers quite suddenly that the word Prince Lotor, Princess Allura, and Romelle used to describe Lance had been “complicated.”

“So... you’re not actually a pervert?” Keith asks. Lance blanches, then relaxes. Keith averts his gaze. He needs to learn how not to talk to people. Or how to talk to people. The first is probably more feasible.

“No, Keith. And I’m not about to do anything to you that you don’t want.”

You already have.

It’s not your fault.

“Eventually, my father will either order me to, or we won’t be able to avoid the need for progeny but... For now, your body is your own, and only your own. Either way, I will never take anything from you by force.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Keith growls, ears pinned back against his head. He bares his teeth at the Altean.

Lance raises a silver-white eyebrow, eyes chilling. “Oh?”

“I’m a Galra, Lance. I’ve been trained to kill Alteans.”

“And you think I haven’t been trained how to kill Galra?” Keith's ear twitches. Lance sighs. “Listen, I want us to-”

“If you’re going to say you want us to be a real couple, don’t bother. We’re not.” Keith grimaces again. Adam will likely forbid him to speak in public at this rate.

Lance glares, frustrated. “No. I don’t expect that. However, I would like us to work together. Maybe... friends?” The Altean is losing patience. Keith heaves in a breath. That really doesn’t sound unreasonable. Or too terrible. “We may be the only ones we can trust now. We’re enemies of both our peoples, Keith.”

“Okay. We- We have a common goal in mind, right? Take care of our people?” Keith glances up to the prince. Lance nods in affirmation. “Then yeah, we can work together and maybe be friends. I don’t know how to lead, but I do have practical knowledge. I’m sure I can be good for something.”

Lance breaks into a dazzling grin, the soft scales on his face glowing faintly with quintessence. Lance must be a powerful alchemist, if his quintessence rises that willingly. And not a very experienced one, if his control is so lacking.

“Great! So... What do you like to do?” Lance bends down to gently play with one of the little glowing-ball-creature-things. Keith wilts. How’s he supposed to answer that?

He decides to start with what he’s good at instead.

“Um... I’m a good tracker. An excellent fighter. I’m very good with a blade. I’m fast. I have good instincts.”

“Okay... But what do you like?” The Altean doesn’t look up. Keith sighs, wrapping his arms around himself, tail and ears wilting. Growing up, he only had time to like one thing: living to see tomorrow.

“I don’t really know.” He hates how small he sounds at that. “I just... do my thing and that’s about it.”

“Well what would you choose to do if it were up to you?” Lance is clearly starting to get frustrated again, if the tiny huff and the annoyed angle of his ears were anything to go by. The tips are sticking out of his soft-looking white hair. Everything about Lance looks soft, at least at first.

The prince changes so fast, emotions so fleeting and wild. A capricious creature, born of a capricious species.

“...Train. Oh! Sometimes, I read books or explore the wilds. I usually go off by myself when I’m out hunting.”

Keith finds himself hoping that there’s something in there that Lance might like about him. At least let this pretty, dangerous creature like something about him. Even if just something small.

“I like exploring too. And I can show you where the library is tomorrow, if you want.” Lance’s quintessence reaches out, hopeful and gentle, but Keith draws away even as relief flooded his veins. Lance wants this to work. He wants them to not hate each other, or be strangers. Thank the gods. His relief must show on his face, because Lance continues. “I’m not so good with a sword, if we’re being honest. But I’m an excellent shot with a bow.”

Keith lets himself grow a little more hopeful. “I’m a terrible shot,” he admits. “Perhaps we can teach each other.”

“I’m not opposed.” Lance rises, turning to look at him. “Perhaps we’ll learn to get along.”

“Oh.” Keith’s heart sinks. “Are we not getting along?”

“You think we are? We’ve done nothing but warn and threaten each other, and getting anything from you is like pulling teeth.” Lance sighs. He doesn't like Keith. Keith is sure of it now. How does this man change his emotions so fast? It’s frightening.

Keith bristles, curls his fingers into fists. “Well, yes. But at least you’re not lying out of your ass right now.”

“Excuse me?”

“‘He means the world to me'?” Keith grumbles, ears pinned tight against his head. “What a load of rubbish.”

“It’s not. You do mean the world to me,” Lance says, frigidly cold, stiff, hands at his sides. “I married you, and now my people will be safe. Your people will be safe. Our people are allies, and no longer at war. We have secured the safety of five billion people. And those people, Keith, mean the world to me.”

Keith’s tail, his face, his ears fall, his expression wilting. “You had a choice in this, didn’t you?”

“Technically, yes. Practically, I’d say no.”

“You chose this? Even though you didn’t want it?”

“Yes, we’ve established this.”

“And they gave you a useless runt who’s been a lord for all of a phoeb.” Keith sighs. Despite his seeming lack of patience and his... inconsistencies... that really need further exploring, Lance deserves better. He deserves a legitimate member of nobility. Not some stunted (both physically and emotionally) little Galra who isn’t even full-grown.

Lance waves a hand, dismissive. “It hardly matters to me, to be honest. The point is, we are married, in a horribly rushed, unorthodox, soulless ceremony that will have half of the population questioning if there’s going to be a famine on one of our planets and the other half wondering if I accidentally got you pregnant. Either way, we’re a means to an end, and the end has been achieved.”

“About that... I am capable-”

“Yes, I gleaned as much when Zarkon mentioned your season.” Keith’s grateful his fur can hide his blush. “Which means you’ll have a violent growth spurt, and spend a movement or two doing nothing but sleeping and eating. Then you’ll spike a vicious fever and-”

“How do you know all of this? About lights and wind chimes and-”

Lance blushes furiously beneath his scales. “I went to my sister for information. About Galra in general. As people, as opposed to an enemy or a society.” Lance sits down, and Keith joins him, taking the opportunity to touch the soft blue-green moss. It feels nice, just like he’d thought. He smiles, ears perking with delight. “I just... wanted to make it better for you. I knew nothing about you, but I figured you’d end up resenting me for all of this one way or another, so... here we are.”

Keith fiddles with the moss, avoiding the prince’s blue-opal gaze. “Here we are... I like Allura. She was very nice to me. She's nice to everyone.”

“I miss her. Romelle, too.” Lance murmurs, gazing up at the stars above. Keith hadn’t noticed the room had a glass roof.

"I didn't meet Romelle. She wasn't well when Emperor Zarkon invited me for dinner."

“We grew up together, you know? Only a couple decaphoebs apart. My constant companions. My dearest friends.”

Keith takes a deep breath. “Shiro. He... My mother was a soldier, until Allura and Lotor married. My father died, and I was alone. My mother couldn’t exactly lower her sword for me, so Shiro took me in. He’s been Captain of the Guard for a centaphoeb now...

“I’m really going to miss him,” Keith whispers, swallowing as his eyes began to sting. A small chirp makes its way past his lips. “And my mother. She couldn’t even be here.”

“You’ll see them again, Keith.” Lance places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. This time, Keith doesn’t shrink away. “I promise you. I’ll make sure you see them as often as possible.”

Keith imagines that that will still be never, but he believes Lance means it. Next to him, the Altean lies back, and one of the little flying lights, a blue one, lands on his nose. It's some kind of animal, with glass-like wings and tiny claws.

It pinches the end of Lance's nose, and the prince smiles, poking the creature gently. It seems to lean into his touch.

Keith quite suddenly remembers something Shiro told him about aesthetic beauty, and how captivating it can be. He wonders if that gentle, affectionate finger counts.

[fletchphoenix]

According To Plan

Chapter One of the corpse bride au!!! YAY!

I’m so excited to start this and shall post it on AO3 separate to my oneshots. Hope you all enjoy! 

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Nimble fingers maneuvered a pen across parchment paper that was strewn across a creaky wooden desk. The owner of said fingers raised the quill, dipping it generously into the ink pot beside him and continuing his ministrations as the butterfly trapped inside the glass container set under the window. The butterfly’s wings fluttered in its makeshift cage as it periodically thudded against its transparent prison, while the man disregarded this and kept drawing the specimen. Once he determined he was done, the quill was swiftly discarded as he instead moved his hands to raise the glass containing the insect. It fluttered around the room for a few seconds, circling the man before finally making its retreat out of the window. In a way, the man felt like the butterfly, confined in a prison and unable to decide where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do. However, unlike the butterfly, he didn’t have someone to set him free.

  The chime of the clock from the monotonous town outside broke the man from his thoughts and, accompanied by the ringing of a newsman outside, bought his thoughts back to the harsh reality he was facing with his betroval. “Ten minutes until Atkinson boy's wedding rehearsal!” it declared, and Hugo felt the dread settle in. Ah yes. He was still due to marry Miss Gardiner tomorrow, wasn’t he? He didn’t know how he’d forgotten. He rose to his feet from his place at the desk and made his way towards the door in a bitter silence, pushing it open and making his way down the stairs with a bitter feeling of anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach. 

  He knew the wedding was a way for his mother to make money - but that didn’t mean he had to find it fair. Donella had never neglected to tell him that marriage was merely out of necessity and never for affection, however a part of him had always prayed that he would find someone he had genuine feelings for. But, here he was, about to leave for his wedding rehearsal for a marriage to a girl he’d never even spoken to or seen in his life and he had to just smile and accept it. After all, this was the big ‘money maker’ for his mother. Besides, he’d never even spoken to another woman before so..it wasn’t as if he could find a wife himself even if he tried. Nevertheless, he strode out the door and joined his mother in that fateful carriage. 

  The ride was short, Hugo all the while staring out of the window at the cobbled streets and the different shades of grey that covered the streets. It really was a drab town they lived in wasn’t it? All that covered this tedious town was shades of grey, making it all the more depressing in winter when the ivory snow joined the landscape. It seemed that all color just..ceased to exist in this place. Either way, Hugo desperately tried to distract himself from his upcoming betrothal to the mystery woman, who honestly should be marrying something like a Lord or at least someone of a higher class than him, but who was he to question her family’s decisions at this point. 

  “You’ve certainly got a good match, Hugo. All you have to do is not mess it up or scare her away. After all, everything must go according to plan.” Donella’s voice shattered the silent atmosphere and Hugo’s thought process. His eyebrow quirked up and a confused smile settled on his face as he looked at his mother in the cramped carriage. Her grey dress matched the general vibe of the town outside and blended in with the satin seats. 

  “Shouldn’t a Gardiner be marrying a Lord or-or something like that? I haven’t even spoken to her-” he began to question, before Donella rudely interrupted him.  

  “Nonsense, we are every bit as good as the Gardiners.” she declared before looking at her son, “Well at least we have that, then. No chance you’ve scared her away already.” Donella muttered before leaning back in the seat, making it clear this conversation was over. Hugo let out a frustrated sigh as gazed out the window once again, letting himself get lost again in the depressing nature of their wretched town.

  After around ten minutes, the carriage jolted and stopped in its tracks, the footman swinging the door open so he and his mother could exit. Donella gracefully stepped down onto the pavement and Hugo stumbled out after. Stone steps clicked under the heels on his mother’s boots as they ascended them. Once they reached the top, Donella’s hand raised to knock the dark oak door, Hugo looming awkwardly behind her as she and the mystery woman’s parents exchanged formalities in the doorway. The foyer of the house was of a decent size - not as spacious as the one in his mother’s mansion. Black and white checkered tiles covered the floor in a deliberate pattern, with grey curtains to compliment them and a grand, spruce piano to the right towards the hallway the elders were heading towards. A fireplace was on the left wall, the crest of the family carved into the stone above it, a few metres away sat a table along with paintings on the wall. A large staircase that broke into a left and right pathway sat in the middle of the room, Hugo not even daring to try ascending them for fear of what he’d find, or for fear of punishment from the hosts.

  Hugo absentmindedly let himself head over to the piano, letting himself be seated on the matching spruce seat, a layer of cotton that was covered by a grey velvet shielding it. His fingers drifted across the ivory keys before trying a few, the sound echoing in the foyer filled with just him. He tested a few more, a rhythm slowly being crafted by his own two hands as he let himself fall victim to the trance of music. His fingers were evidently not only good for sketching and writing, them dancing between the notes of his melody and blocking out any sound other than what was coming from the piano. It distracted him to not even hear the click of a woman’s high heels against that tiled floor as she stood behind him. His head slowly turned, meeting the face of a rather attractive woman before he fell back from the stool, knocking it to the floor and rising to his feet. “Oh my...do forgive me-” He uttered as he stumbled over his words.

  “You play beautifully.” she stated, her chestnut hair tied back into a neat bun and a desaturated mauve dress decorating her figure. Brown eyes stared into his blue ones in wonder and joy. He had to admit, she did look rather beautiful. 

  “I do apologise, miss Gardiner. How rude of me to, well-” he cut off his own words as his eyes glanced down to the stool, still laying on the ground since he knocked it. “Excuse me.” he whispered, reaching down to put the stool upright and his back straightening as he did so. As soon as he was finished, he arched his back, using his left hand to quickly dust off the seat as the woman watched him intently.

  “Mother won't let me near the piano.” she stated, still watching Hugo as he continued his avid dusting, “Music is improper for a young lady. Too passionate, she says.” she declared, her eyes focusing on a tile before redirecting themselves back to the man standing across from her. Hugo spent some time examining her face - it being thin and sculpted almost perfectly with freckles strewn across her face that were the same shade as her hair. So she was the woman he was betrothed to, huh? Well, she wasn’t that bad at all.

   “So...where’s your chaperone, Miss Gardiner?” he questioned, folding his arms, slightly uncomfortable in the black suit that his mother had purchased him specifically for the wedding tomorrow. Black was probably his least favourite color - his favourite definitely being green. Green reminded him of spring, the only time their town had any semblance of color, with the graveyard no longer looking desolate and having some signs of light and life. 

  “Well, considering the circumstances, you should call me Odelia.” she commented with a smile, her hands moving behind her back with a wider smile than he’d seen on anyone else in his life. It was strange, really. She reminded him of spring. 

  “`Well, uh..Odelia. Tomorrow we are to be..uh-” he began, a nervousness in his voice while in the presence of the woman he was about to marry 

  “Married.” 

  “Ah, yes. Married.” he chuckled nervously and bit the inside of his cheek, a lingering silence falling between them as they ran out of things to say. Hugo’s hands rose to pick at the threads on the sleeve of his suit jacket, before lowering his hands and opting to wring his cravat with shaky hands in an attempt to calm his nerves. It succeeded, helping to stop the slight quiver in his voice. 

  “You know...ever since I was a child, I dreamed of my wedding day.” she began, seemingly rambling to herself as she took a seat on the velvet stool and let her fingers ghost across the keys of the piano in front of them. “I always hoped that it would be with someone I deeply loved and someone to spend the rest of my life with.” She let out a little giggle, her lips curling into a gentle smile. “But I guess that’s silly isn’t it?” Odelia sighed, a hint of sadness in her tone as she stared at the floor solemnly. 

  “Yes, silly.” He whispered, realising his mistake before lunging and yelping. “Wait-wait no! It's not silly at all!” He called out, knocking over a tiny, ivory vase holding a snowdrop and spilling water over the piano. Gasping, he scrambled and accompanied Odelia in trying to clear up the mess he’d created with a haste he’d never had before. “I’m so sorry, Odelia!” He profusely apologised to the woman in front of him. 

  Odelia simply laughed, a sweet and welcome sound to him that made him more and more happy each and every time he heard it. It sounded like angels singing and reminded him of the joy of the first day of spring. With soft, careful hands, Odelia held out the snowdrop and placed it in his upper pocket, nothing but a soft smile playing on her lips at the intimate moment between them. 

  “What is this impropriety!” Mrs Gardiner yelled as she turned the corner, jolting Hugo and Odelia out of their intimate moment and back into a state of awkwardness and shock. “ You shouldn’t be alone together! Look, one minute till five and you two haven’t arrived at rehearsal so hurry up! The pastor is waiting!” she yelled. Hugo and Odelia silently shrugged to each other and followed the woman around the corner to the parlour room where everyone was waiting for them. 

  The parlour room was decorated with plenty of paintings and statues, yet was still just as monotone and depressing as the rest of the house. No matter where they went, nowhere had any colour. In the centre of the room sat three rows of chairs, four in each row with a makeshift aisle separating the pairs of chairs, with their family sat on either side. A table was a metre in front of these chairs, the pastor standing behind it with a lit candle and a golden chalice on top of a white tablecloth. Hugo sucked in a deep breath and sighed.

  This was going to be interesting.

--------------------------

  “Master Atkinson, go from the beginning. Again.”

    An exasperated sigh passed through his lips as the pastor repeated the vows for what felt like the fiftieth time. Three hours. Three hours later and Hugo STILL couldn’t get his vows right. They couldn’t blame him though. He was just...incredibly nervous and didn’t know what to do at all. The candle refused to light and his brain refused to register the words he was being told to repeat.

"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” The pastor uttered. Hugo’s eyes met Odelia’s, who gave him a sympathetic smile for his struggles. It’s not that he didn’t want to marry Odelia, he did, but he was just nervous to finally commit his entire life to a girl he’d had exactly one conversation with, which, by the way, was incredibly awkward and one of the only conversations he’d had with a woman in his life. 

  “Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.” His eyes then drifted to the Gardiners, whose faces looked more angry than anything else. He bet they already thought he was a disappointment of a son-in-law, and they’d be 100% right. He wasn’t really good at anything in most people’s eyes. 

  “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness.” Then he glanced at Donella, her face being covered by an abnormally bony arm as she shook her head in disappointment. Great. He could’ve handled disappointment from his in-laws but not from his own mother. Oh well, he’d be out of her hair soon anyway, married off to Odelia and having to live out his life with her. Oh joy. 

  “With this ring, I ask you to be mine. Lets try it again, shall we?” The pastor commented, looking at Hugo and, if looks could kill, Hugo would be a corpse husband. The man honestly looked like he was two more messed up vows away from choking him on the altar. Hugo shakily nodded, feigning a smile on his face before he held the waxy, white candle in his right hand and began to try and recite his vows. 

  “With this candle-” he exclaimed, holding the wick to the flame which, to his dismay and to the frustration of everyone else in the room, didn’t light. He kept trying, repeating the statement again and again. Why the hell wasn’t it lighting? What was even going on? He bit his lip and looked up at the pastor, confused and panicked.

  “Nevermind. Go from the steps.” The exasperated and clearly annoyed pastor finally said, seeming already completely fed up with the man in front of him. Hugo pondered for a second, holding out his hand for Odelia to take, which she did graciously. God, her hands were so warm somehow. They were like a weight tethering him into the room and keeping him there. She gave his hand a little reassuring squeeze, a small smile making its way onto his face. She was an absolute oxymoron of everything around them - he could get used to this. 

  “With this hand, I will-” He took one, two, three and four steps. Straight into the table. He stumbled forwards, quickly moving his hands to steady the chalice and the candle before they fell over the cloth. Why the hell was he messing up so badly? He wasn’t this nervous earlier so how was he doing so badly at remembering a few little vows?

  “Three steps! Three! Stop! Stop! Do you not wish to be married, Mr Atkinson?” The pastor finally bellowed, something inside of his snapping and lunging across the table. A red flush of anger covered his face as he glared at Hugo with murderous intent, the younger man feeling much much smaller and more afraid than he’d ever been in his life.  

  “No, no!” he yelled out in response , his hands rising to shield his face nervously as he bit his lip gently. 

  “You do not?” Odelia butted in, a deep frown on her face as she looked into Hugo’s eyes. Shit. That was…certainly not what he meant to say. He didn’t mean to upset her at all. 

  “No that’s not what I-I meant I don’t..not want to get married. That is..I really, really want to get married.” He gulped, his attention solely on Odelia in front of him, an awkward smile on his face as he bit the inside of his cheek. 

  “Pay attention! Have you remembered to bring the ring?”

  “Yes! Yes, the ring!” Hugo searched his pockets, his fingers finally brushing against the cold metal of the circular object. Swiftly, he brought out the plain band, holding it between his thumb and index finger. He must’ve held it too hard or his hands shook too much, since as soon as he brought out the little object, it flicked out of his fingers and fell to the floor. It rolled and rolled, much to the horror of everyone else. Gasps and screams filled the room as he lunged to get the ring and pick it up. 

  “Enough! This wedding can’t happen until he is properly prepared!” the pastor exclaimed, shoving his finger against Hugo’s chest, who shuffled back against the door in fear. He sucked in a breath as the pastor stepped even closer. “Young man, learn your vows.” He declared sternly, Hugo shakily nodding before rushing out of the room and running away as fast as he could from the house to the graveyard.

  Snow crushed under his feet as he crossed over the stone bridge, sighing and shivering. “It really shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s only a few simple vows.” he murmured under his breath as he trailed along the path to the graveyard, the trees becoming more and more looming over him and the light from the moon more and more obstructed by branches. “With this candle I will...I will…” he let out a tired sigh, “I will set your mother on fire. It’s no use.” he muttered as he took a seat on a fallen tree in a clearing, a hand-like branch sticking out of the ground in the middle, underneath a colossal tree. 

  A newfound confidence swept through him out of nowhere as he rose to his feet. “With this hand, I shall lift your sorrows!” he declared as he brought the ring out of his pocket, a grin quirking his lips. “Your cup will never empty, for I shall be your wine!” his voice grew in volume as he stepped around the clearing, shaking hands with the spindly branches of the spruce trees surrounding him on every side. “ With this candle, I will light your way in the darkness! And with this ring, I ask you to be mine.” he yelled as he slipped the ring onto one of the branches of the root sticking from the ground. 

  Wind howled around him for a second and, as he looked up, crows sat on the branches of trees surrounding him. Staring at him and cawing maniacally as soon as he’d slipped the ring onto the root. The root gripped his wrist, pulling it down into the ground with a forceful tug. Crows that were once perched on the winding branches of trees now flew and cawed around the clearing. Frantically, he tried to tug his hand free from the unrelenting grasp, falling back with a skeletal arm now attached to him. Hugo shook it away and the ground in front of him began to break away, a figure rising from the dirt. First its arms, then its head, then its body. 

  The man who had arisen wore a wedding suit, similar to his, however blue. He had raven hair that fell just to his shoulders, a cyan streak in between the locks that blended in with the light blue tint on his skin. The mystery ghoul seemed part skeletal too - little bits of his flesh and body torn away by decay, his ribcage clearly showing from under the suit he wore. The ghoul raised the veil that was partially covering his head, whispering two fateful words.

  “I do.”

  Hugo scurried back in shock as the man held a hand out towards him, scrambling to his feet and sprinting away as fast as his legs would carry him. Periodically he’d glance back, the figure always far too close to him. It was as though he couldn’t lose him, no matter how far or fast he’d thought he was running. In his haste, he ran into a tree, his body wracked in pain. This pain was soon to be ignored, however, as he turned his head to see the figure still gaining on him. He frantically pushed himself away and began to run again towards the bridge. Why did it feel so far away? He caught his jacket on various branches, causing rips and tears all over the custom made jacket. Donella was sure to kill him if this man didn’t. 

  His heart thudded in his chest as his feet made contact with the stone surface of the bridge, it clicking slightly under his shoes. Hugo turned on his heel to check for the figure as a murder of crows flew over his head. The forest, the church...nowhere showed any sign of the mystery man. It must’ve been his imagination. Hopefully.

  Hugo let out a breathy chuckle, taking a few steps backwards and turning. Turning to be face to face with the man he was running from. A scream almost passed through his lips as he frantically backed away into the bridge, his chest still heaving as the undead figure stepped towards him. “You may now kiss the bride.” the ghoul whispered, his hands resting on his shoulders and leaning in as crows circled and surrounded them.

  Everything faded to black.