#and he’s a vampire and tragic??? count me in

[callilouv]

saw this randomly and thought of you (<- me spreading my astarion agenda bcs i'm obsessed w him) UHMMM okay idk how to describe him but look he's this hot vampire guy but he's so URGH i want to give him a hug and his story kinda reminds me of belial but i can't be for certain since i unfortunately don't have bg3 yet but i adore him and i think you might like him too. sorry to ramble i'm just deep in astarion brainrot rn and i'm growing delirious from my receding headache + the fact it's two am BUT HI LOU LOL <33 ^_^ anyway isn't he beautiful. and cute. and (sorry)

WEBTTORE AND HIM LOOK THE SAME………

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Past the Wit of Man (or, Bottom's Dream)

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: M Word Count: 3657 Tags: comedy, attempted comedy, comedy devolving into feels, identity reveal, sex worker Hob Gadling, advancing my Men In Lingerie agenda, long-haired Hob Gadling agenda, stretching timelines like taffy, Desire and Dream get along AU, but Desire is not actively in this, Dead Boy Detectives comic spoilers mentioned, miscommunication, Dream of the Endless finally uses his words, happy ending

Notes: Kudos props and huge thanks to everyone in the Mr Sadman discord who creatively interpreted a snippet I posted of something else and launched the whole idea of Hob working for a supernatural escort service; this would not exist without y'all and your beautiful brainstorming. ❤️

This fills the August monthly @dreamlingbingo prompt Identity Reveal, replacing square A2 (creature: Veela) on my bingo card

Summary: Hob is nicely settled in a new career and a new identity and does not expect to see his Stranger until 2089. The universe, apparently, has other ideas.

On AO3

~ "Your client is Dream of the Endless. He is extremely ancient and extremely powerful, an underpinning concept of the universe. Absolutely terrible about loosening up and letting himself relax."

"Don't think I'd be much good at relaxing if I was an underpinning concept of the universe either," Hob jokes, opening the profile that the Agency rep has just airdropped to his phone and thumbing through it.

The rep, a foppish vampire with curly white hair and impeccable fashion sense, arches one elegant eyebrow at him. "Apparently his most recent girlfriend dumped him quite harshly and his sibling has arranged this booking on his behalf; he's—and I am quoting here—'absolutely incompetent at managing his own happiness'."

"He knows he's been booked though, right? I'm not gonna catch the fallout because no one told him what kind of appointment this is?" It's only happened once, a prank played on a shy ace nixie by her well-meaning but ill-informed friends; all the same, Hob does not care to repeat the experience—particularly with someone potentially more dangerous.

"He is very much aware and in agreement, yes. We promised him our top companion." The rep dimples at Hob, a smile of saccharine sincerity that shows only the barest hint of fang. "And that's you, sweet Nick."

"And that's me," Hob agrees matter-of-factly, frowning at his phone, then turning it to show his guest. "No photo?"

The rep glances at the screen and makes a commiserative noise. "Oh, yes. Unfortunate, that. Cameras have a very hard time with this fellow, something to do with his general relationship to reality." His tone takes on a simpering air of great melodrama. "We were forced to use an artist's rendition instead! Tragic, really; it doesn't do him justice."

"Huh," Hob says, turning his phone back and studying the cartoony hand-drawn image. Guy looks like he's got some sort of steampunk insect for a head, dark and bolt-laden and bug-eyed, with a trunk that's strongly reminiscent of a disembodied spine. "Dream of the Endless, you said? Looks more like a bloody nightmare."

The rep gives an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, as if shrugging off his delivery duty now that it's done, and turns to leave. "Well whatever the case, an Endless is far above the average client, darling. Give him your best."

"'Course." Hob grins. "That's why you brought the assignment to me, after all."

"Just so." The Agency rep gives a lazy wave in parting and Hob closes the door, still scrolling through the profile as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Dozens of titles and names", he murmurs, glancing through the list of them. "King of Dreams and Nightmares, alright. Contains the entire collective unconscious of every living being in. Every…universe…?" He shakes his head. "Has never taken a vacation ever. Bested Lucifer Morningstar and oversaw the reassignment of Hell—okay, wow. Billions of years old." He whistles, a long sound of awed disbelief. "Maybe I throw in a free massage for this guy; sounds like he could use it."

He shakes his head again, pockets his phone, carries on with getting breakfast together.

Bug-headed workaholic foundational concept of the universe. Won't be the weirdest client he's ever serviced.

~

It's been ten years since his stranger showed up late for their meeting and smiled so openly and named him friend. That had been their longest meeting yet, lasting all afternoon and on into the evening and it wasn't until the Inn had started closing up for the night that they wound down. His stranger had spoken briefly of the missed appointment in 1989, making clear that something at least mildly traumatic had kept him away and also that he did not wish to elaborate, and Hob had let it go. There was so much to tell of his own century past, his friend remarking with interest on a great many of his stories, and it was enough. His stranger, his friend, had come back, and they'd had a lovely long meeting. Perhaps in 2089 he would be comfortable sharing more of his own story, but even if not, Hob didn't mind. He was confident once more in the friendship he'd declared back in 1889 and willing to coax it out bit by bit, meeting by meeting. He had all the time in the world, after all.

Within a year of that meeting he'd wrapped up his teaching career, arranged for ownership of the New Inn to transfer to a 'relative' in the States who'd keep it running the next few decades, and started searching for a new career for his next identity.

He stumbled quite by accident into the broader supernatural world after being stalked by two dead teenagers helping that de Rais creep who wanted to steal his immortality. It all turned out fine in the end but opened Hob's eyes to exactly how much the supernatural had integrated into the modern world around him. And once old Hettie clued him in to the existence of a certain Service Agency catering to supernatural clients, his next career path was all but decided. What was he going to do, not seize the opportunity for fantastical sexual exploration when presented with it? Life was for living! Werewolves, vampires, sirens and fae and merfolk, the occasional ghost and even an extra-terrestrial or two; scales, feathers, tentacles, knots—Hob's shown them all a good time and earned a stellar reputation among the Agency's clientele. He doesn't plan to do it forever, but he enjoys exploring new avenues and stretching his limits and 'Nick Bottom' is the perfect persona to let him do so.

And now sweet high-priced in-demand Nick has been booked to rebound-fuck an uptight concept in humanoid form who looks like something straight out of a nightmare.

Hob can't wait to completely take this guy apart one orgasm at a time until he's a boneless puddle of satiation and send him home afterwards a brand new man.

Concept. Entity. Whatever.

~

The booking is scheduled for the following day and when the time comes, Hob is fresh and clean and set up in the Agency's most lavish suite. He's let his hair grow the last few years, sports a proper Hozier-like mane at this point, is wearing it down for this appointment. His beard is several weeks old, trimmed to artfully-scruffy perfection and well-groomed. He's lounging on the bed in a short open silk robe and a pair of lace panties that hug his hips and leave most of both arse cheeks exposed, a popular outfit in his repertoire sure to please the classiest of clients with the most discerning taste. Both pieces are a matching vibrant cobalt blue that complements his skin tone beautifully. He's wondering what fucking a concept is like, idly massaging his dick now and then to keep it primed, when finally there's a peculiar displacement of air and then a figure in dark robes with a weird spine-trunked bug-eyed head is standing in the middle of the suite. He's taller than Hob and inhumanly rail-thin; the robes plunge deep from the neckline, displaying milk-white skin without a hint of chest hair and clavicles that beg to be nibbled on. He's in profile, angled slightly away, and Hob has the distinct sense that this is a deliberate pose meant to make an impression, to instill awe and possibly fear in him.

So Dream of the Endless has a flair for drama, got it.

"Hello," Hob greets in his best breathless-and-sultry tone, rising from the bed to approach his client. He layers in a suitable amount of awe, pitching his voice toward 'smitten' with a subtle ring of sincerity to support it. "Oh, wow. You must be Dream of the Endless; I'm so delighted to get to meet you! I'll be taking care of you today; you can call me Nick."

The guy, the concept, Dream of the Endless, he goes stock-still as Hob speaks, and it's like the air in the room pauses with him. He turns, slowly, until Hob is face to face with his…oh, possibly that's a mask, then; the bug-eyed lenses are somewhat translucent in the light though Hob still can't see beneath them.

"There has been some mistake." The voice is deep and distorted through the helmet-mask, bone-rattling in an almost-pleasant way and, somehow, somewhat…familiar? "I was meant to be meeting with 'Nick Bottom'." The quotes around the name are audible.

"That's me!" Hob says, raking a hand back through his hair and shaking it to settle around his shoulders attractively, flashing his most charming smile. "At your service, love, whatever you need. I'm here to make sure you have a very good time, and—"

"Hob Gadling."

That draws him up short. He's currently Robyn Gadrin for tax-paying purposes in the outside world, but the Agency wouldn't give out his current identity let alone his true name, so how—

Hob's brain is babbling insistently about the note of familiarity in that voice and he finally lights on why as Dream of the Endless reaches up to remove his helmet.

Hob finds himself staring at the slightly-more-than-human-but-still-very-familiar face of his Stranger, his centennial touchstone, his friend.

Everything about his reality tips a little bit sideways, dominoes crashing one after the other in his brain until all that's left is that awful ringing alarm tone that features in emergency broadcast alerts on American telly.

Between them, the silence stretches awkwardly, until finally Hob breaks it, the first thing that comes to his tongue spilling out while his poor brain is still rebooting.

"Six-hundred some-odd bloody years, and this is how I learn your name?!"

~

It is five minutes later. Hob is sitting on the side of the plush bed in his short silk robe and lace panties, clutching a bottled water and seriously considering availing himself of the bar in the next room because his emotions are all over the place. His Stranger—Dream of the Endless, apparently—is seated next to him. His eyes are not the blue that Hob is used to, are fully black with actual stars winking in and out of them; it's gorgeous but uncanny. He's currently not looking at Hob, has got the weird bug-spine helmet gripped tightly in both hands. Which are still so pretty, Hob can't help noticing, his fingers longer and more spindly than normal, splayed wide around the curve of the helm, nails painted black. Or maybe not painted, maybe they just are black.

Pretty, regardless.

Not a helpful thought at this juncture.

It's not like he'd thought his Stranger was actually human, obviously, and okay yes the possibility of meeting up with him via this particular career choice had crossed his mind once or twice, might've featured in a private fantasy or two; but also he'd never seriously imagined it because it felt so entirely implausible that his prim and lofty Stranger would ever engage in something so mundane. So casual.

Apparently, Hob was wrong about that.

He's not sure how to feel about it, either.

The smooth inhumanly-pale chest on display in the plunging vee of those artfully-draped robes is also not helping anything.

His Stranger—Dream— moves slightly, glances at him with those starry eyes, flexes those pretty fingers on the helmet. "I will. Arrange. For another. To take your place, Hob, you need not—"

"Now hold on a minute," Hob interrupts, sudden direction presenting itself for his floundering emotions to flow. "What do you mean, 'arrange for another'? What's wrong with me?"

Dream, his name is Dream of the Endless, Dream looks perplexed. "Our. History—"

"Oh yes, our illustrious storied history wherein we have met all of seven times before now and, may I remind you, you took offense to my suggestion that we might be friends until you'd had time to digest it properly, yes."

"Eight."

"Eight?"

"I visited your dream, before undertaking a daunting journey from my realm to another. We shared wine. You gave a most thoughtful toast."

"I. Okay." He remembers that dream, yes; he remembers the wine that followed him out of it, and now with the knowledge that his Stranger is apparently King of all dreams and nightmares suddenly it all makes brand new sense. But he will process that later. "Eight. Still not a factor in my ability to do my job."

Mostly. It is his Stranger, after all, and it's not like he hasn't ever wanted—

"Sex would be. Awkward," Dream insists, and Hob loses it, never mind he'd half-thought the same thing until a second ago; Dream saying it makes him refute the assertion with everything he's got.

"You dare," he says, setting aside his water.

Dream boggles at him, cosmic eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.

"You. DARE. To disdain my professional services just because we know each other?!"

"Hob— "

"No. No, your booking was very clear that you were to have the very best, and that. Is. Me. So you will not be re-booking with another companion on the grounds that our acquaintance makes it 'awkward'; if you mean to partake of the services you've hired you will partake of them with me."

"My sibling."

"What."

"My sibling hired your services. Did they know—" He's half talking to himself and Hob sighs, forcefully pulling the conversation back on track.

"Yes, right; your sibling booked you and here you are. Did you want to get laid today?"

"You need not be so crude about it."

"Forgive me. Of course. Did you come here hoping to have a sensual skillful sexual experience with a stranger intent on your pleasure with no judgments or expectations placed upon you in return?" He makes a valiant effort to rein in his sarcasm. "Because I can still provide that. Minus the bit where we're not strangers."

Dream looks positively miserable, a sodden wet cat of a man in sex-appeal robes hunched on the edge of the decadently-plush bed, and there is certainly an understandable element of embarrassment to the situation but Dream is taking it so seriously. Hob is not surprised, exactly, but christ—he's more than willing to follow through never mind any feelings he may or may not want to admit to, and Dream is the one who'd agreed to the booking in the first place. You'd think he could handle this hiccup with a little more grace.

"It was my intent to. Do, as you say," Dream says at last, and Hob sighs.

"Is that still what you want, then? I promise I'll take good care of you." He's actually really warming up to the idea, not that he was cold to it to begin with. It's his Stranger after all. He's been willing to say yes for centuries. "They really did book you the best, and I would love to show you how well-earned my reputation is—"

"Hob—" Dream sounds pained, gives an artfully-dramatic shake of his head. "My wants are. Manageable. If no one else is available. I cannot simply engage with you so frivolously—"

Hob leaps up from the bed, stalks a frustrated few steps away and whirls back, spreads his arms. "Am I not appealing to you, Dream of the Endless?" He tosses his head, shakes his hair back, gestures at the blue silk and lace that he knows looks absolutely spectacular on him. "Would you like me to change clothes? I have a dozen more ensembles I'd be happy to put on if you'd rather peel me out of one of those. Would the Prince of Stories prefer roleplay? Golden-age pirate, biker bad boy, Mr. Darcy or Elizabeth, cowboy, librarian, Starfleet officer—I'll dress however you like." He's fired up, he's…it feels like anger but it's more like alarm; he is absolutely not about to let a colleague fuck HIS Stranger if Dream's looking to unwind. Not with all the thoughts he's entertained the last couple centuries, not when Dream is looking so entirely miserable about the whole experience. Hob wiggles his bare toes in the plush carpet, forcing a deep breath; he is jealous and possessive and protective all at once and has no idea how to safely navigate this storm to get Dream what he wants without pissing him off.

"Your…clothing becomes you greatly, Hob." He's sneaking a glance as he says it, like he's not allowed to look but can't help it. "Your clothing is not at issue."

"Then what is?" Hob rakes a hand back through his hair, frustration fizzling, careening toward concern. "If you're truly that put off by me, I'll let it go. But you're here, for sex, which you did say you wanted; this is my job and I'm good at it and you clearly need—" Someone to take care of you, he'd nearly said, and while Dream has been giving him so much leeway in this conversation he thinks that might be one straw too much for this particular camel's back.

Nice to know he appreciates Hob's hairy chest and his dick in blue lace, though.

Dream levels him with a look that almost puts him right back to 1889, and Hob has half a second to start panicking before Dream closes his eyes, draws himself up, sets his bloody weird helmet on the bedside table with a soft leathery clunk. When he opens his eyes again, they are resolute, resigned, the eyes of a man headed for the gallows despite the stars winking hopelessly in their depths.

"I do not wish to be intimate with you. When you view it as simply a job. I. Would like—but not. If it is a transaction. If I am merely a client."

Oh. Oh.

Oh shit, really?

Impossible.

Really?

"You want. You want it to mean something?" Hob is embarassed at how small his voice comes out.

Dream closes his eyes, something like shame written all over his beautiful otherworldly-pale face. "I had thought. At our fifth meeting. That perhaps there was the possibility of. Attraction, between us." He opens his night-sky eyes again, meets Hob's resolutely. "Had we not been interrupted…" He shakes his head. "I pondered the idea until next we met, anticipating the possibility of. Seeing, where we might have come to. But you named what was between us friendship, you named me lonely; I perceived your words as mockery and acted accordingly. I spent the next century with a surplus of time to wander my own thoughts. They turned to you, Hob Gadling, with regularity. As I expressed when last we met, I regret leaving our previous meeting so abruptly, so harshly. Your friendship is of great value to me. I am content to let it remain friendship, in the interest of keeping it. But I am unwilling to engage with you, who named me 'friend', as I would a lover when I have yet to fully bury the wish. That you might have been my lover in truth."

Hob is desperately trying to keep from bluescreening again and while he's focused on that, his mouth runs along without him. "You never even gave me a name, but you wanted us to be lovers?"

"I am. Aware, of how foolish my wishes—"

"No, oh no. Dream. Love." He absolutely cannot let him think that. "All you ever had to do was ask."

Dream looks at him, starry eyes full of misery with the faintest spark of hope underneath, glimmering with unshed tears. "I. Could not—"

"That was then. Water under the bridge. What about now."

Dream shivers, his more-than-human face wary and pleading and resigned all at once and the last of the fight drains out of Hob. He approaches gently, until he is directly in front of Dream on the edge of the bed again; he half straddles Dream's lap with one foot still on the floor and a bare knee sunk on the mattress beside him, threads both hands into Dream's hair behind his lovely ears, tips his pale face up.

"Ask me now. Please."

Dream's hand settles above his bent knee, a gentle, tentative touch; his eyelashes flutter, and the sound that leaves him steals Hob's breath. That hand travels softly around to grip the back of Hob's thigh, slides hesitantly higher, and then it's Hob making the helpless noise as Dream's fingertips card beautifully through his leg hair, run up beneath the short robe. Dream's spindly black-nailed hand caresses up over his exposed arse cheek, squeezes, and all the while Dream's beguiling uncanny eyes are fixed on him, wet and wondering, full of blossoming hope.

"Hob Gadling." His voice is hushed, almost reverent. "I should like to have you, as my lover. If you are amenable." His face is tipped up, so close between Hob's hands, and Hob.

Hob's shaking. He's actually trembling, pent up, a little scared; daring, as he leans down and his hair falls around them both, hoping—

He brushes his lips to Dream's.

He kisses his Stranger, his friend, his touchstone.

And Dream of the Endless, who is all of those things, kisses him back.

It's nothing like he might have imagined, and ten times as wonderful, and over before he realizes he's ended it.

"Do you mean it." His voice is breathless, the words spoken directly against Dream's mouth. It's a stupid question, in light of the entire conversation gone before and the hand still on his arse, but he can't help asking. This entire turn of events is just too good to be true.

"Yes."

But true it is, apparently, and Hob's heart soars.

"Then. Dream of the Endless. My Stranger. My friend." He presses soft kisses to those plush pink lips between each moniker, dizzy that he's allowed. "Let me add another title to the list, darling. Take me to bed; the suite is ours 'til tomorrow. Let me learn how you would have me. Let me show you how I would treat you. And let me, at long last, name you mine."

= Started: 8/21/24 Drafted: 8/27/24 Posted: 8/30/24

If you're looking for a spicier take on this concept, @delta-pavonis has you covered: Dossier 54392 - please, give it a read, it's delicious.

(and here, have a post-script-y epilogue-exchange of sorts that did not quite fit:)

= "You chose to name yourself Nick Bottom?"

"What better name for a callboy to the supernatural than the bloke who got unwittingly embroiled in a fae lovers' spat and ultimately survived the entire encounter unscathed? Feels pretty relevant to me. Empowering, a bit?"

"Nick Bottom was less 'empowered' than simply lucky, perhaps."

"Perhaps. I'll not turn my nose up at good luck, either. But a name like Bottom in this business is also too good a pun to pass up, and I figure old Shaxberd would approve."

"I believe he would, indeed."

"The irony being that fully half of my clients want me to top them, heh."

"I do not wish to speak of your clients while you are in bed with me."

"Got better uses for my mouth, have you?"

"Other sounds I would prefer to hear from it, yes."

"Fair enough. Why don't you tell me what you want, Mr. Sandman, and see if I can make your dreams come true."

"Must you be so cliché?"

"You love my clich—mmph—"

"Stop. Talking."

"Yes love."

(Dream will tell him about commissioning A Midsummer Night's Dream at some other time 💖)

= Nick Bottom's lines from A Midsummer Night's Dream that lent themselves to the title: I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was and also The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream

[cascadiums]

I understand that the vampire ladies appearing in the snow to Mina and Van Helsing is sinister, and that they are a threat of what Mina will become, but it's also an appearance that feels so tragic to me.

We've never seen them leave the castle before, and from the Count bringing them the child, I assume they aren't usually allowed to leave to hunt. The first time we see them out in the world, they go to Mina and call her sister. We know from Jonathan's castle experiences that the Count (most likely) turned them, and keeps them there with him, but also that they say he doesn't love them.

When they go to Mina, I wonder if they see it as welcoming a new family member? They've been where she is now, they know she feels afraid and abandoned by god, and they want her to know she has a place with them. Mina knows they won't hurt her, and tells Van Helsing there is "None safer in all the world from them than I am". She's safe with them, and they feel connected to her.

The word Sister is what's getting to me. Dracula takes women, turns them and places them under his control, and within that, they call each other family. They don't even have names but they have each other. They would have treated Mina as their own. And so it's really sad to me that their final act in the book is to ask her to go with them, only to be met with repulsion. Their interaction with Mina here is a monstrous sign of what is to come for her, but I think it's also a genuine and pitiable bid for friendship and community.

[farfromstrange]

Carpe Noctem [Chapter One]

ONE: “All these spindly roots”

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Religious imagery & symbolism, mentions of rehab, crisis of faith, mentions of blood, the typical "animal attacks" aka vampire attacks, mentions of childhood trauma, stalker vibes at the end, Dead Dove Do Not Eat (the entire series)

Chapter Summary: You return to Clinton Church for the first time since Father Lantom saved your life, but what you first believed as an opportunity to start over reveals itself as a mountain of secrecy you have yet to uncover. Needless to say, your first week as a sister at Saint Agnes leaves you with more questions than answers, and an impending sense of darkness coming to get you.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: I finally got this done! I started with 3k words and it doubled in size. But I suppose it is enough to set the scene a little. We will certainly be diving deeper in a short while...

Read Me On AO3!

Sunlight streams through the colorful mosaic of stained glass. Red fades into magenta and violet, and blue fades into yellow. Innocence is a fleeting concept in this modern-day garden of Eden, and salvation remains merely a whispered promise. 

Centuries rest on the shoulders of those hallowed walls; the knees of countless worshippers have left indentations on the wooden benches, too many to count, even, but a tragic beauty remains in the art of architecture that stands tall amidst worn-down brownstones in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. 

Catholics believe in the Devil. He preys on the innocent and makes them eat their souls like Eve bit the apple. He corrupts them, slowly, passionately, and intimately until they have nothing left. Then, and only then, does he take them by the hand, and he drags their lifeless bodies down to the fiery pits of hell. 

You once danced with him. You met him, and you were charmed by him. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. But then the snake whispered about the forbidden fruit, and you had to taste it. You were already broken when he found you. You were shattered glass on white marble floors, bleeding wine into the cracks. The serpent didn’t have to try—you fell hard and fast for his blatant corruption. A silver tongue whispering the sweet promise of salvation to a broken soul, but you never saw the end of it.

Three years you spent surrounded by brick walls and sycamore trees. It was ironic, really. You, the least catholic person to have ever breathed, confined to the walls of a nunnery. For three years, you prayed your knees bloody, yet three years later, it still feels like you learned nothing at all. 

You professed your first vows shortly after you returned to New York. It is a vivid memory. You thought you would never see the city again, not after everything the cold and dark streets put you through, but it was the only place willing to give you something to live for. To survive for.

The cold of the marble stairs before the altar will forever remain etched into your skin. Candlelight reflected in your eyes. When you lifted your gaze, you remember, you met the hollow eyes of Mary as she looked down on you. Like her inanimate features were suddenly overcome by a wave of shame for you. Her hands were clasped in prayer, as most of her statues are. A figure from thousands of retellings forever cast in stone. She was given no choice, but neither were you.

The church was alight with the wonders of early spring the day you took your first vows. Yet, when you met the dead eyes of the Virgin Mary, a shadow cast over her pale features like a widow’s dark veil. The sun disappeared behind a set of clouds with the promise of rain, and the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass faded into gray. The walls around you resembled more of an asylum, the priest before you reciting a Bible verse you still fail to remember even to this day. You weren’t listening. A voice was calling for you, and the darkness threatened to possess you with its magic.

The longer you stared at the statue, the more the stories set into the church’s window started to come to life. A window to the soul of Christianity: Mary and Jesus, and the apostles, and Judas betraying Jesus; God’s son dying on the cross for all of our sins before rising and ascending to heaven. Judas was greedy, or so they say. He gave up his friend for money, and in return, they both suffered. 

The serpent that tempted Eve crawled out of the glass and toward you, the original sinner. Every story played like a bad movie before your eyes, coming at you inhumanly fast. The voice in the back of your mind kept getting louder, and louder and louder as it called your name. 

Your sins hung above your head like a guillotine, the very fruits of your labor you had to bear far too young. A daughter, not a son. An inconvenience to those who bore you. You were forsaken from the start, you were told, and the day you took your first vows to become a child of God after being no one’s daughter for most of your life, the walls of the church seemed to know that even after hours of confessing all of your sins to the priest, no Hail Mary could ever take them away. They would always be there until the day you die. You could have done penance until your knees were bloody—you would always be a sinner in the eyes of the church. 

You had the Devil inside you, they said. Because you let him inside. And he did not hesitate to steal your virtue from the source, forever tainting the well of your innocence. 

“In the presence of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, I humbly offer myself to His service,” you recited on those marble steps, but the shadow only continued to grow around you, wrapping its black wings around you. The fallen angel. Was it you or the Devil? 

The people around you disappeared. You weren’t taking your vows that day; you were standing trial in front of God and all his disciples who came before you. You were taking a stand, and only the jury could decide if you were worthy of your title. 

“I vow to embrace the holy virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience, following in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Holy Scriptures,” you said. “I promise to submit myself to the will of God and commit to live out these vows faithfully all the days of my life. Always.”

Amen.

You lay your broken soul bare, cuffing yourself to the congregation with unbreakable steel and throwing away the key. And there remained the voice, calling for you from the threshold to the darkness.

You thought you could ignore it. Until you returned to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Until him.

Your heels drag over the stone floors of the seemingly endless hallway stretching through Clinton Church. The walls look different when you’re not running. When you can breathe without yearning for means of self-destruction that set fire to your lungs. 

When you asked Father Lantom if you could come back to Clinton Church, he didn’t hesitate. You were unsure what it would be like. The last time you were here, the circumstances that led you into the arms of the empathetic priest were anything but conventional. The memories you have since tied to this place are a conflict between reaching your breaking point and begging for someone, anyone, to help you, and the overwhelming guilt that came with committing the worst of crimes, and a cardinal sin.

You were not a woman of God. You doubt you were a human being at all. If anything, you were a puppet. 

Father Lantom said three years ago, “When you feel ready to take your first vows, come back. I will always have a room waiting for you.” And come back, you did—for he was the one who held your hand when you were falling into an abyss headed for certain death. When you were covered in blood and feared you would burn in hell, the past came back to haunt you with pitchforks and execute you at the stake for the entire town to see. He was there, and in that moment you knew you could not disappoint him. It was then you first started believing in the idea of God.

You gaze down at your habit. The tunic, the cincture, and the veil. You have never been more dressed up, yet you have never felt more naked in the eyes of another man. The fear of judgment for choosing a path you once thought you would only pick over your dead body is rooted so deeply within you that it nails you to an invisible cross. 

“Three years,” the priest breaks the silence. You look over at him, walking beside you as he leads you around the hidden corners you’re not yet familiar with. 

You nod. “Three years,” you repeat. “Doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

Sensing your conflict and the underlying insecurity that renders you speechless a lot of the time, Father Lantom clears his throat. “You look…better,” he says.

“Thank you, Father. My time at St. Anne’s was very… self-reflective. I learned a lot.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Your wide eyes snap back up at him. Oh. 

Pride is not the word you would have used. Proud of you, he said. He sent you away to cleanse your soul, and most days you are not sure if it even worked, but he is proud of you. The man who only knows the worst version of you looked at you and saw good instead of evil. It is a concept that had once been so foreign to you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“For what?” he asks.

“This. Everything.” You shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me here, so hearing you say that…it means a lot to me.”

“I promised you would always have a room here if you chose to come back.”

There is so much sincerity in his voice. In his eyes. You swallow thickly, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but the words die miserably on your tongue. Instead, you nod. You just hope your eyes manage to convey what you want to say.

The priest leads you to a door that connects the church with the grounds of the orphanage next door. “You will be living with the other sisters at Saint Agnes,” he tells you. The change of subject is welcome. “After we had to close our convent because Tony Stark could not be bothered to fund our restoration, all postulants who have since wanted to join our order were sent to study at St. Anne’s. Like you. But most of them stayed there,” his tone changes slightly into hurting. “They offer a lot more than we can. Donations can only get us so far, and we barely get those anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in. 

He sighs, waving your concern off with the flick of his wrist. “We make due, and now that you’re here… well, the sisters are going to appreciate the extra help.” Father Lantom puts on another smile like you would put on your veil. “We don’t have any separate living quarters, unfortunately,” he states, “so your room is a floor above the children’s dormitories. Sister Grace offered to show you around.”

“Sister Grace?”

“She’s the one in charge.”

Your eyes flick back to the walls you’re passing. Intricate details are carved into the stone even here, far away from the chapel. These hand-made masterpieces breathe a certain eeriness into the church. Not just life but a certain wave of mystique because even the stories from the bible are left open for interpretation, especially when they are turned into art. 

A sense of doom falls over you like a dark cloud. “Does she know?” you ask. 

Father Lantom raises his eyebrows. He studies your features. Your chin tipped toward the ceiling, observing. He notices the gentle shift in your breathing pattern as your heartbeat speeds up, and when you meet his eyes again after an agonizing bout of silence, he smiles at you once again. 

“Sister Grace?” he inquires. You nod. “Well,” he says, “She does know. She’s the abbess. I had to let her in when I told her you were coming here, but I assure you, she swore to the utmost discretion.”

You breathe out. The weight rests heavily on your chest. “And everyone else?” You turn back to him. 

The Father shakes his head. His eyes are so gentle. “It’s not my story to tell,” he says. “If there’s one thing I learned after years of talking to people—taking their confessions, listening to their fears, their anger, and their pain—it’s that we all suffer. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

The words penetrate your heart like a sharp dagger. 

“And as humans, we tend to often see our burdens as sins, even if those apparent sins hurt us, or we had to commit them to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And sometimes, hurt people do stupid things. Objectively stupid, that is. It doesn’t mean we are going to hell for doing what it takes to survive. People suffer, and most of the time, that suffering doesn’t stop. That’s the truth,” he says. “Now, a lot of these people come to confession because they think it will give them a clear conscience, which it does, momentarily. They believe that God will make the pain go away with the snap of his omniscient fingers. A few Hail Marys, a few extra hours at Sunday mass, and your burdens will be dealt with. That is not the truth. Confession is not therapy because penance does not heal decades of trauma. If that were how it works, we would collapse from overcrowding.”

Father Lantom breaks off with a chuckle, but you can’t find amusement in his wisest insight. It’s real, too real. You can’t even muster a pity smile. 

“Why do we do it then?” you ask. 

“Do you want the Catholic answer or my personal opinion?”

“If those don’t intersect, I’ll choose the latter. Please.”

He takes a moment. “Well, confession works as a tool,” he explains then. “God knows the difference between an actual sin and human nature. Sometimes, these two are the same, but a lot of the time, there is a big difference, and He knows that. Confession helps regain balance where you’re standing with your faith. That’s why we do it. Because faith… faith can be a strong motivator. That’s why a lot of us—sisters, priests, and… and monks—are here now. Because we found a passion and a purpose in devoting ourselves to God. It’s not for everyone, of course, but it is a clean slate if you want it to be. Whether you tell the other sisters about why you chose this path, is up to you. Not me. Because that trauma is yours, and yours alone.”

The silence stretches between you, long, longer, as the church holds its breath. You absorb every word and every breath of his like a sponge. You swallow them. A bitter pill, that’s what it is. It goes down like hard liquor. 

You walk a few more steps in that silence with his eyes on you and the world on fire within. “Father,” you whisper. The sound is not more than that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. And this time, you smile at him.

Behind the door that leads to the orphanage, another hallway awaits. The walls smell faintly of moss—nature but a bit rotten. A woman in a similar habit makes her way toward the two of you from the end of the hall. She carries herself with a quiet air of authority. You can’t look through her. 

Father Lantom may have vouched for Sister Grace and her discretion, but her judgment is not his to determine. She is her own woman, with thoughts only she can determine. You’re not sure if you are ready for that, either. 

He greets her with a smile. “Sister Grace,” he says.

“Father. Good morning,” at him, she smiles. 

He nudges you forward. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Her gaze shifts to you then. “The uniform is unmistakable.” She nods. “Welcome, Sister.”

It’s a start, a small step towards finding your place within these hallowed walls. 

“Thank you, Sister,” you reply. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. Though it’s been a while since we had someone new here. So young, too.”

“I know. Father Lantom mentioned. I’ll try my hardest not to disappoint you.”

She nods. “Let’s get you settled into your room first before we worry about that. I believe Father Lantom has mass to prepare.”

Father Lantom gives you a reassuring nod. “I’ll leave you in Sister Grace’s capable hands. And remember, you are not alone. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” With that, he turns and makes his way back through the door you came from, leaving you with your fellow sister and a lump in your throat.

She leads you down the corridor. “This way,” she says. “Your room is above the children’s dormitories. Second floor. You’ll find it quiet enough for reflection but close enough to be of help when needed.”

Her tone suggests that you will be plenty busy, no matter where your room is in the building. More work means less time to think, and less time with your thoughts sounds like a blessing.

As you follow her, the faint sounds of children playing filter through the walls. It’s a comforting contrast to the silence you’ve grown accustomed to. 

Sister Grace opens a door to a narrow staircase, and you both begin to climb. “The other sisters will be eager to meet you,” she says over her shoulder.

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “I am, too,” you answer.

At the top of the stairs, she leads you down another hallway, then finally stops at a simple wooden door. “This one...will be your room.” She pushes it open to reveal the small space behind, connected to a window with a clear view of the adjacent cemetery. “I admit, it is a little scarce,” Sister Grace says, “but you are more than welcome to add a few personal touches; pictures, curtains, maybe even a plant or two. Don’t worry, Father Lantom encourages it.”

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step inside. You look around. A single bed, neatly made with crisp white linens and a worse-for-wear mattress occupies one corner of the room, a crucifix nailed above the headrest, and casting a faint shadow on the aged plaster walls. On the other side, a desk and a wardrobe offer some storage space that leads to a second door—the bathroom. It is scarce, but you came here with nothing but a cardboard box filled with your hopes and dreams and books and diaries; people have built homes from less. 

“Our shared kitchen is downstairs. Feel free to store your food in the fridge, but don’t forget to label the containers if you don’t wish to share.” Sister Grace pauses, chuckling softly as her hazel eyes meet yours. “You wouldn’t believe it, but even nuns can be picky eaters, and very territorial about snacks.”

You smile, but your attempt at kindness falls into artificiality. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

There has to be more to it, surely. Innocent may be a construct, but most of the sisters in the community were born into their faith. They started studying from a young age, always destined to dedicate themselves to the cause. You were far from religious before destiny found you dying in the flames of your old life. Whether destiny or a curse befell you that night remains open for interpretation. You have seen it both ways. An opportunity arose. You received a second chance from a very nice man, but the price to pay was your soul sacrificed to a God you once thought you would never believe in. 

Do you have faith or do you not? It is a loaded question. You think you do. You want to know you do too, but you are never fully certain. In the eyes of God, you are a loyal soldier who studied the scriptures and did her due diligence praying for penance, but when you look in the mirror, all you see is Judas. 

A heavy breath ripples through you. “You didn’t have to let me in,” you whisper. “Father Lantom didn’t have to offer me refuge, but he did. And you’re not judging me even though you have all right to… I just don’t understand.”

Her answer is a shrug. “When you were desperate,” says the sister, “God led you to us, and you found refuge at the church like so many before you. I don’t believe that was a coincidence.”

You were covered in blood when you came—your hands stained with the essence of another man’s life, clothes torn beyond recognition. You can still feel his hands on you, wandering, lurking… The crimson had seeped into the fine lines of your palms. It took you days to get rid of it, and weeks more to scrub the last remains from under your fingernails down the drain. 

You grapple with their decision. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure. At St. Anne’s, they treated me like an outsider. Because I didn’t grow up Catholic, and—”

“And you found your faith in rehab?” Sister Grace smiles knowingly. “Trust me, it happens so often that it no longer comes as a surprise.”

“But there is still judgment. There will always be judgment,” you insist.

She takes your words into account, nodding. They digest for a brief moment until she breaks into a soft chuckle—a mere breath from her full-moon lips. 

“A small piece of advice, if I may?” she asks. You hum. “If you spend all your time here questioning whether God has forgiven you for your sins, your lack of faith in the Lord, as tiny as it may be, will always stand between you and taking your final vow. And if you keep worrying about the judgment of anyone other than God, you won’t find happiness.”

You vowed to dedicate your life to religious service, and if you don’t close the last period of your study after taking temporary three vows with a solemn declaration to give up even the last of your possessions then the gap between you and God will be too big for you to ever be anything but a simple sister of the congregation. 

But is that what you want? To close that gap and give yourself fully to a higher power? It would be a live sacrifice, you knew that from the start.

You believe in God and the Devil, and you believe in eternal damnation. And you believe that you are damned, too. Doomed, forsaken, and cursed. A scratched record. God’s wrath is not a match for the fear you instill in yourself; your mere existence is maddening. 

You are drowning in a darkness you were born with, and possessed by demons you never learned how to exorcize. Not even studying a newfound faith in God to get on the right path could get rid of the monsters that are not lurking under your bed or in the shadows but in the dark corners of your mind.

The beast inside of you has gone to sleep, but God knows that he is a ticking time bomb, even in a comatose state. The Devil has planted his seed—all these spindly roots growing from your soul to the pit of your stomach, digging their claws into your fragile heart and tearing you to shreds. The protective poison ivy you grew over the years can only last so long without water before it starts to wither. 

You look over your shoulder when the door shuts gently behind Sister Grace as she leaves you be. 

The cardboard box on your desk holds an abundance of scriptures, books, and leather-bound diaries. Your diaries. They told you that writing your feelings on paper would help you heal. If you crave something you know you should and cannot have, you should write it down; you have been for years now, but with every pen wasted and every diary hidden in compartments around your room so no one can find them, the words you write turn into firewood, and your tears are the gasoline. 

Outside, the wind brushes through the trees. It beckons you, its tendrils creeping into your consciousness like creatures of the night reaching for the last flickers of light.

With a heavy heart, you flip open the worn-down leather. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours turn into days. Knees turn bloody from praying, and the joy of one child’s happiness dies at the hands of another’s trauma. 

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday, the groundskeeper dug another hole in the cemetery. Father Lantom will officiate the funeral on Sunday. Another addition to the bones and rotting corpses hiding under a shield of dirt, but does anyone know what happens after? 

I tried to ask the Father, but he didn’t give me a satisfying answer. He told me what he thought I wanted to hear, but I did not. I can’t help but wonder if he is protecting me or keeping secrets. The latter would be highly unethical, I suppose. 

Other than maintaining a religious belief in heaven or hell or rebirth while we are alive, what does happen to us after we die? Is it definite? Is it infinite or is there something else, something... more? 

Is it the Devil? Is it God? Or is it heaven and hell? 

And why do they keep digging holes in the cemetery? The children keep asking me every day, but I do not know how to answer them. 

Dear Diary, where do we go when it is all over?

The clinking of porcelain and cutlery emerges from the kitchen like a mushroom cloud. As you approach the dining room through a long hallway, the soft soles of your vinyl shoes barely make a sound. The voices inside overlap, but a few rise from the masses, demanding your attention. Like a moth to a flame, you fly toward it. 

“…and they found another one this morning. Washed up on the river banks after the storm last night,” one of the sisters whispers to another. 

“It’s been fifteen this month alone,” another one says.  

“What kind of animal does that?” a third cuts in.

“The kind that isn’t an animal,” says the nun you now recognize as Sister Marjorie, the oldest of the bunch. “It happens every two months for twenty years that bodies wash up on the shore, supposedly mauled by a bear or a baboon in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and then the city grows quiet again. I’ve been here for forty-five years, and it still happens like clockwork.”

The one next to her sighs. “Well, maybe it’s the changing climate. Lord knows it has humans and animals going crazy alike.”

“Can’t you see?” Marjorie raises her voice. “These aren’t the actions of an animal. It’s the Devil!” 

It seems as though the mere thought puts the fear of God in them—your fellow sisters, usually so strong and collected, reduced to whispers of the rumor mill as the color fades from their skin. 

Sister Grace clicks her tongue, interrupting them all at once. “That’s enough,” she says, trying to remain calm but there is still a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s not an exclamation but a well-concealed warning. Behind that façade hides a leader you would not want to cross twice. 

Only one of Sister Marjorie’s eyes finds you standing there, eavesdropping like a misbehaving child. The other remains unmoving, caged in by a white scar across her cheek and an iris made of glass. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Animal attacks?” you dare to ask. 

Heads snap toward you. The table falls speechless, compelled into a sudden silence by your presence. The world stops turning. 

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that,” Sister Grace, the first to find her voice again, reassures you. She ushers you from the doorway to the table, but the eyes of your fellow sisters suddenly feel like tiny needles all over your skin. “It’s just idle gossip,” she says, shooting the others a glare, “nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

But the silence starts to wrap around your neck like a noose regardless. Curiosity is only appreciated when they can answer it, you have learned. In the eyes of God, lying is a sin, and you spend each day teaching the children to believe the same, but is omitting not essentially the same as lying? 

They’re scared. They don’t want to admit it; no one does. Fear does not fit under the veil of ignorance, so they try concealing it as idle gossip. The rumor mill is always spinning, and it is an outstanding excuse, but you will never forget the look in Marjorie’s eyes when you dared to ask—dared to question. 

A thud from outside causes you to sit upright in your bed later that evening. The springs that are digging into your lower back creak when you move so suddenly. 

Through the window, you can see the cemetery hulled into a fog where cold and warm air meet for the night. You put the children to bed, got them dressed in their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and told the little ones a bedtime story. They like it when you do it. Something about the way you tell them fascinates their little minds, so it has become a ritual in the week you have been here. 

The more it strikes you as odd that there is noise outside. After bedtime, no one is supposed to be out and about, and if a sister has something to do out of schedule, they have to share it with the group. For safeguarding reasons, they told you. 

Against your better judgment, you roll out of bed and into your slippers, wrapping a cardigan around your body. Your nightgown is not the warmest thing to wear on these cold walls unless it is under a thick wool blanket. 

The door creaks when you open it. Father Lantom gave you a flashlight a few nights ago because he asked you to take care of something on the church grounds for him after the sun had set, so you kept it. You weren’t sure if you would still need it. Thankfully, you did.

You follow the noise to the back door one floor below. It leads out into the backyard, and a few more feet east, a fence and a gate separate the many acres of the cemetery from the rest of the church’s grounds. 

The flashlight illuminates the path before you. “If it’s another stupid raccoon, I swear…” you mutter to yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those critters found their way into the trashcans and caused mayhem in the middle of the night. 

Somehow though, it always seems to be you who catches them. The night-owl. The one who is always on guard, always on edge, even when she knows she is safe.

You wander through the backyard, closer to the fence. You tilt your head. There is a small gap in the gate to the cemetery. The fog makes it harder to see. 

“Hello?” you call out into the darkness. Nothing. 

Through the rustling of leaves and the howling of an owl in the woods far beyond Saint Agnes, a small whimper breaks the silence like a hot knife. It is faint, but unmistakable nonetheless. 

You strain your ears. “Oh no,” once again, you curse to yourself. “No, no, no…” 

You follow the sound through the gate and into the cemetery. June Montgomery and her husband share a grave. They died over twenty years ago, but it is still well-maintained by their children and grandchildren. A few steps further though, the infestation of poison ivy begins. 

The graves under the gigantic cherry tree are the most hidden, and the best hiding spots. You had to tell the children many times that the cemetery is not a hiding place, especially not for games, and never alone, even when the gates are open. The general public has access to it during the day, and if they wander too far, they will land on a populated street. It’s dangerous. 

You were so careful. You did everything by the book, and someone still managed to sneak out. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wet grass soaking your thin slippers until you come upon a small figure huddled behind one of the bewildered gravestones. Sara Mayfield; she died in 1945. Your sigh resembles a cry of relief. 

“Timmy!” you exclaim. “Thank God!”

He’s curled up into a ball behind the headstone. Tears stream down his cheeks in bottomless rivers. Your flashlight blinds him, and his whimpers escalate to sobs. Your heart shatters at the sight. 

“Hey there, it's okay,” you try to soothe him, crouching beside his tiny figure. “It's just me. Hi. What are you doing out here all alone?” You shed your cardigan, wrapping it around his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

From what you’ve learned about Timmy, his parents died in a freakish car accident about a year ago. He was in the car when his father fell asleep at the wheel and drove the car into a tree. His mother died instantaneously, but his father bled out right in front of him. He has been receiving therapy ever since he came to Saint Agnes, but he is a troubled child. 

Timmy sniffles, accepting the makeshift blanket. He recognizes you, which is a good sign. “I had a nightmare,” he confesses. “I-I wanted to see the stars, but then I heard a crash, and I got scared.”

You wrap your arms around him. “It’s okay to be scared,” you say. “But you shouldn’t wander off by yourself, especially at night. You should have come to me, or Sister Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

His skin is clammy and cold. You don’t know how long he has been out here, but he is also in no state to be questioned. 

“Come on,” you say and lift him into your arms. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Together, you make your way back towards the orphanage. But as you approach the gate, there it is again, that voice. Whispers of nothing in the chilly breeze. The air crackles with a certain, sinister something. A chill runs down your spine, and the back of your skull starts to burn as though someone is watching you. Listening. Lurking. And it is not a raccoon this time.

You set Timmy down on his feet. He whimpers again. “Go to your room. I’ll be right there,” you tell him. 

He looks up at you with his innocent blue eyes. “Promise?” he asks. 

“Yes. Promise.”

The boy lets go of your hand, quickly sneaking back inside. He knows better than to make any more noise. Any other sister would have threatened consequences. But he’s just a traumatized little boy, and the night is dangerous. It’s creepy. Of course, it would only add to childish fear and trauma that has had time to manifest for an entire year.

You turn around when he is safely inside, pointing your flashlight in the direction where you came from. 

You scan the blanket of fog for any sign of movement. And that’s when you see it—a shadowy, obscured figure standing amidst the graves by the woods, behind the cherry tree.

Your breath catches in your throat, the whispers echoing in your mind once more. It could not be your name. It’s something else. Latin, perhaps. What terrifies you most though is that you're not scared; you feel strangely drawn to the figure. 

You hold your breath. The figure tilts its head, and you do the same. Your heartbeat remains eerily steady throughout. You should scream. You should alert everyone that there is something—someone—out there, but they would call you crazy, surely. And maybe you are. No sane person hears voices and sees the darkness as a comforting presence. Not a nun. Not someone who is not supposed to let the Devil win. And what other explanation is there but for the figure to be a phantom of the Devil's making? 

In the blink of an eye, the figure is gone. The hold on your lungs eases, and you gasp for air like a desperate woman.

Instinctively, you turn to the door and usher inside. Timmy is still standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “Nothing,” you say, but when you lock the door to make sure no one can get in or out, your hands shake. A single drop of sweat runs down your temple. “Come on.”

Inside, you’re freezing. Like a cold hand touched you and set you on fire, but it had claws that let the ice age into your heart, and now you’re poisoned. 

Taking Timmy back to his room, you can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at your insides like a hungry beast. You tuck him in; you check under his bed for monsters, and you lock the windows. It takes a while for him to settle back into sleep, but when he finally does, you leave his room on your tiptoes and close it. 

The other children are all peacefully asleep, and your fellow sisters seem to not have noticed the commotion you caused on your way in. Every door is locked—you check twice. Still, when you get to your room, your hands tremble once again when you use the key for the fragile lock for the first time. 

Fear is not what compels you. Uneasiness, maybe, but not fear. The venom in your veins stems from something else entirely. You can’t explain it. The feeling is familiar somehow, but so foreign at the same time.

You clutch the rosary from the nightstand over your diary, facing the fog you yearn for so desperately. “Foolish, foolish idiot,” you mutter. 

Dear Diary, 

Did I force myself upon God out of… of guilt? Or was it a sign that He led me to Clinton Church that night? I thought penance would wash away my sins, that by dedicating myself to Him, I could erase the past. You know, like magic. But I was so wrong. Father Lantom… He told me that’s not how it works, and Sister Grace… She’s so sure that will stand in my way, and now I can’t help but wonder… Did I study scripture and Catholic rules for the past three years like a mad woman out of faith or because I was trying to make good for something I did by neutralizing myself?

I’m lost. I don’t know the path to righteousness, and I don’t know how to silence this… this darkness inside me. I can hear it calling my name. Every night… I’m scared that I’m not scared enough. I’m a flawed creature; I’m desperate and tired, but I don’t want to disappoint Him. But how can I? 

How do I serve a God I have been lying to from the start, and how the fuck do I fix this?

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pen cracking under the pressure, and the ink bleeds onto the page, over the letters and your broken heart. Your blue fingers wrap around the rosary again as what you have written disappears under the chemical ocean. 

In the heat of the moment, you tear the page out of its confines, but it has tainted all the ones to come. You ruined it like you ruined yourself. The page had been you once, being bled all over by an ink meant to stain for the rest of your miserable life, but you tried to glue it back in place. You tried not to fall apart like your diary just did at your very hands—as everything you touch rots or turns to ashes eventually.

You ball a fist around the paper, tossing it across the room. It hits the window. You catch your runny reflection in the glass. To think you were just looking to be loved, to be seen and forgiven ever since you were a little girl dreaming of being a princess, but instead, you are falling apart. 

But no, you will not let the Devil win. You pull the curtains closed, and you hide the cemetery where it belongs—with the dead, both in heaven and hell and everything in between. The Devil can’t have you because God already does. 

You have to seize the night before it seizes you. Anything else would be, for the lack of a better word, certain suicide. 

Tag List: @luvebugs @mxxny-lupin @1988-fiend @bluestuesday @ghostheartbeat @cheshirecat484 @faesspace (if you want to be tagged or I forgot to tag you, let me know!)

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 25

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 24 🟣 Part 26

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Fluff, ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of drug abuse/overdose, mention of attempted suicide, addiction, tragic backstory, more of August's completely unwarranted hatred of jellybeans, angst, Mike being an idiot.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: So... we'll finally find out about that 'queen' thing, and some more about Mikey (who's also going to cause another angsty moment...) We'll also meet another coven member...

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo

“Queen?” you blurted out as you stood there, practically nailed to the floor, eyes wide, mouth open, shocked. Next to you, Mike had his fists clenched tightly at his sides, and a look on his face you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Vampires are a dramatic bunch,” Melot explained patiently. Yeah, you’d noticed. “I’m sure you’ve become at least somewhat familiar with your role in the coven hierarchy?”

You nodded quietly.

“Ours is a small family,” he continued. “But there were — and there undoubtedly still are — covens so large they could populate an entire town. Which they did. In those cases, the coven hierarchy was of paramount importance to keep the peace, and it functioned much like a court, hence the name.”

“As I have told you before,” Sherlock added, “the job of keeping a coven in check typically befalls two individuals. It is common for those individuals to be the eldest vampires in the family.”

“Or,” Charles continued, “as appears to be our case… a pair that connects on another level.”

“No,” Mike muttered in a broken voice. “No!”

All eyes turned to him, but it was you who asked. “What’s wrong, Mikey?”

“He doesn’t get to have you like that, I don’t want it,” he whispered, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“There’s not much you can do, Mike,” Melot said. He reached for Mike’s arm, but it got slapped away by a very upset Mikey.

“Why do I never get her? I found her! Without me, you wouldn’t even know her! And I don’t even get to… Why am I nothing special to you?” Oh, good grief!

“Mike,” you hissed angrily, “not this again!”

“But—”

“Shut up!” you cried out, feeling the strange tinge to your words only after you’d spoken. “You do not get to stand there like a whiny little child and accuse me of lying!”

“I’m not accu—”

“What part of ‘Shut up!’ do you not understand?” You were fuming. Beyond angry. But before you could give Mike the tongue-lashing of the century, you had a chuckling August to deal with. You whipped your head around to look at him and stared him down. “Clearly you won’t act your age, so I’ll have to take a page from Sherlock’s playbook. August, go to your room, and stay there until I’m done here. Now.” He vanished immediately, accompanied by a frustrated groan, and you turned your attention back to Mike.

“When I found out you were all vampires, I pushed everything I’d ever been taught about your kind since I was a child aside in less than a day because I didn’t want to lose you. And when the others asked me to enter into this arrangement with you guys, I held it off because I didn’t want to hurt you. I asked Sherlock if I could give you boyfriend privileges to make this whole thing easier on you. When you ran away because you were shocked I kissed Sherlock, none of them would feed because they missed you, and I suffered because of you. And when August un-vampire-married me from you, I was scared to death because — again — I didn’t want to lose you.” It was a miracle you weren’t crying yet.

“And you have the fucking audacity to ask me why you’re nothing special to me? Are you fucking serious? I owe this all to you, Mike! You are the reason I have my family! You brought me home!” Your voice broke on that very last word, and your next words came out as no more than a whisper. “When I tell you I love you, I mean I love you exactly as much as everyone else. Not in the same way, no, but exactly as much. And every time you try to say that I don’t, or every time you act like you don’t believe that, you’re accusing me of lying. And I don’t appreciate it. So, there.”

He looked at you, but didn’t say anything for a while. “You’re right,” he finally mumbled. “I know you’re right, I just…”

“Shh,” you said as you gently trailed your fingers over his cheekbone. “It’s okay. You can’t help that you feel this way, I know that. But the way you communicate it needs work.”

He leaned into your touch and smiled. “Can I stay with you tonight, please?”

You glanced around at the others, until your eyes reached… August. “I thought I told you to stay away until—”

“You were done here, yes,” August snapped. “You’re done here. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here, princess. I physically couldn’t leave that room.”

“Sweetcheeks please answer my question or I’m going to get really annoying,” Mike said, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“You’re always really annoying, Mike,” August grumbled.

“Stop saying that! He’s not, and you know it! You love him too, August!” You reminded yourself that he’d just dodge whatever object you’d hurl at his head, and stood still. “It wouldn’t kill you to tell him that every once in a while!”

“It just might,” Melot chuckled. “We’ve never pushed it, we have no idea of knowing what would happen.”

“Well, I’m pushing it! You, August” — you poked his cheek — “are going to be nice to my Mikey, or it’s wrist and couch for the foreseeable future, because I can guarantee you I won’t be in the fucking mood!” Yeah. You just said that out loud. In front of everyone.

“Speaking of feeding,” Charles intervened before August could blow up at your threat — and maybe rightfully so; threatening to withhold sex was immature and manipulative, sure. But you didn’t want to sleep with a bully, and that was your right, right? “I’m not asking for your services, sweetheart, I’m merely suggesting we relocate to the kitchen, because the two of us are starving, what with Priya feeling under the weather and all.”

It stung, in a way, that Charles wasn’t asking for your services, despite having only just met him. Melot’s polite nod didn’t help much, because one look in his eyes revealed that he would be more than happy to request your assistance. It bothered you that he didn’t ask…

The kitchen was beautiful; bright, spacious, modern, opening into a large yet cozy dining room with the biggest table you’d ever laid eyes on, with more chairs than the family would ever need. One of them was occupied.

“You must be the new addition to the family,” he said as soon as you saw him, and he rushed towards you, faster than humanly possible, but slow enough for you to see him coming. “Napoleon Solo, enchanté.” You got a hug and a kiss on each cheek from him.

“I must say I’m almost disappointed I’m of a dissimilar predilection than my brother,” he said as he let go of you, only after inhaling deeply. “You smell divine.”

“Eh…” you stammered, feeling heat rise up to your cheeks in a staggering tempo.

“Tone it down, Napoleon,” Melot said. “And nice to have you here, we didn’t hear you come in. Please use the front door next time.”

“I’m sure you knew I was coming, darling,” the man teased. Everything about him was smooth to the point of being slick, and maybe even a little beyond that. “Though it’s incredible what you two little hermits fail to notice when you’re off in your own worlds.” He gestured at two large takeout bags on the kitchen island.

“How…” In a house full of vampires, Napoleon just managed to sneak in himself and a mountain of food, completely undetected?

“Incubus,” August said softly. “They — we, if you must — have a tendency to fly under the radar. No one sees an incubus unless they want to be seen.”

“Oh, God knows I have no problem being seen,” Napoleon said with a flirtatious smile. “Though I’m unusually dressed up for the occasion.”

“You mean you’re wearing pants for a change?” you said before you could stop yourself. What the hell were you doing? You didn’t even know this man! The laughter from the others around you, Napoleon included, told you that you were right, though.

“Please, join us!” Melot gestured at the dining room before reaching for the bags on the counter. “This should be enough food for everyone.”

While a seemingly endless stream of boxes and containers emerged from the bags, your curiosity got the better of you, and you asked a question you’d been carrying around for a good while now — ever since August had mentioned that there had been no need to call Charles and Melot about your visit.

“Oh, that,” Melot himself answered when you finally asked about all the ‘already knows’ that had been thrown around. “I am blessed with the excruciatingly splendid gift of clairvoyance.”

“As in; you can see the future?”

“See would not be a technically apt description, I suppose,” he answered in between greedy bites of the dumplings on his plate, “it’s more of a feeling. But in essence; yes. That’s why there’s a room ready for you. Feel free to do whatever you want with it.”

“Wait… I get my own room?” You’d more or less expected to be sharing with… any of the guys, really.

They all looked at you, clearly confused by your confusion. The silence was a little awkward — something that hadn’t happened in a while back at the apartment.

“As far as we’re concerned, darling,” Sherlock answered, “this is your home as much as it is ours.”

“And we understand the need for privacy and your own space as much as anyone else,” Charles added. “Perhaps even better than most. No matter how close your family is, it’s nice to be able to retreat to a space that is completely your own.”

“Use this summer to make it right for you,” August chimed in. “Melot wasn’t kidding when he said, ‘whatever you want’. Paint, furniture… Just let us know, okay?”

They had to be joking, right? Not that it looked like they were strapped for cash in any way, but… Panic suddenly reared its ugly head, and your thoughts were spiraling. Why did it suddenly feel like you were being abducted by five vampires and two incu— eh… Incubi? Incubuses? Either way… In a big, scary-looking house in the middle of nowhere? You didn’t even know exactly where you were… How would anyone ever find you here? And it’s not like you had family to go back to… You—

“It’s alright, love,” Marshall said, gently patting your arm. Mike, who was sitting to your right, took your hand. “It’s a lot to take in, I suppose?”

You could only answer with a nod.

“Okay, so, you’ll just stay with me tonight, and then we can take a look at the room tomorrow, and we’ll give you a tour of the house, if you want?” Mike squeezed your hand, making you look at him, his bright smile almost bringing you to tears.

“That sounds great, Mike… It’s kinda been a long day.” You sighed, squeezing Mike back before letting yourself fall against him and leaning your head on his shoulder.

“We can watch movies in bed?” he suggested. “I’ll scavenge for snacks!”

“Jelly Beans are in their usual place,” Melot noted dryly while August, clearly fighting to hold back a response, dropped his head into his hands with a loud groan. “Dip is in the fridge, tortilla chips are in the drawer opposite it.”

“How did you kn—” Right. Clairvoyance. Melot smiled back at you. He was handsome, he seemed kind, but he looked so… “How old are you?” you blurted out, much to everyone’s enjoyment.

“I’m sure they’ve mentioned I was born somewhere in the seventh century,” Melot answered, an amused smile faint on his lips. “So I assume you’re referring to my age when I was turned into a vampire?”

You nodded quietly, still scared that you had in any way offended him with your question, even though his behavior suggested nothing of the sort.

“I was just about nineteen when that happened,” he answered, his smile widening. “Don’t worry, I get that question a lot. I’m technically younger than Mike.” August couldn’t hold back a scoff on that one. “August, that’s not fair. I’ve had fourteen hundred years and change to grow up. And to say I grew up in a different time than he did would be quite the understatement.”

“Right. Seventh century…”

“I’m from Cornwall, born and raised in the Dark Ages,” he continued with a smile. “I’d been married for nearly six years when I died. Or… didn’t die. Ask me about all of it, later, I’ll gladly answer any of your questions. Right now, I’m fairly sure Mike needs you.”

Mike’s room was everything you expected it to be: Dark walls, LED-strips in rainbow colors, and more tech than was reasonable for anyone but a guy in his late teens or early twenties. The only thing missing was a TV, but upon closer inspection you formed the suspicion that the outrageously expensive-looking piece of furniture at the foot of the bed would play a major role in the solution to that problem. Seconds later, Mike reached for a remote on the bedside table and… yep. TV ascension commenced immediately.

“Hey,” he said almost apologetically when he saw your ‘this is fucking outrageous’-look. “I used to have one just standing there, but it broke!”

“And what were you doing that caused it to break?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t hard to guess, but it was always fun to watch him squirm and wriggle his way out of the predicaments he created for himself.

“Ehm, I’d rather not say,” he tried, but you were having none of it.

“Who were you fucking?” His eyes widened at the question, and his ears turned red the same way they always did when he was world-class embarrassed.

“Don’t get mad, but…” The perfect recipe to make someone mad in advance, honestly. “I don’t remember their names. It was years ago.”

“Their? Their? Names, plural?” you squealed, hoping the others wouldn’t hear too much of this conversation. Before you left the kitchen, August had been kind enough to let you in on the fact that this house was significantly more sound-proofed than the apartment — it wasn’t much of a surprise: the apartment was a rental, and the walls were barely thicker than a slice of prosciutto — but you weren’t entirely sure what that meant…

“I’m really not sure how you didn’t expect this at least a little,” Mike teased you as he dropped the snacks on his bedside table. “Oh no, the kinky little fucker I’m dating has experience with the odd threesome. Foursome… Actually, I’m pretty sure some of them qualified as orgies, or at least gangbangs, I—”

You lunged forward, pushing him down on the bed and sealing your mouth over his. “Shut up,” you said when you eventually had to come up for air. “I don’t need to know the names, or the stories! You’re mine. You’re my kinky little fucker, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a serious voice that he could hang on to for about a tenth of a second before breaking down laughing. “Come on, Sweetcheeks, let’s get snuggling!”

You ended up in a familiar position: snuggled into Mike’s side, in the middle of a comfortable pile of pillows and blankets that he had gathered in the blink of an eye. For the first time since you had arrived at the house — mansion, whatever — you felt at home, although your thoughts kept racing as you tried to process everything that had happened that day. But it was okay. You had your guys, no matter how confused you were on the subject of exactly how many of them there were at this point.

It wasn't too long before one of the ones you were sure were yours — Marshall, to be specific — knocked on the door of Mike's room.

“Everyone dressed?”

“Even if we weren't, you could still come in,” Mike answered.

The door opened slowly, and Marshall carefully stepped into the room, as if he was afraid to disrupt whatever you had going on in here. “Hey,” he said to you, “how are you doing? It's a lot, we know… Maybe we should have given you more of an introduction?”

“I'll be fine,” you assured him. “I just wasn't expecting this house, and then Priya, and the fact that I now have my own room here…” You weren't entirely sure why that got to you the way it did, but it was weird to you in a way. When you moved into the apartment, you'd had your own room —although it had taken some serious work to convince Jenelle and Rose that you weren't, like, moving in-moving in with Mike. Not in that way, anyway. It had been a matter of convenience; they’d had a spare room, and you'd needed one since your bitch of a landlady had decided to kick you to the curb. Back then, you had even insisted it was a temporary solution. It wasn't. Not anymore. And especially not now that you had been given a second room in another house. One you also didn't have to pay for…

“Please don't worry about the money,” Marshall whispered. He was next to you, his arms wrapped around you, and his head resting on your shoulder. “I'll just leave the two of you to it. Get some sleep. Oh, and… Sherlock wanted me to tell you to take any time you need to get used to this, and to get to know the others. No need to rush into anything.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, and then he was gone.

“I know you're already starting to feel it with Mel,” Mike said softly. You couldn't help but feel that he was judging you somehow. “I do get the feeling you're not entirely sure about Charles.”

“August would be ecstatic if that never happened, right?” you chuckled nervously.

“Oh, I don't doubt it. But everything will work itself out on that front in whatever way,” Mike replied. He pulled you closer, tracing soft circles on your back with one of his fingers. It tickled, made you shiver — which, in turn, made him laugh.

“Mike,” you started, somehow almost desperate to change the subject. “Why is your bed in the corner?” Back at the apartment, his bed was in the corner of his room as well, but that was to make room for his desk. This room was big enough to fit a desk on either side of the bed if he put it in the center of the wall.

“Eh…” Mike hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with whatever story was attached to the answer to your question. “Alright. I was homeless for a while, before Marshall turned me. It was right after things went south with Hedwig. I guess I just feel unprotected when I don't have a wall behind me. Or in front of me, that's okay too, weirdly enough.”

“That sounds fair,” you said. “It's not that I thought it was weird, by the way. I was just curious.”

“I know, Sweetcheeks,” he chuckled softly. “Can I tell you the rest of my story?”

You nodded furiously — you were in a curious kind of mood, after all, even after all the information that had already come your way. You just didn't seem to be able to stop yourself.

“I'll spare you the tale of Hedwig and the Downward Spiral, if that's okay with you? It's mostly drugs and partying, anyway… There was this one night that's kind of important, I suppose.” He sighed. “It was May 24th, 1985, I don't know why I remember that, but I do. Things were bad, really bad. You can't imagine how bad, honestly… That particular day, I OD'd on heroin. And before you ask: It wasn't an accident.”

It was like the ground — the bed, everything… — had been taken out from under you and you were freefalling into darkness. “No my God, Mikey!” Turns out that, entirely conform your every expectation, fighting back tears was pointless when the love of your life — one of them, anyway — told you that he'd tried to take his own life at some point.

“It's okay, Sweetcheeks,” Mike said as he put a hand against your cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. “In the end, it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Until you showed up, anyway.”

“That's really sweet,” you said, not wanting to ignore that comment, but there were more pressing matters, as far as you were concerned. “But what happened next?”

“Marshall found me,” he said with a smile. “I'm still not entirely sure how I'm still alive… I don't think he knows, either. I remember waking up in his bed. He told me he took me home because he didn't want me to die there. He never really expected that I would survive.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered after you finally sucked in a breath. It was Mike's turn to cry now, and you gently kissed away a tear that ran down his cheek.

“After I woke up, I begged him to kill me. I just couldn’t do it anymore… Obviously he didn’t. Instead, he offered me a way out — a real one. A permanent one. Said he couldn't bear to lose me.” When he inhaled, you noticed how shaky his breath was. It wasn't something you'd heard in his voice yet. “He promised me forever without drugs, and I knew he meant ‘forever’ literally.”

“So, that's when he turned you?” you asked breathlessly.

Mike nodded almost solemnly. “Yep. When we got started, anyway. He helped me stay clean during the process, too.”

“Process?” It only just occurred to you that you'd never bothered to ask how ‘turning into a vampire' actually happened.

“Okay to make this totally weird for a second, because I need that after this complete sob fest of a story,” he said, smiling as he wiped the tears out of his eyes. “You have no idea how accurate your description of garlic as a ‘vampire contraceptive' was. You have to kind of… try. Like you would be trying to conceive, except the end result here was not a baby, but me as a vampire. I'd personally say that's preferable to having a baby, but I'm not sure all the others would agree with me.”

“I’m fairly sure August would propose there's absolutely no difference between the two,” you laughed. “But at least there's no pain involved, right?” Right?

Much to your dismay, Mike laughed. “Ask Marshall about the first time I took a bite out of him. That'll answer your question.” He ran a hand through his hair. “As for the transformation… I can't say it's pleasant, but it sure as hell felt a whole lot better than the aftermath of an overdose of heroin.”

“What does it feel like? Turning into a vampire, I mean. Not overdosing on heroin, I don't think I really want to know.”

“Understandable, it’s pretty brutal — the, eh, the overdosing. But I love your curiosity regarding the other thing.” He winked at you, a cheeky smile on his lips. “I can't explain to you what happens, exactly — but we have a professor who definitely can, so ask him if you want to know — but it kinda feels like… I don't know, it's uncomfortable. The first part feels like the flu, but I got it especially bad because I was also going through withdrawal. That's usually the stage in which people end up at the clinic with Sherlock. The process can be reversed at that point.”

He paused for a moment, screwing his eyes shut, as if he was trying to remember. “After that, I remember the fangs. Wildly uncomfortable sensation, by the way—”

“Your teeth changing? I can imagine…” you interrupted, shivering at the thought. Little did you know…

“Hah! You wish! They're brand new, baby! Which means your old canines are super-duper totally in the way. Remember the last time you lost one of your baby teeth?” You shook your head. That was ages ago. “Right, I didn't remember it either, until it started happening again. And then I also remembered that for those baby teeth it had sucked about ten million percent less. And the amount of fucking time it takes to gain any control over them…”

“How long before you have like… fully functional fangs?”

“Happens over the course of, like, a week, maybe two? Apparently you can feel them forming in your skull, when you're not preoccupied with withdrawal symptoms. Ask Marshall or Sherlock about that. Or Melot, if you dare. I know he had his pulled and/or filed down on several occasions.”

“Sherlock mentioned they grow back,” you remembered.

“They'd fucking better, or you'd starve to death if you lost them,” Mike reminded you. “You need the venom. Can't just suck blood through a straw and hope for the best. Like, with the supplemental approach thing Marshall talked about a while ago, they supplied bags of donated blood, and we had to bite those. It was messy and… Alright, doesn't matter.”

You noticed not only that Mike's storytelling became more and more animated and enthusiastic as he explained more about the process, but also that he'd switched to saying ‘you' — as if he was speaking directly to you. Maybe he was. Maybe you wanted him to.

“So, after they've wormed their way out, your whole face is sore — and then you're left with two completely unmanageable, uncontrollable murder weapons in your mouth… I ate ice cream and apple sauce for at least a month after they first came in: I bit my tongue several times a day, and my lip, too…” He chuckled. “And here's the smart part: The gory cravings kinda stay away until you're mostly done. As if your brain waits for all the equipment to be installed before it flips that switch.”

“And then you ambushed Marshall in a dark alley?” you joked.

Mike shook his head. “Can't ambush him, he can read my mind. Which I didn't know about at that point, by the way. He let me suffer for a week before I finally dared to admit to him that the human food wasn't cutting it anymore.”

“And then you mauled him?”

“Something like that. He told me to give in to my instincts. Apparently, they're usually correct — and they were for me as well, but… In my defense, the instructions were not exactly idiot-proof. When he told me to give in to those instincts, he didn't mean ‘unleash the kraken', but more like… ‘follow the teeth'. That sounds crazy, but I promise… You'll see.” There it was again. You. As in you-you. And you-you wasn't ready to make any promises just yet.

[sebstanaddict]

Midnight & The Light

Bucky Barnes!Vampire AU Story

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is a solitary and powerful vampire detective who works for the London Police to cover up murders done by his fellow vampires. One day he finds his job and himself challenged and tempted by a female detective thrusts as his partner.

Pairings : James Buchanan Barnes x Female!Reader

A/n: this is my very first attempt at writing horror/thriller/mystery genre so please bear with me.

With that said, I'm not really well versed in vampire lore, and the vampires in this story are largely inspired by those in Twilight. So those of you looking for the original type of vampires, unfortunately you won't find it here. But those who enjoy Twilight, might find this enjoyable too.

Oh, this is also set in modern day London where Bucky is British, haha. Although I won't write him differently as I'm not really familiar with the difference between British and American English.

Warning : murder and crime scene depiction

Word count : 4k words

Chapters (1/10) - Might add more

Chapter List >

---

Chapter 1

The narrow alleyway was damp with the remnants of London's ceaseless rain, the stench of rot and grime clinging to the brick walls. In the shadows, a woman lay crumpled on the cold pavement, her throat slashed open. Her skin was pale, almost gray in the flickering streetlight, her eyes staring blankly into the void. She had been a prostitute, someone no one would ask too many questions about, and that's what made her the perfect target.

But the job had been messy. Too messy.

From the shadows, a figure emerged, wiping blood from his lips with a smirk of satisfaction. His fangs glistened briefly as he looked down at his work. It was an indulgence, a feeding that went too far. He had been warned.

Before he could disappear into the night, another figure stepped out from the shadows. Taller, broader, and far more intimidating. James Buchanan Barnes. His icy blue eyes locked onto the vampire before him, and his voice was low, edged with simmering fury.

"Another one, Dorian?" James said, his tone calm but laced with threat.

The younger vampire, Dorian, froze, wiping the last trace of blood from his chin. "She was just a nobody, James," Dorian sneered. "What's the harm? Besides, I needed to feed."

James stepped forward, his hand gripping Dorian's collar in an instant, slamming him against the brick wall. His supernatural strength far surpassed that of the younger vampire, and Dorian winced as the pressure on his throat increased.

"I told you to leave London," James growled. "Last week, you killed someone. I gave you a chance, told you to get out. But instead, you've left me another body to clean up. You think I enjoy this? Cleaning up your mess?"

Dorian's eyes flickered with fear for a moment before his bravado returned. "You've been doing this for centuries, Barnes. What's one more body?"

"One more body brings suspicion," James snapped, releasing his grip slightly. "And suspicion brings hunters. You don't want that, do you?"

Dorian's confidence faltered at the mention of hunters. They both knew that hunters were the only real threat to vampires, and James was right: the more bodies, the higher the risk.

"Leave town," James ordered, his tone cold. "This is your last warning. If I find out you're still here, I won't be as forgiving."

Dorian nodded quickly, his arrogance shrinking in the face of James's authority. Without another word, he disappeared into the night, leaving James alone with the body.

James sighed, crouching down to inspect the woman's wounds. It was a brutal, sloppy kill, one that couldn't be easily explained away. He'd have to make it look like a suicide, another tragic statistic in London's dark underbelly. It wasn't the first time he had done this, and it wouldn't be the last.

As dawn approached, he made sure every detail was in place before vanishing, blending back into the city as if he had never been there at all.

---

The London Police Headquarters  buzzed with the usual activity—phones ringing, detectives grumbling over paperwork, and officers exchanging hurried conversations about the latest case. 

James walked in, his usual indifferent expression hiding the exhaustion that came with centuries of cleaning up after others. He passed through the sea of desks until he reached his own, tucked away in the far corner of the room, away from curious eyes.

He had just settled into his chair when his superior, Captain Harris, approached, file in hand.

"Barnes, another one last night," Harris said gruffly, tossing the file onto James's desk. "Same area. They're saying it looks like a suicide, but something about this doesn't sit right with me."

James glanced at the file, already knowing the details. He had made sure the scene would point to suicide, but Harris was an old detective with sharp instincts. He wouldn't be fooled so easily.

"I'll look into it," James said, keeping his tone neutral.

"Good. And one more thing," Harris added. "You're getting a partner. New transfer."

James's head snapped up. "What?"

"I know, I know," Harris said, waving off James's protest. "You're used to working alone, but the higher-ups want someone paired with you. Someone to keep an extra set of eyes on things. Especially after this recent string of cases. Come on, follow me, I'll introduce you to her."

Her? He thought as he followed Harris. He never had a female partner before. This should be interesting.

The captain stopped at the desk of a young woman who was busy sorting through paperwork.

"Y/n," Harris said, his voice cutting through the din of the station. "This is Detective Barnes, your new partner. James, this is Y/n L/n."

Y/n looked up from her desk and smiled. James was struck by the vivid contrast between her bright smile and the dimly lit office. It was as though a sudden beam of sunlight had pierced the drab, monotonous atmosphere of the headquarters, illuminating everything around her.

"Nice to meet you, Detective Barnes," Y/n said, extending her hand with a warm, welcoming smile.

James took her hand. Despite the gloves he was wearing somehow their connection struck something in him, surprising him. Her smile was like a flash of light breaking through the clouds, and he found himself captivated. For a moment, the surrounding chaos of the office faded, leaving just the warmth of her presence.

"Likewise, Y/n," James managed to reply, though his mind was momentarily lost in the glow she seemed to emit.

The captain's voice continued, but James's attention was almost entirely absorbed by Y/n. Her laughter, light and melodious, cut through the usual tension in the air, making him feel an unfamiliar sense of ease. He noticed how her enthusiasm seemed to radiate a comforting warmth, contrasting sharply with the shadows that had long hung over him.

As they exchanged brief pleasantries, James couldn't help but be drawn to her, feeling an inexplicable pull. The way she carried herself with such genuine kindness and energy was a stark departure from the cold, calculated world he was accustomed to. It was as if she was a beacon of light, effortlessly drawing him in.

When Y/n spoke again, her voice brought James back to the present. "Shall we get started on the case?"

James nodded, his thoughts still swirling with the unexpected effect she had on him. As they began to walk toward their new assignment, he felt a stirring in his chest—a rare and potent attraction that he hadn't experienced in years. Her light seemed to offer a glimpse of something he had long forgotten, and he realized that her presence would be far more impactful than he initially anticipated.

---

James looked ahead at the road before him. He was in his car, heading towards the crime scene, with Y/n sitting next to him. 

The drive was quiet at first, the two detectives sitting in silence as the city blurred by outside the window. But Y/n finally broke the silence, glancing at the file in her lap.

"The victim," she said, her voice cutting through the tension, "it doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean?" James asked, though he already knew where this was going.

"No signs of a struggle, no forced entry, and those wounds—" she shook her head, flipping through the pages of the file. "They're precise. Too precise for a suicide. It's almost like something else killed her. Something not... human."

James's jaw tightened, his mind working fast. He couldn't let her go down that road, couldn't let her get too close to the truth.

"You're overthinking it," James said, his voice calm and measured. "It was a suicide, plain and simple."

But Y/n wasn't buying it. "I don't think it was."

James exhaled, his hand resting on her arm as they stopped at a red light. "Y/n, you're new here. These kinds of cases... they happen. People fall into dark places, and sometimes, they take their own lives. It's tragic, but that's the reality."

As he spoke, he let his hand linger on her arm, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against her skin. He looked into her eyes, willing her to believe him, to let his influence take hold.

But Y/n's expression didn't change. Her eyes remained focused, unwavering. "I still don't think it was a suicide," she said, pulling her arm away gently.

James felt his heart stop for a moment. His power—the mind bending ability he had relied on for centuries—had no effect on her. His mind raced, trying to understand what had just happened.

How could she resist him?

As the car rolled to a stop near the crime scene, James couldn't shake the unsettling realization: his influence didn't work on Y/n. He had expected her mind to bend effortlessly under his touch, as human minds always did. But she remained untouched by it, her skepticism unwavering.

And then there were her eyes. He hadn't noticed them until now—one blue, one light brown, with streaks of dark brown running through them like cracks in ice. They drew him in, magnetic in a way he hadn't experienced in centuries. Something about her was different, and that difference was making him more intrigued.

The fog hung thick over the alley as they stepped out of the car, the sound of police chatter muffled in the night air. Y/n pulled her coat tighter against the cold, her eyes scanning the scene ahead of them.

"I still don't understand," she said, her voice low but resolute. "How could it be a suicide when the evidence points to something else? The precision of those wounds..."

James' jaw tightened as he walked beside her. His mind was still processing her resistance. He had lived for centuries, long enough to perfect the art of manipulation, of influencing thoughts with nothing more than a touch or a glance. But Y/n... she was a puzzle, and he hated puzzles that didn't fall into place.

"It's not that uncommon for suicides to look this way," James replied, trying to sound casual. He could see the victim's body now, still lying where he had left her the previous night, carefully arranged to appear self-inflicted. "People in dark places do irrational things. Sometimes the mind goes to terrifying lengths to end suffering."

Y/n stopped, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him, skeptical. "But that precise? That clean?"

James sighed, knowing he'd have to try again. His eyes met hers, those two-toned irises that seemed to pull him in deeper the longer he stared. He reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. His fingers lingered, the familiar spark of power flowing through him, directing it toward her mind.

"It was a suicide," he said softly, his voice laced with supernatural persuasion. "You're overthinking this. Trust me."

For a second, he expected her expression to soften, for the lines of doubt on her face to smooth away. He expected her to nod, to agree, to let go of her suspicion. But instead, Y/n stared right back at him, unfazed. Her eyes didn't glaze over, her posture didn't relax. If anything, her resistance only deepened.

She took a step back, her eyes locked on his. "Why are you so sure it was a suicide?" she asked, her tone suspicious now, a challenge in her voice.

James blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. He couldn't remember the last time he had been rendered speechless by a human. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt something other than indifference toward one. But there was something about Y/n that was crawling under his skin in a way he hadn't anticipated. His pulse quickened—something he hadn't experienced in years—and it took everything in him to keep his calm demeanor.

"I've worked these cases for a long time," James finally said, his voice steadier than his thoughts. "I know what I'm looking at. It's just a matter of experience."

Y/n frowned, not buying his answer. "Experience, or deflection?"

His lips quirked in a faint smile. Bold, he thought. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you seem too... invested in making me believe this is just another routine case." She crossed her arms, her gaze unrelenting. "And the more you push, the more I think you're hiding something."

James felt a flicker of frustration rise inside him. He wasn't used to this kind of challenge. Normally, humans were easy—compliant, pliant, eager to believe whatever narrative he spun. But Y/n...she wasn't bending, and worse, she was turning the suspicion back on him.

The crime scene stretched ahead of them, the body still lying where the investigators were waiting to process it. But James's attention was entirely on Y/n now, this enigma standing before him, immune to his powers, with eyes that bore into his soul. Or whatever remained of it after three hundred years.

He stepped closer, his voice lowering as he tried one more time, feeling the pull between them growing stronger, more dangerous. "You're new here, Y/n. You don't know how things work yet. Just trust me on this."

Again, nothing. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't waver. "I trust facts. Evidence. And so far, none of that points to a simple suicide."

James's patience was thinning. He had no choice but to play along for now, to deflect further without making it obvious. But deep down, a gnawing curiosity started to bubble inside him. Why didn't his power work on her? And why was he so drawn to her? His hands itched with the desire to touch her again, to test if it was a fluke, but he stopped himself, knowing it would only make things worse.

The magnetic pull between them was undeniable now. It wasn't just the frustration of a failed influence—it was something more, something darker. Something that made him want to unravel the mystery that was Y/n, to find out why she resisted him and why her presence ignited a long-forgotten sensation inside him.

"Fine," he said, stepping back and conceding for now. "Let's take a closer look at the scene. Maybe you'll find what you're looking for."

But as he walked ahead, leading her toward the body, James couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting. Not just with the case, but between them. His carefully constructed world, one he had spent centuries building, suddenly felt fragile, and Y/n stood at the center of it, holding the pieces he couldn't quite grasp.

The alley was still dark, the smell of death heavy in the air. But for James, there was only one mystery worth solving now—and she was walking right beside him.

He continued to wonder why his powers didn't work on her. And beneath that, the more dangerous thought he couldn't quite dismiss: Did he want them to work on her? Or was he starting to enjoy the fact that they didn't?

As James led Y/n deeper into the alley, the scene came into sharper focus. The victim—a woman in her mid-twenties, blonde, with pale skin that gleamed under the streetlight—lay sprawled on the ground, her body positioned to look like she had simply slumped over after the act. But the wounds told a different story. They were precise, clean, almost surgical. James's eyes flickered over them, knowing exactly who had done this.

"You said the coroner will be here soon?" Y/n asked, kneeling down beside the body. Her voice pulled him back into the present, and he quickly masked his thoughts with the same cool indifference he had used for centuries.

"Yeah, they should be arriving any minute," he replied. He crouched down beside her, his hands brushing the edge of the victim's coat as he pretended to inspect her.

"I can't make sense of these wounds," Y/n muttered, her breath clouding in the cold air. "They're too deliberate for a suicide."

James glanced at her, suppressing the urge to sigh. She wasn't wrong, but she also wasn't supposed to figure that out. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him as he studied the body, aware of how intently she was watching his every move.

"I've seen similar cases," he said, feigning nonchalance. "Sometimes people who are really desperate can do extraordinary things to themselves."

Y/n didn't respond right away, but he could tell by the way she clenched her jaw that she didn't believe him. His eyes flicked back to hers, and once again, he felt that magnetic pull, those mismatched eyes—that seemed to anchor him in place.

She rose to her feet, scanning the surrounding area. "There's no weapon here. How could she have done this to herself without a blade? And if she did, where is it?"

James straightened, his mind racing. He needed to steer this investigation away from where it was going. Y/n was digging too deep, and his own kind would not tolerate a human—no matter how sharp—getting close to the truth.

"The weapon might have been picked up by the others, taken as evidence," he said, looking away. "We can check for that later. Right now, let's wait for the forensics team to do their job."

Y/n gave him a skeptical look but said nothing more as they heard the distant rumble of an approaching van.

---

The morgue was cold and sterile, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The victim's body lay on a steel table, draped with a white sheet. Forensic examiner Dr. Michael Carter stood over it, his gloved hands hovering as he prepared to begin his analysis. Y/n stood nearby, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between the body and James.

"I'll do a full autopsy," Dr. Carter said, his voice matter-of-fact. "But from what I can tell, these wounds are unusual. Too precise for a suicide, in my professional opinion."

James could feel Y/n's eyes dart toward him, her suspicion mounting. He needed to take control of the situation—now.

"Doctor," James said smoothly, stepping forward. "I appreciate your thoroughness, but I think it's clear what happened here. The victim took her own life. The evidence, while unusual, still supports a suicide."

Dr. Carter looked confused, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the wounds again. "I don't—"

James touched his shoulder lightly, focusing the full weight of his power into the man's mind. His voice softened, persuasive but commanding. "It was a suicide. You'll file your report accordingly."

The effect was instantaneous. Dr. Carter's confused expression smoothed out, his muscles relaxing under James's influence. He nodded slowly, the resistance draining from his face. "Yes...suicide. I'll note that in my report."

Y/n's jaw tightened, her confusion palpable. She watched the exchange, eyes narrowing as if sensing something was off, but she couldn't quite place what.

"That doesn't make sense," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "How could he change his mind so quickly?"

James remained silent, but inwardly, he felt a ripple of relief. One more threat neutralized. Still, he couldn't ignore the fact that Y/n hadn't relented—not completely. His power had no effect on her, but it seemed she was willing to let it go for now, if only because she couldn't understand what was happening.

Dr. Carter finished writing his notes, turning toward Y/n and James. "I'll submit the report by tomorrow morning. Suicide, just as we suspected."

Y/n's eyes flashed with frustration, but she forced a nod. "Thanks, Doctor."

As they walked out of the morgue, James could feel the tension radiating from Y/n. She was still confused, still skeptical, but for now, she wasn't pressing the issue. They walked in silence for a while, the night air crisp as they left the building and stepped into the quiet street.

James glanced at her, his gaze softening despite himself. He couldn't ignore the fact that he was drawn to her in a way he hadn't been to anyone in centuries. Her mind was a mystery, her resistance fascinating. And those eyes—they haunted him, challenging him in ways he hadn't expected.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You look like you could use a break."

Y/n raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. "A break?"

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Coffee, maybe? There's a place around the corner."

Y/n hesitated, her suspicion lingering. "You think coffee is going to explain why none of this makes sense?"

James chuckled softly, his eyes lingering on hers. "No. But maybe it'll give us a chance to talk, get to know each other. I think we could both use that."

She stared at him for a moment, clearly weighing her options. There was still that spark of suspicion in her eyes, but beneath it, something else—curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps she was starting to feel the same pull he did, the strange connection between them.

After what felt like an eternity, she nodded. "Fine. Coffee."

James felt a strange rush of anticipation. As they began walking toward the coffee shop, he couldn't help but wonder what secrets Y/n held—and what made her so immune to his powers. For centuries, he had controlled everything and everyone around him. But now, with her, he felt like the rules were changing, and he was no longer sure who was pulling the strings.

And the thought excited him in ways he hadn't felt in a very, very long time.

—

The coffee shop was small, dimly lit, with a cozy warmth that contrasted with the biting chill of the London evening. The smell of roasted beans filled the air, and the quiet murmur of conversation blended with the soft clinking of mugs. James and Y/n sat at a corner table, far enough from other patrons to keep their conversation private.

Y/n took a sip of her coffee, her eyes flicking over James as if she were still trying to figure him out. "So, how long have you been with the police?"

James leaned back in his chair, giving her a casual smile. "A while now. I've been... around, you could say."

Y/n smirked. "That's vague."

James chuckled. "It's been years. I've moved around a bit, but I always seem to find myself back in London. I guess the city has its way of drawing me in."

That much was true, though the rest of what he would say would be carefully crafted lies. He wasn't about to reveal his centuries-long existence or the true nature of his work with the police. It wasn't time for that—at least, not yet.

"And what about before that?" Y/n asked, her tone light but probing. "You've got this air about you like you've seen it all before."

James raised an eyebrow, impressed by her observation. He shrugged, keeping his tone nonchalant. "I've done a bit of everything. Some military work, odd jobs here and there. But I always end up back where I started—helping people, trying to solve problems."

Y/n nodded, though her eyes betrayed a hint of skepticism. "Must have seen a lot over the years. That would explain why you didn't seem too rattled by the scene earlier."

James lowered his gaze, feeling a familiar pang of guilt at the lies. He didn't want to mislead her, but the truth wasn't something he could share. Not yet. Not with her. He wasn't even sure why he felt so compelled to protect her from that truth.

"It's part of the job," he replied. "You get used to it."

She studied him for a moment, her mismatched eyes gleaming in the dim light. He found himself momentarily mesmerized by them, as if they were pulling him deeper into her orbit. He hadn't felt anything like this in centuries, and the realization both thrilled and unsettled him.

James forced himself to look away, taking a sip of his coffee, trying to hold back the distaste in his tongue. He could feel the attraction building, something beyond mere curiosity. It was a connection, one he hadn't allowed himself to feel since... her.

His mind drifted back to his past, to a time when he was still human. He remembered her vividly—Eliza. She had been everything to him. His fiancée, the love of his life. Before the darkness took him, before the hunger and immortality. When he became a vampire, he broke their engagement, knowing they could never be together. He'd loved her too much to put her through that life, to risk her safety.

The pain of losing her had shaped the centuries that followed. He had promised himself he wouldn't love again, wouldn't allow anyone to get close enough to hurt him in that way. And for centuries, he kept that vow, burying himself in his work and his duty. But now, sitting across from Y/n, he could feel that resolve weakening.

"So what about you?" James asked, steering the conversation away from himself. "What made you want to become a detective?"

Y/n stirred her coffee absently, thinking for a moment before answering. "I guess I've always wanted to do something meaningful, something that matters. I've seen enough injustice to want to stop it. I thought being a detective would give me that chance."

James nodded, listening closely. He admired her drive, her passion for the work. It mirrored the fire he once had when he first started working for the police, though his reasons had become more complicated over time.

"And have you?" he asked. "Found that meaning you're looking for?"

She shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Some days. But I suppose the job isn't always what you expect. Like today—there are just some things you can't explain."

James tensed slightly at her words, wondering if she was circling back to the murder scene. He could see the gears turning in her mind, still questioning the way things had played out. She was smart—smarter than most—and he couldn't help but admire her persistence. But it also made her dangerous. If she got too close to the truth, there would be no way to protect her from the world she was about to stumble into.

He watched her, feeling that magnetic pull between them grow stronger with each passing second. Y/n was different. She didn't just challenge him; she made him feel alive in a way he hadn't since before he became what he was.

Y/n caught him staring and arched an eyebrow. "You okay?"

James snapped back to the present, his expression softening as he smiled. "Yeah, just thinking."

"About what?"

He hesitated, unsure how to answer. His mind drifted back to Eliza again, to the weight of that promise he had made all those years ago. He had vowed never to love again, never to let anyone in. But as he sat there, across from Y/n, the weight of that promise felt like it was starting to crumble.

"Just... old memories," he said finally, his voice softer than before.

Y/n leaned forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Old memories, huh? Anything you want to share?"

James smiled, shaking his head. "Not tonight."

She looked like she wanted to press further, but something in his tone must have convinced her to let it go. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her mismatched eyes locking onto his again. "You're a mystery, you know that?"

James chuckled, though there was an edge of sadness in his voice. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't have all the answers."

Y/n didn't break eye contact, and for a moment, the space between them felt charged with something unspoken, something that hummed with tension. James could feel it—the pull, the connection—and he wondered if she felt it too.

He hadn't expected to feel anything like this ever again. Not after Eliza. Not after everything he had lost. But here she was—Y/n, with her sharp mind, her mismatched eyes, her bright smile and the way she seemed to see right through him. And for the first time in centuries, he wasn't sure what would happen next.

"I'll figure you out eventually," Y/n said, her tone half-teasing, half-serious.

James smiled, though inwardly, he was filled with a strange, unsettling excitement. "I look forward to seeing you try."

But as they sat there in the warm glow of the coffee shop, James couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. Y/n was different, and he knew that whatever came next—whatever secrets she uncovered or truths she refused to ignore—she would change his life in ways he hadn't even begun to comprehend.

And for the first time in centuries, that thought didn't terrify him.

It intrigued him.

Chapter 2 >

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

itching for good comparative literature posting between varney and dracula

You've come to the right place, my friend.

The Corn Will Never Ripen: Contrasting Themes of Fear, Knowledge, and Secret-Keeping in Dracula and Varney the Vampire

"It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count."

-- Jonathan Harker, Dracula

"...but at all events one thing is evident, that the parson thought it good sound policy, and it was, to endeavour to nip the thing in the head, and by ascribing it to a dream, put it down as a subject of speculation in the place."

-- Varney the Vampire

(Spoilers ahead for both books)

Fear is a powerful force in Dracula. Count Dracula wields fear as a weapon, using it as an iron hammer to flatten the peasants who live in his shadow or a knife to twist in the hearts of his victims. He delights in terror and the suffering that comes from it, and uses fear as a tool to manipulate people and to turn them against one another. In Dracula, the antidote to fear is knowledge: Jonathan Harker is rejuvenated by Van Helsing's confirmation that his experiences were real, Van Helsing's study of folklore provides the key tools needed to defeat their vampiric foe, and Mina Harker's compilation of journals, articles, letters, and other documents detailing the nature and movements of the Count proves, ultimately, to be the crucial weapon in the fight against Dracula.

Fear, too, is a powerful force in Varney the Vampire. Sir Francis Varney also wields fear to his advantage; however, it quickly proves to be volatile beyond his control, and he finds himself repeatedly harried and pursued by the mobs his presence has whipped up. The fears of the populace are an engine of destruction that churns up everything in its path, desecrating corpses, burning buildings, and on one occasion even murdering a man on the suspicion that he might be a vampire. In Varney the Vampire, the proposed antidote to fear is ignorance, as knowledge of the truth only breeds and increases the destructive power of fear; however, try as they may, the protagonists almost never succeed in concealing the truth from the people who would hurt or be hurt by its knowledge. Flora and Clara do not believe the doctors who tell them their horrible experiences are a mere dream, Flora and George independently arrive at the idea of vampires despite attempts from the others to keep them in the dark, and ultimately no one is ever able to prevent the formation of the book's most formidable villain, The Mob.

Much ink has been spilled about the way that Dracula reflects the many anxieties of the Victorian era; and certainly, fear is omnipresent in its pages. Yet the novel Dracula is not afraid of the dark, placing a much greater focus on the power of love and kindness, the importance of communication, and ultimately the triumph of good over evil. From the compassion of Romanian peasants and Hungarian nuns to the strong bonds of friendship shared between the main cast, Dracula brims over with optimism and hope for humanity, despite the inescapable prejudices of the text.

By contrast, the outlook of Varney the Vampire is bleak. Futility is a recurring theme, from the cartoonish bumbling of the main characters to the tragic character of Varney himself, trapped in an endless cycle of death and undeath. The lesson of Varney is that it is the duty of the enlightened intellectual to shield the frail minds of his lessers from truths which are too horrible for them to bear. Confronted by evidence of vampires, the woman and the emotional man will succumb to horror and despair, while the uneducated peasantry will quickly exaggerate the truth by way of rumor and gossip, eventually turning to mindless and destructive mob violence. Clearly, neither of these things are desirable to Rymer's imagined intellectual; yet the message of the text, over and over again, is that protecting these "lesser minds" is a task doomed to failure. Try as you might, you cannot keep the vampire out of peoples' heads, and the intellectual man is doomed to have his reasoned arguments drowned out by the riotous outcries of the mob.

It is impossible to separate Varney the Vampire's views on fear and knowledge from the author's sexism and classism. While Bram Stoker hammers in the lesson to his protagonists that ignorance benefits no one with the climactic attack of October 3rd, James Malcolm Rymer strongly holds that knowledge of the truth ought to be the domain of educated men and no one else. Women must be kept in the dark. The poor and uneducated must be kept in the dark. Men who are too emotional, and thus feminine, must be kept in the dark. None but the most manly and educated intellectuals are equipped to handle the truth of vampires, even when that truth far more directly concerns the very people that are being excluded from knowledge of it. Lying and gaslighting are acceptable and even virtuous when put to this purpose.

Some of this patriarchal attitude is present in Dracula, especially as regards the treatment of Lucy and her mother, but Bram Stoker appears to be mostly against the concept, as his heroes pay dearly for it with Mina later. Though his handling of it falls rather short of 21st century standards, Stoker attempts to show the value in cooperation between people of all kinds. The Romanian peasants do all they can to protect Jonathan Harker from Dracula; the nuns in Budapest take him in and care for him; Van Helsing and Quincey, both (admittedly Western) foreigners, are essential members of the effort to defeat Dracula; Renfield has a heroic turn after being shown kindness by Mina, and dies fighting Dracula with his bare hands; Mina, a woman, leads the team and plays a crucial role in Dracula's defeat. Even with Victorian prejudice rearing its ugly head, often glaringly, throughout the text, the contrast between Stoker's worldview and Rymer's is stark.

As a final note, I'd like to compare the portrayal of gender and emotion in Dracula and Varney the Vampire. Emotion in the Victorian era, as I've alluded to elsewhere in this post, was gendered. More specifically, emotion was feminine. Men were expected to control their emotions; women, being seen as weaker, were not given the same expectations of stoicism, although it was still considered impolite for a woman to display strong emotions in public. (This is what the drawing room, actually a withdrawing room, was for.) With this in mind...

Wow, the characters in Dracula cry a lot. Jonathan cries in despair during his captivity, Arthur will cry on anyone's shoulder, Van Helsing has his King Laugh moment, and even the normally stoic Seward breaks down into his phonograph at one point. Fear and trauma are not belittled, and grief is allowed room to breathe. Alongside all this emotion, we see the strict gender roles of Victorian society broken down in other ways too. Jonathan takes comfort in femininity during his confinement in Castle Dracula, imagining himself in the position of medieval ladies writing letters and comparing himself to Scheherazade; later, he holds onto Mina's arm while they walk, the opposite of Victorian custom. Mina studies shorthand and practices her typing in anticipation of working alongside Jonathan, crossing the strict male/female division of Victorian society between the working and domestic spheres. Van Helsing describes her as having "a woman's heart and a man's brain", and after learning his lesson about patriarchal sexism and keeping secrets, follows her lead in the hunt for Dracula. Stoker yearns for a kinder and less regimented world than the one he lives in, and in Dracula he writes that world.

Rymer, on the other hand, fears the degradation of the regimented world, and writes in Varney a cautionary tale of the dangers of Too Much Emotion, demonstrated most starkly in the final vignette of his sprawling epic. When Clara Crofton is murdered by Varney, her father is deeply affected by grief at losing his daughter; and though other characters, chiefly Flagship Manly Intellectual Dr. North, attempt to chastise him out of expressing that grief, they ultimately fail and he is driven to madness. Clara's fiance, Ringwood, is also stricken by the loss. When he discovers Clara has risen as a vampire, he chases after her, begging to join her in undeath; but while this sentiment in Dracula is portrayed as the ultimate expression of love and devotion, in Varney it is portrayed as silly and irrational, and Ringwood, too, ultimately faces material consequences for his emotional outburst: he is attacked by Varney and knocked unconscious.

In Dracula, emotional connection and communication are embraced, and the bonds forged by this type of connection are instrumental to overcoming fear and defeating evil. In Varney the Vampire, grief is dangerous, love is foolish, and fear is a greater and more pervasive evil than any monster that lurks in the shadows.

[autumnmobile12]

All right, it's been almost year since Nocturne aired and I think my lack of enthusiasm really showed in that my Nocturne posts are pretty nonexistent compared to Castlevania. I've gone over my points in the few posts regarding my issues with the series. Most of them are personal preferences and not so much a writing problem. Richter and Marira are the types of character I don't like, so that automatically makes me less inclined to enjoy Nocturne right out of the gate. Again, personal preference and I'm hoping it's just part of their development and they'll be more likable as the series progresses. As I've said in previous posts, I'll continue Nocturne when Season 2 drops, but I'm more invested in Annette and Olrox's characters.

...

Julia's death, though, is still something that really bothers me.

Setting aside the obvious refrigeration here, she really got screwed over.  On the surface, dying in battle protecting her son is a good death, but here’s what ruined it:

Her last words to Richter are,  “I’m so sorry.”

Why is this a problem? Take this scene from the perspective lens of Julia, not the audience or the plot.  There is a dangerous vampire on the offensive in front of her.  He challenged her, not the other way around.  She knew his name and what he was capable of, and she did not hesitate to try to take him down to defend herself and her child. In this circumstance, she was a defender, not a hunter.  As a Belmont, killing Olrox is the objective.

But Julia doesn’t know Olrox is going to spare Richter!

Olrox is a vampire and he’s pissed; from Julia’s point of view, kiddo is next on the hit list.  She has no reason to believe Olrox won’t kill her son.  So she’s pinned and losing the fight, has limited options, is losing her strength, and at the point she realizes she can’t do this and that she’s going to die here, she turns to Richter and says she’s sorry.

Yeah, sorry she’s going to die and the Belmont line is going extinct tonight apparently.  Again, she has no reason to believe Olrox won’t kill Richter.

For this scene to have worked the way the writers intended, her last words, at the very least, should have been, “Run, get away!”  Or something like that.  Or they could have given her a true death in battle by letting her have that classic anime surge of energy and motivation that only the most dogged of characters have, you know——“Over my dead body are you killing my boy!”——and dying that way.

She didn’t die protecting her son.

She gave up and died. She, a Belmont, gave up and died.

She did her ancestors dirty, and therefore, the writers did her dirty.  If you’re going to kill off a character for the plot of the protagonist, especially a woman (because this happens way more often to a female character than a male,) at least do them the dignity a good death.  Make it worthy.

But getting back to the refrigeration issue, I have mixed feelings about that.  On the one hand, if they really wanted the ‘dead parent trauma’ trope, I guess I appreciate that it was Richter’s mother and not his father and therefore just another run-of-mill male hunter.  But still, we did need something a little more original than this. Even though Lisa was part of the original games and her only lore was the 'dead mother trope,' Castlevania Netflix gave her more than that: She was a doctor, she was intelligent, she was kind and always tried to do right by others. It's not a lot, but with the short amount of time Lisa is onscreen, she was given something fans could remember her for aside from 'the woman who died.' Castlevania honored the content of the original plot while expanding on it and giving it more substance.

Julia is not from the original video games, and in spite of endless possibilities they had, Nocturne still went with the 'woman whose tragic death drives the protagonist.'

The body count of dead women in Nocturne is so uncomfortable that when Edouard was killed, my immediate reaction was not the emotional response the writers probably wanted.  It was, “Oh, thank goodness, a dude finally died.  Between the two dead moms and the dead sister, we were running out of room in the fridge.”  At least Edouard and Jacques still have the benefit of still being active characters instead of plot devices and, yeah, of course I was sad to see Edouard go, but I am still irritated about what they did to Julia.

[gaysindistress]

Van Helsing Retold - six

pairings: vamp hunter!reader x vamp!bucky

Summary: Under the cover of night, vampires and their hunters have been at war for centuries, never letting their bloodshed reach the light of day. That is until the wife of a powerful vampire leader, Steve Rogers is murdered and he demands revenge. Y/N Van Helsing is the target of his crusade and she comes face to face with his right hand man, Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: cursing, violence, blood, vampire antics

Word count: 2.4K

Five | series masterlist

Tag list: @emerald-writes @globetrotter28 @vonalyn @cakesandtom @nerdytif @teambarnes72 @crazyunsexycool

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

My mother flinches when I say the title that she has probably never heard and it sends a a ripple of hurt through me. She’s here. She’s alive. She…she’s alive and yet she left me with the Guild. She left me. My lungs feel like they’ve been ripped from my body and in their place is a gaping hole that my chest squeezes around, trying to keep itself alive. Sam’s hand darts out and wraps itself around my bicep before I can stumble forward towards her. Another wave of shock and fear rolls in, Bucky’s emotions to be exact.

“I feel like a test of your love is fitting, don’t you?” Steve’s voice cracks through my shock, “I’ll let one of them go if you complete the turning process.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Bucky crumbles to the ground beside Steve as a result of another vampire jabbing him with a cattle prod. I gasp in pain and crumble too as I watch him fall and Sam grunts in protest from being caught off guard.

“What do you mean complete the turning process?” I manage to gasp out and Steve’s sharp gaze cuts to me and then to my infected hand.

“I can practically hear the venom crying out to be feed,” he casually states as he looks between Bucky, my mom, John, and myself, “so who will it be, Y/N Van Helsing? Your mother who you thought tragically died when you were an infant, the Guild Master who’s hopelessly in love with you, or the vampire that has a soft spot for you?

Bucky growls but is forced to the ground again with another stinging zap of the prod. John makes a noise too but my focus is entirely on Bucky. How could Steve have known? I go over every little memory that I can manage, desperately searching for anything that might explain how he could possibly know. Bucky’s noises of protest are growing weaker, spurring me to look even harder when it hits me; Steve didn’t say that we were mates.

He doesn’t know. He only thinks that Bucky has taken a liking to me but he doesn’t know about our bond and that is something that I can use to my advantage.

I gently push off of Sam and do a mental check of my body; my hand is throbbing now due to the nearby blood but the vial that Bucky had given me earlier is still tucked into my sleeve. Straightening my back and squaring my shoulders, I lock eyes with Steve as I start my negotiations, “If I turn…”

Bucky cuts me off with a pained groan that sounds like he’s trying to say no but the electricity from the prod drowns it out. I force myself to keep my eyes on Steve and I continue, “If I turn, you will let both John and my mom go.”

Steve gives me a bored look and I offer up another condition to sweeten the pot, “And I’ll kill Bucky. Save you the trouble.”

That earns another pained groan and a deep, blood curdling laugh from Steve.

“You’d kill him for me?” Steve asks as he breaks our stare to look down at Bucky. He crouches to his level and disgust drips from his voice, “Did you hear that? She said she would kill you herself if I let the other two go.”

Sam grabs ahold of my elbow and jerks me back, “What the fuck?”

I don’t look at him while I pull the vial from my pocket and tuck it into my fist. Sam curses under his breath when he sees the flash of glass and blood, “what’s the plan?”

“I’ll take him out while you get my mom and John.”

It’s not lost on him that I didn’t mention Bucky and he squeezes my elbow, wordlessly asking me about him. I shoot him a pointed look over my shoulder and he drops my arm. The meaning behind my look is not exactly reassuring or clear, for that matter, but either way, he knows better than to question me. He’s always trusted my judgement and he has no choice but to do the same now.

Steve stands up and claps his hands together before making a show of presenting my mom and John to me, “Go on then Van Helsing. Feed and complete your transition.”

“I don’t suppose you have blood bags laying around?” I ask him while coming to stand before them.

“Fresh is always better,” he winks at me as I fight the urge to scoff at him. The transition doesn’t require more than a drop of human blood but new vampires are known to be violent and implusive. They can’t stop the moment the blood touches their lips and no matter the amount of self control I have now, I know I’ll fall victim to the blood lust if I’m not careful.

I stop in front of John and my mom and look between them as I stall, pretending to struggle in my decision about who to feed from. Bucky is telling me to choose John through the tidal waves of anger and hatred that break across our bond and without a second thought, I do take a half step towards him. His shock is written plainly on his face albeit difficult to see behind the blood and swelling. Of course, he would think so highly of himself as to believe that I might actually feed from my mom over him. However I don’t know her and therefore can’t trust her to keep quiet as I let the vial of Bucky’s blood slip into my hand and kneel in front of him. His eyes flicker to my hand and I quickly whisper for him to look at Sam. The gentle command will seem like evidence of whatever love Steve thinks I have for John but it’s to keep him from growing suspicious and demanding to see what’s in my hand.

I take John’s wrist in my other hand, whispering to him the plan, “On my word, take my mom and run.”

“I’m not doing that Y/N. I’m not leaving you here to get yourself killed,” he hisses and tries to jerk his wrist away. My infected hand, the one that’s wrapped around it, tighthens its grip with a new strength that I can only assume came from the venom. He hisses again although in pain this time and if he had more strengthen himself, he would’ve tried a second time to break free.

Steve’s patience is beginning to wear thin and he demands for me to get a move on it before he slits both of their throats.

“Please,” is the last thing I whisper to John before yanking the cap off of the vial and bringing it my lips but it seems that I’m not fast enough. Steve lets out a monstrous roar as he launches himself at me and rips me back with a fistful of my hair. My hands fly back to try to claw his away as Bucky and I let groans of pain out at the same time. John tries to pull my back but another vampire has grabbed him and as well as my mom.

The sound of glass shattering draws everyone’s attention to the small pool of blood on the ground between John and me. No one makes a sounds as confusion takes ahold but Steve’s grip grows tighter when the realization hits him. Sam curses under his breath from behind us when Steve yanks me to my feet. Moving his hand to wrap around my neck, he pins my back to his chest and his scruff scratches against my cheek as he speaks lowly into my ear, “Whose blood does that belong to, Van Helsing? What vampire was stupid enough to infect you without seeing you through the turn?”

When I don’t answer right away, he squeezes tighter and tighter until I’m tearing at his hands to pull him away. He demands me to answer his question before repeating it.

“Your wife,” my voice comes out in the form of a squeak but he hears me regardless.

“My wife?”

“S…She spit on me as…,” I stammer through the weight of Steve’s grip on my neck, “as… I shot a stake through…her heart.”

He doesn’t make any sudden movements like I had expected and chuckles instead, “So you were the one who killed my mate?”

“Yes and I would do it again.”

He sniffs the air for a moment and then tightens his grip once more as he lays eyes on Bucky who is still crouching on the ground. The vampire behind him has the cattle prod shoved into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, awaiting any chance to shock my mate.

“Do you know what my favorite part of the transition is?” he whispers without waiting for my answer, “My favorite part is that you can still be persuaded. You’re not quite human, not quite vampire which makes you to the most dangerous and perfect weapon I can think of.”

“No,” I mummer in disbelief and he finds great pleasure in that.

“What was that Van Helsing?” he spins me around so that I’m facing him and he forces me to make eye contant with him.

“No,” I whisper louder and it spurs him to gesture to the vampire holding John. The vampire jerks my Guild Master forward and when he is within arm’s reach, Steve swipes some blood form his face with his thumb. I struggle against him, using my nails to tear at his hand and fight as much as I can but it’s no use. I’m not strong enough to get him off of me and the venom is slowly draining whatever strength I do have.

“Whose blood was in that vial?”

The unwelcome familiar wave of complacency overcomes me as I mindlessly answer him, “Bucky’s.”

“Bucky’s?” he parrots with mock shock, “Is he your mate?”

“Yes,” I whisper before he forces my mouth open and wipes John’s blood onto my tongue. A bitter coppery taste fills my mouth and not soon after, a dry thirst follows. It feels as though my body has become immediately addicted to it and it’s been 30 seconds too long since I’ve had my last fix.

“Kill him.”

My body obeys and my mind fades to black as to save me from remembering my next actions.

The transition must have completed itself or completed enough that I get the pleasure of witnessing my chaos because I’m self aware again. Barely but I’m in control of myself again which is more than before. A broken voice from under me catches my attention and I look down as it calls to me again.

“It’s okay.”

I stare with a wild look in my eye at the hard body beneath me. I can hear every movement inside of his body. I can hear every shallow move of his chest and how the nerves in his back are screaming from being pressed into the hard floor. I can hear his lashes as they flutter against the top of his cheek. I can hear the tears that slip down the side of his face and how they splatter on the ground. I can hear as his body starts to accept its fate and it slows.

“It’s okay.”

I can hear the air being pushed from his lungs to his lips as his speaks.

“It’s okay.”

When my eyes finally focus, all I see is the beaten and bloody face of my mate laying under me. The knife I’m holding is pressing into the soft skin of his throat while thin black lines of blood mix with his tears.

“Bucky,” is all I manage to choke out.

His eyes open and even though, he is dying, he still smiles at me.

“Y/n,” he whispers back, “there you are.”

“I can’t…i can’t.”

“I know and it’s okay,” he tells me as my hand presses the knife harder against my will.

“It’s not. It’s not,” I ramble, trying to force my hand to move but stays put, “It’s not fucking okay.”

“When I found you but couldn’t have you and all I had was my dreams, I didn’t care what you were doing. Only that you were with me,” he tells me, “even if you were trying to kill me.”

He lets out a sad chuckle, “it’s ironic that this is how it ends for me.”

My tears start to blur my vision and he gently wipes them away for me, “i wish we could’ve had more time, Y/N. Then I would’ve got the chance to tell you how in love with you I am.”

“Fuck,” i scream.

My knife presses harder. It’s met with little resistance.

“I love you too.”

The turning process didn’t hurt but it wasn’t pleasant. I was hyper aware of every little thing and i became so over stimulated that i threatened to cut my own ears off if Sam didn’t stop breathing so hard.

I think the hardest part was not having Bucky there with me, to guide me, to comfort me, to love me when I couldn’t love myself for becoming what I’d hated for so long.

Sam could only do so much and with no other friendly vamps handy, all I had was myself and the unconscious body of my mate to attend to, a distraction from the burning bond in my chest.

A startled gasp yanks me from my sleep and I blink frantically as my eyes adjust to the lights. Bucky is sitting straight up in the makeshift cot Sam and I scrounged together. He’s looking around the room, taking in his surroundings as he comes to the realization that he’s alive.

“Took you long enough,” I tease him while standing and moving to sit on the bed’s edge.

“Y/N?”

“Bucky.”

He throws himself at me, pulling me into the most bone crushing hug he can manage in his weakened state. Burying his face in my neck, Bucky takes deep breaths in and his body shudders when it recognizes me. I wrap my arms around him too and we stay like this for a while. I’m not sure how long but it’ll never be long enough.

Eternity would not be long enough but luckily we have it so we can at least try.

[tacobellabeanburrito]

WEE WOO WEE WOO

Hey guys! I made playlists for both Phoenix and Miles! (Explanation for certain songs and rant under the cut)

There's some songs I couldn't add to Miles' playlist (Like the song "Decree Of A Prosecutor" from Turnabout: The Musical) that I really wanted too, but they weren't on Spotify. I got some other songs in there to make up for the ones I couldn't get in there, though.

I tried to do a thing where the songs go in the order of their lives? Like, in chronological order from when they were kids to present day? I thought it'd be cool and it's much easier to wrap my head around than just placing songs on the playlist. I like it having an order.

I also did a thing where some of the same songs are on both their playlists, and where a lot of the same artists are on both playlists because I like symbolism and shit. Some songs I took from other's playlists cause I wanted to make them have an equal number of songs and some I took from animatics and shit too.

Also, a lot of these songs aren't on a lot of the regular Miles and Phoenix playlists you see... BUT I LOVE THEM AND THEY FIT PERFECTLY OK? I also tried to do a thing where I put songs that I personally think they would listen too.

(Also lmao I took some of these songs from Stan and Ford's from Gravity Falls playlists on Spotify cause they really work together like...)

I wanna talk about their songs soooo badly guys.

I'll talk about a couple of them cause I wanna so badly.

Phoenix's Playlist:

I had an easy time finding songs for this motherfucker, and a lot of them are really good. There's a couple of songs I wanna explain though.

"The Great Pretender" is the most fucking Phoenix song ever. Like, holy shit. Kind of theater kid esc because "Pretending" yk? And it feels like he's always putting on a show and shit I don't know. Perfect.

"My Girl" and "Count On Me" are Pearl and Maya songs respectively. I see a lot of people do this thing where they make playlists for characters and only put songs based on the romantic relationships with that character and like. Uh. No? What about their family? What about their friends? People forget about that a lot and I don't like it so "My Girl" is kind of a Pearl being Phoenix semi-daughter song and "Count On Me" is a Maya best friend song.

OK SO, also "Poison" from Hazbin Hotel is on here and listen, I don't know if Phoenix would listen to this song BUT GODDAMN DOES IT GO WITH HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH KRISTOPH PERFECTLY. I put a lot of Krisnix/Kristoph songs on here ("Vampire" and "Wolf In Sheep's Clothing" mainly) because holy shit I love toxic tragic yuri.

Oh also, "Never Ever Getting Rid Of Me" is the most Phoenix/Feenie song ever. Everyone always goes on and on about how "When He Sees Me" is a Miles song and it is BUT NOBODY IS TALKING ABOUT "Never Ever Getting Rid Of Me" GIRL IT'S RIGHT THERE HOW DO YOU NOT SEE IT?

Miles' Playlist:

My boy's playlist get's soooo sad. Swear.

Ya'll don't get how much "The Run And Go" is SUCH a "Turnabout Goodbyes" song. It's so fucking good and it fits my boy so well. Just please, PLEASE LISTEN TO IT.

"Where I Want To Be" is a huge Miles song. I imagine him signing it when he's about ready to do his whole "Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death" thing it's soooo good. Also it's from a musical called "Chess" GUYS COME ON.

"Business Man" is soooo him and Von Karma.

"Wait For It" Please for the love of God that is such a Miles song. You guys don't know how much Hamilton has affected my view of these gay lawyers.

"Puppet Boy" Also slaps so hard.

"Death As A Fetish" is also a really good one for him.

Oh ok, so "Dear Sister, Your Brother" is a Miles and Franziska song that I absolutely love. People don't give this song enough credit.

Ok so "Brown-Eyed Girl" and "Vienna" are Kay and Sebastian songs respectively. Love them soooo much. They deserved a couple songs on his playlists because they are his children.

"Karma" is self-explanitory.

OK FINALLY WE'RE ON TO BOTH OF THEIR SONGS.

Fucking love putting Jet Lag on both of their playlists cause it fits them soooo well.

Also "Best Worst Mistake" from If/Then is their anthem. Like. Holy shit.

I love "If You Were Gay" from Avenue Q for them. They're so stupid and it fits them.

Um anyway, that's it.

Oh also, the friendship songs at the beginning aren't for just Miles and Phoenix. LARRY IS A PART OF THEIR GROUP TOO.

Oh also the two “Family” songs on both of their playlists is just me saying “EVERYONE IN THE WRIGHT ANYTHING AGENCY AND THE PROSECUTOR’S OFFICE ARE FAMILY”.

Also guys, I soooo badly wanted to put "Objections" on here but I couldn't find it on Spotify (Go figure) I'm guessing a lot of you haven't heard it before? Or maybe have? It's a fanmade opening for Ace Attorney and IT SLAPS SOOOO HARD. It's old but soooo good guys. Guys. Ya'll need to get in on the fan songs seriously.

I DON'T HEAR PEOPLE TALK ABOUT "TURNABOUT: THE MUSICAL" ENOUGH. Not the Random Encounters musical, but like, the actual one.

Anyway! Long rant over, tell me what you think of my playlists!

"Objections" fan made anime theme ^

And check out "Turnabout: An Ace Attorney Musical" Cause GODDAMN THAT SHIT I BALLER!

[agent-cupcake]

Dramaturgy

Ah yes, another commission to fund my gamer lifestyle from the incredibly lovely and patient @novcaine (thank you <;3)

Pairing: Vampire! Claude von Riegan x f!Reader

Synopsis: Trying to cope with the sudden death of your eccentric father, you fall down a rabbit hole of conspiracy, curses, and your very strange (and very tragic) family history, leading you to the small town of Old Derdriu—and its darkest secret.

Warnings: explicit smut, dub/noncon, kidnap, drugged sex

Tags: horror elements, urban fantasy, blood kink, very unhealthy romantic dynamic, overstimulation, "orgasms make your blood sweeter" trope

Word Count: 27.3k

Notes: I read a few horror stories in an attempt to get the tone right for this one which, as I'm sure you'll notice, heavily influenced me while writing. I really got caught up in lore crafting for this one as well, although the real fun was matching up the serious stuff with Claude's personality.

Act 1

“Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge, 

Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies.”

I.

9th day of Verdant Moon 

As long as I can remember, it’s been just us two. Me and dad against the world. Explorers, adventurers, wanderers. Rogues who chase the horizon to keep the sun close, that’s what he says. Said. There’s always been somewhere new to go, we never stayed anywhere long enough to cast too long of a shadow. 

That’s, more or less, what I said over his ashes. Not that there was anyone around to hear it. A eulogy for nobody. But it was true. It is true. 

Once upon a time (that’s what people say, right?), it must have been when we spent a summer in Arundel living out of a camper trailer because we didn’t have an air conditioner and spent most of the time outside, I asked him why. I don’t know why I remember it so well, but the air smelled like bug spray and pine and campfire smoke. Not ours though, we hardly ever have fires. Dad claims it’s ‘reasonable’ caution. Claimed. 

That night, I don’t know what compelled me to ask, but I did. I asked, “Why do we move so much?” 

He said to listen carefully, and I did, because he never sounded so serious. He said that we have bad luck. He said that it was like water, that it’d pool up around us like a puddle if we stayed still. And I asked why, of course, because that was a confusing thing for him to say. 

And he said, and I’ll never ever forget this, “it’s in your blood.”

I think. Back then, the distinction between ‘your’ and ‘our’ was virtually nonexistent. And maybe, just maybe, my memory is faulty, and he didn’t switch from a collective pronoun to a singular one. I could be seeing ghosts that aren’t there, convincing myself of untruths to explain some of this. It could have been ‘your’, and it could have been ‘our’, but the point is the same no matter how I split it apart. 

I’ve got bad luck. It’s in my blood. I try not to think about that because I don’t want it to be my fault somehow, I don’t even know what I would do if it was. 

But I have to know.

II.

“Excuse me, are you Cheryll Bates?” you asked hopefully, standing at the side of a table where an older woman in a bright pink cardigan sat. Nose crinkled and mouth slightly open in the way only people of a certain age could mimic, she adjusted her blocky red glasses higher to peer up at you. The lenses magnified her small, dark eyes like a bug, not helping the discomfort you felt beneath her unwavering gaze as she scanned you from head to toe. 

“You’re the Macbeth girl?” she finally asked. It took you a moment to realize what she meant. Macbeth, your mother’s last name—a name you only learned of, along with the woman herself, a month previous.

“Uhm, yeah, that’s me,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as immediately unsettled as you felt. “May I sit?” 

“Be a waste of time if you didn’t,” she said with a slight tinge of an accent, gesturing to the opposite seat with a plump hand. It was the wooden kind with a quilted cushion and long skirt, matching the borderline stifling cozy atmosphere of the cafe. The kind ripe with this musty, dusty, patchouli and tea leaf smell you associated with old women and antiques.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” you said as you sat down, anxiety making your movements awkward. Although Cheryll Bates wasn’t your blood relative, knowing you were related at all was surreal. Throughout your entire life, you’d never heard a single mention of family, of a mom or uncle or grandparents or even a stray cousin twice removed. You should have felt excited, and a part of you was, but you couldn’t stop messing with the cardboard sleeve on your tea, your eyes flitting around the small cafe every few seconds. 

The answers that had gotten you this far had only served to unravel the very fabric of your existence, but you sought them all the same. You had to. Dad used to say that knowing was often uncomfortable, but ignorance was an agony like no other. He said all sorts of wise things, although you learned recently that the truth was not one of them.  

Cheryll’s mouth worked like she was sucking on something, fine lines fanning out around her lips. The sluggishly swaying Tiffany lamp above cast her in an odd, unflattering light, her dark eyes that much more unnerving beneath the shadows. 

“I liked your mama, she was a sweet girl. How much did Indy tell you about her?” 

Indy, as in, your dad. The man who raised you, who cared for you. It was a nickname he had earned in school, apparently, after the titular adventurer and archeologist from an old movie.

“My dad never told me a single thing,” you said, trying not to sound too affected. If you thought about this all as some sort of research project, it was easier. If it wasn’t your life, you could view it dispassionately. So that’s what you tried to do. “I am… aware of what she did though.” 

“It was a terrible thing,” Cheryll said gravely. “Of course she’d already left you in Enbarr with Indy at that point, came home crying that she had a baby girl, that she couldn’t trust herself to even hold you. Nobody had any idea of why she was so upset, we thought she had lost her mind. And then your daddy came to try and bring her back and… well. I can’t imagine how a person could do such a thing.”

Something within you twisted in sympathy of that statement. Even reading an abstract report made your stomach churn. Self immolation as a means of murder suicide wasn’t very common, mostly because it wasn’t practical. The report had no answers for the hows and the whys, only dry facts.

“Do you think it was postpartum depression?” 

Again, Cheryll stared at you with that sour purse of her lips, almost like she was sizing you up. “It was that family of hers,” she said. “I’ll tell you straight, the Macbeths weren’t quite right. Not to say it was their fault, what happened to them, but I won’t glorify the dead, neither. I don’t believe in it. I never wanted my Liv to marry that boy, I knew only bad things would come of it.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“Didn’t you read about what happened to them?” Cheryll asked, an edge of indignation in her voice. “One after another…” She didn’t finish that statement, closing her eyes to visibly, even theatrically, shudder. Then again, having seen the string of death certificates, you didn’t exactly blame her. “I went to a psychic when Liv told me she was getting married to that Macbeth boy, and do you know what they said? Don’t let it happen. But I did. I let her marry into that family, and I’ve had to live with that every day since.”  

“But none of it was on purpose, was it?” you asked cautiously. “The fire was an accident.” 

“An accident,” Cheryll scoffed. “An ‘accident’ that happened right after the two of them had a baby girl. Just like the ‘accident’ that killed your mama’s baby sister. Do you think what happened with your mama was an accident?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, trying to remain calm, wiping that thought from your head and your palms on your jean-clad thighs, “that my mother committed suicide.” 

“All that girl ever wanted was to be a mama. I’m telling you, there was something wrong with the Macbeths and she realized it too late. They were cursed, all of them and especially the girls.” Cheryll paused, contemplating her tea. “That’s why your parents met in the first place. Indy was doing research into the families involved with that tragedy in Derdriu and they were the only two he could find.” Cheryll took a sip, frowned, then continued in an even softer voice. “I s’pose your daddy must have been just as cursed as your mama, but I didn’t know him very well.”

“What tragedy?” you asked.

“The Rain of Blood, they call it.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” you said, getting out your diary to write it down. 

“Reign, not rain,” Cheryll said, peering at your notepad. “Like a king, reign.” 

You erased the word, rewriting it. “Is it a story, or something that happened?” 

“It happened,” Cheryll said. “He and your mama always had a laugh about that, said it was why they had such rotten luck.”

“Rotten luck,” you repeated under your breath, more to yourself than to her.

“They thought it was real funny,” Cheryll said, pulling you from your thoughts. “Indy scorned all the ghost stories, he said that it was a matter of history waiting to be uncovered. It seems like he changed his tune as soon as he saw what happened to them.” 

You thought about your dad who got itchy when you stayed in one place too long, looking over his shoulder like he was being chased by something you couldn’t see. You thought about the puddles of bad luck forming beneath your feet. 

“He might have,” you said, not wanting to think too hard about that. “Do you remember what he said happened? In this Reign of Blood, I mean.” 

Cheryll impatiently waved her hand. “You’d have to find a book or something, I couldn’t tell you other than that. The town burned down after. That’s why you’ve got Derdriu and Old Derdriu. They were connected before the incident, but Old Derdriu had to be completely rebuilt later.”

“So Old Derdriu is newer than Derdriu,” you said, unsure if you were understanding her correctly. 

“Oh, except for the ruins, they kept those,” she said, her head tilting as she remembered. “The castle from way back when Leicester had Kings and Dukes and the like. But I couldn’t tell you any more than that, I’ve never been.”

You wrote that down too, tapping the eraser against your lip as you contemplated all of this new information. Cheryll was drinking her tea, obviously wanting to finish this up. 

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, I really appreciate it,” you said. “Is there anything else you can think of about my dad or…?”

“I’m going to tell you what I wish I had told my daughter,” Cheryll said, looking at you head on. “Leave, now. Go spend the summer on a beach in Enbarr with other kids your age. There’s nothing for you here.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah, I… Yeah. I’ll think about it, thank you.”  

III.

21st day of Verdant Moon

Being alone is worse than I thought it would be. Having to do everything by myself, figure out how to buy tickets and schedule stuff and all of that, it’s exhausting. But if I think about that too much I’ll cry and if I cry I won’t stop so all I can do is try to figure out what the hell any of this means. It has to mean something, doesn’t it? Or it’s all just insane nonsense and I’m the unfortunate product of a long line of nonsensical insanity, left to drift through this world with nothing but a payout from a trucking company and ghost stories from an old widow and some undiagnosed madness that was never treated because I had no idea I had a family history of mental illness because I was lied to, over and over again.  

I can’t think like that. 

Earlier, after I left that cafe, I remembered something. It’s weird to have all of these little memories popping up now, things that seemed so insignificant at the time. Maybe they are and I’m just trying to backfill information to explain all of the crazy things I’m learning about my dad and my family. I don’t know. I was just thinking about how during my first year of high school, my dad had a brief stint as a mechanic northwest in Elidure before working through the various little towns scattered around the old border between Adrestia and Faerghus as a construction worker—he even let me borrow the Indech branded pickup truck he’d gotten as a property manager on Lake Teutates to drive to my junior prom. The same truck where I got my first kiss playing spin the bottle with some people I was sort of friends with. I can’t even remember his name. It’s funny, almost. I remember that he tasted like the shitty booze we were all drinking and got way too slobbery and wore a purple tie and that I could see the Big Dipper right above his head but I don’t remember his name. Moving around so much, I guess, I never really bothered to remember things like that. After I graduated, dad and I left it all behind to spend a year on the Rhodos Coast. I liked it there. It was charming. But I always knew we wouldn’t be there long, dad got these twitchy sorts of tics when we stayed anywhere too long.

Anyway, the point is, I mentioned wanting to go east, to Gloucester or something because I heard they had mild summers, and he said no in a completely flat voice, nothing like I had ever heard from him. He didn’t even look me in the eye, just said no. We went to Gwenhwyvar pretty soon after that, and I didn’t bring it up again. Again, it could all be innocuous. It could all mean absolutely nothing. But I wonder.  What if it did? What if there was a reason he wouldn’t take me here? A real, true reason that didn’t have to do with the horrible things that happened to my family? If he seriously thought I was cursed, why didn’t he tell me? What was he hiding? Well, I’ll never know that.

I looked up the Reign of Blood and barely found anything, it’s all some witchy weird occult stuff and ghost stories. The castle itself is called El Dorado, and it’s this sort of icon of superstition, but especially the Reign of Blood which is used as an explanation for why so many people disappeared in the fire. People debate if it happened more than they discuss what might have actually taken place. A part of me thinks that Cheryll was just messing with me, or lying. I don’t know why she would, but it makes more sense than the alternative. Who am I to believe that somehow I’m involved with this huge conspiracy? People who are hurting make up all sorts of weird things to try and come to terms with their pain, I’m just feeding into that. 

I should leave. If dad didn’t think it was a good idea to be here, maybe it’s not. I should move on, that’s what he’d want, right? Keep on moving, never look back, chase the horizon. 

I’ll leave. There’s no point in any of this, it’ll just keep hurting. I’ll leave. Tomorrow. 

IV.

Before you left the city, destination TBD—but that was a lie, wasn’t it? You knew exactly where you were going, you just didn’t admit it because you knew it was stupid and the mark was the last person to admit they’d been conned—you stopped at your mother’s childhood home. It was a white farmhouse style place on the very edge of what used to be a suburban neighborhood but was now quickly giving into the urban sprawl. The Macbeths hadn’t lived there for over twenty years. You could see each of those years weathered onto the house. It was where your aunt died as a young girl. How? You weren’t so sure. Cheryll mentioned illness, but the official record only gave the date of her passing. That was a few years before your grandparents followed. 

If you expected to feel something upon seeing the place, you were disappointed. Not even a twinge of disquiet that’d come with seeing a place possibly haunted by the dead. 

You felt nothing other than a vague curiosity, a pang of regret, or melancholy. Never, not once in your entire life, had you lived in an actual house. The longest you had ever stayed in one place was Enbarr, where most of your earliest memories took place. And then there were a few years in Mozghuz where your dad taught history, and another few in a small Varley town where he worked as a consultant for a local museum. But those were apartments and townhouses and just you and him. No family, few friends. A life of transience, of existing ephemerally, always in a state of maybe or going or somewhere else.

A tingling sense of unease settled through you right then, although not because of the entirely benign house with which you were having an intense stare down. Why were you here? Not only at this long abandoned home, but in Leicester, in Edgaria. What were you searching for other than ghosts? Were you seriously going to believe in the superstition of an old woman who went to psychics and still grieved for her daughter? Bad things happened, sure, but that was true in a lot of families. That didn’t mean anything, you just wanted to assign meaning retroactively because of your pain.

And it did hurt. It always hurt. You lived in a state of in-between and those gaps were yours to fill all by yourself, overflowing with the pain you pretended you didn’t feel. Staring at the old house, you were acutely aware of the in-between. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine him standing next to you, filling up that empty space. 

“Are you lost, Mr. Jones?” you would tease. “I doubt you’ll find the Lost Ark all the way out here.” 

He would groan and ask who told you about that embarrassing nickname, and you would tell him that it was-

Well, you wouldn’t. Because if he hadn’t died, you would never know Mrs. Bates or that you weren’t actually his daughter or that his friends called him Indy. 

The sound of rattling plastic on concrete startled you out of your increasingly dangerous thoughts. The next door neighbor was dragging in his trash bins. He was an older man, his face wrinkled and tan like leather, his posture a little hunched. 

“Excuse me,” you called, trotting over to him. It was a long shot, but better than nothing.

“Huh?” he asked, looking at you with his thick, bushy eyebrows furrowed. 

“Sorry to bother you,” you said. “I was just wondering how long you’ve lived here?”

“How long?” he clarified, his big eyebrows shooting up. “Huh. Gotta be fifty years, give or take.” He laughed, a dry, crinkly sound. “Too long, I say.”

“Did you know the family that lived here about twenty-five or so years ago?” you asked, gesturing to the big white house. “The Macbeths.” 

As soon as you said the name, he tensed up, his friendly demeanor freezing. “Why do you want to know?” 

You raised your hands innocently, surprised by the instant reaction. “I’m their… their granddaughter,” you told him. “I don’t mean to trouble you at all, I’m only curious.” 

His cheeks puffed before he let out a big breath, that defensive posture shifting. “I hate to say that I can’t tell you much. They were always a real private family, kept to themselves mostly. It caused one heck of a scandal, the way everything ended. Don’t s’pose it sat right with anyone, not after-” He cut himself off, thin lips drawing inwards. “No, it’s not my business.”    

“Please, I just want to know,” you said, still placating. “Anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate.” 

He nodded, but his eyes were still cautious. “I’ll tell you this, the missus was very unwell,” he said. “When the youngest daughter died, people spread all kinds of nasty rumors about her involvement. Completely outrageous, what they said. But towards the end, she wasn’t quite right in the head, always talking about some curse. It was no thing ‘sides the agony of a grieving parent, but people took it as an admission of guilt.” 

“It was all an accident though, wasn’t it?” you asked. “Nobody was at fault.” 

“Exactly. If you want my honest opinion, the family had bad luck. There’s nothing more to be said, what with all those little ‘uns involved.” 

Bad luck. The sun beat down on your skin, sweat beading up on your spine and hairline, but you shivered, casting a sidelong glance at the house as if it was somehow watching you, as if talking about these things was dangerous in any way, as if there was a looming manifestation of a bad luck over your shoulder, drooling in anticipation of getting you now that you were the last Macbeth left. 

“I see,” you said, forcing a smile for the man. “Thank you so much for your time and honesty, I really appreciate it.” 

“Of course, have a good day, miss.” 

Act 2

“Who now is plotting how he may seduce Thee also from obedience, that with him, Bereav’d of happiness, thou may’st partake His punishment, eternal misery”

I.

Essar, Hanneman, “Final Look at El Dorado.” 

Excerpt from National Geographic, Vol. 162 

September, 1991

“It was with great honor that I accepted the final invitation to visit El Dorado, the famed yet forgotten home of Leicester’s Duke, and eventual king, Claude von Riegan. The massive, not to mention opulent, castle sits in the cradle between Riegan and Albrecht, kept safe by the steep basalt wall to the south and acres of privately owned forest. For all of its grandeur and majesty, these gilded halls hide dark secrets, secrets that may never be truly known. Historians quibble over the voracity surrounding the chilling Reign of Blood. Was it, as many say, a tragic plague sweeping the population? Could it have been a cult formed following a period of famine? Or, as some fear, does this golden fortress hide a terrifying past of human sacrifice and Faustian bargains? These secrets are what has led to the permanent closure of El Dorado and…

“…For my tour, and indeed, the last ever tour of El Dorado, I was given a set of very specific instructions for the sake of my safety and the conservation of the historic site. The first demanded I stay close to my guide. The second instructed me to only enter rooms filled with natural sunlight. This, I was told, was the surest method of determining which rooms were safe. Truly, health concerns are as much a part of the closure as anything else, it is simply too risky to maintain. I was…

“...Despite the stories of prowling monsters and dangerous curses, nothing came of the tour, save for these beautiful photos I was able to capture in the hopes of memorializing what was once a golden beacon of wealth, nobility, and power. As of today, El Dorado is entirely inaccessible. Trespassers will not only be gambling with their own safety should they wish to enter, they also risk severe jail time and steep fines. As I…”

II.

The Sagittarius Express left Edgaria at nine the morning, and it would arrive in Derdriu around eight that night. Named after the starry archer, it was a fairly straight shot connecting the two major cities. It would be shorter in a car, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get in one of those. After spending the night in Derdriu proper, you would take the gondola up to Old Derdriu.

Settled into your compartment with only two other people—and one of them had been passed out cold ever since you boarded—you continued your research. In general, you were poorly versed in Leicester history. You knew there had been something going on with one of their dukes wresting power away from the nobles to consolidate power and drive out the domineering Church of Seiros, going so far as to annex some of Faerghus’ land, but not necessarily any details beyond that. 

When you looked into the Reign of Blood and Old Derdriu, the castle El Dorado showed as the first result. It was the only structure that remained when the rest of Old Derdriu was razed to the ground. Those were the ruins Cheryll mentioned, the home of Claude von Riegan, duke turned king. Information about the event was sparse. Even when you did find information about El Dorado or the Reign of Blood, to say there was discourse surrounding it was an understatement. And that was assuming you could find historical facts rather than ghost stories. None of this was helped by the fact that, a hundred or so years before the Reign of Blood, King Claude von Riegan mysteriously disappeared. Such a tantalizing yet inexplicable vanishing act gave rise to stories about his occult dealings. Some people said he was cursed by the goddess Sothis for his vendetta against the Church of Seiros. Since El Dorado was his home, his story muddied the waters when it came to researching the Reign of Blood.

As the train pulled out of the station, you pulled up one of the more promising sources you had found: a Xerox of an old Life magazine article penned by some old guy named Hanneman Essar. The quality was terrible, compressed and squeezed dry of detail, but looking at the photos of the once grand castle made you more certain than ever that it was important. Something about the place drew you in, even as you glanced over your shoulder for the cold claws of whatever bad luck your father warned you of. There was no point in asking yourself why, or if you should or shouldn’t—you already knew you shouldn’t—because your course was set in stone. Carved out long before you arrived in Leicester. 

Those sorts of thoughts, the ones that toyed with the idea of fate or destiny, were entertained in the back of your head, the place where you pushed every other unpleasant or undesirable or stupid thought. 

It was better to focus on facts. 

“Are you interested in El Dorado, young lady?” the man sitting next to you asked. You slowly lowered your tablet, looking up at the speaker. A mustached blond man with blue eyes, his eyebrow quirked curiously. “It’s rare to see someone your age taking an interest in history.” 

That bristled you a bit, both his pompous tone and the implication. Even when your father worked other jobs, his fascination with history never waned, and it was the only area of your education that never faltered from constantly moving schools.  

“It’s an interesting place, don’t you think?” you asked in a measured voice. 

“Yes, it most certainly is,” he agreed. “A place most ripe with curiosity and fiction, a paradise for the easily fooled tourists they usher in.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“I should think my meaning is clear. The people in Old Derdriu spread ridiculous stories about El Dorado to stimulate their tourism, all for a place that they have shut off to the public,” he said. “As for the source of my interest, I am Acheron Phlegethon. I don’t doubt you’ve heard of me. I’ve debunked several famous hoaxes across Fodlan, including the fiction of Shambhala’s subterranean civilization. Now I have set my sights upon the legendary vampires of El Dorado.”

“Vampires?” you asked, your eyes widening. 

Acheron squinted at you suspiciously. “I thought you said you had done your research.”

“I only just started,” you said, shrugging in an attempt to hide your ignorance. “I guess that explains why it’s called the Reign of Blood.” 

“Bah, a fiction,” Acheron said, waving his hand. “There is no evidence of the cult they claim existed, let alone of the vampire they insist was the leader. Tell me, if the town or its people were truly cursed, why did retribution stop with a single fire that could easily be attributed to a natural cause? The deaths are the same, nothing more than a result of the violent beasts that are known to prowl that area. As I said, they sell these stories to bring tourists into their town. It really is the most insidious scheme, one that I will not tolerate. My next book will be the most comprehensive look at this scam to date, it’s sure to be a hit.”

“How do you know?” you asked. “Do you have any evidence that it’s a lie?” 

“Evidence?” he asked, baffled. “Why, common sense. There is no such thing as vampires or curses, need I any better evidence than that?”

“Yes.”   

Acheron’s eyes narrowed further, his mustache twitching. “It seems you are too young to be sensible. I recommend you continue to study historical facts instead of believing in superstitious bunk.” He paused, his head tilting. “If you give me your email address, I can add you to the preorder list for my next book. I’ve no doubt that you would find it most edifying.”  

“No, thank you,” you told him. 

“Hm, very well. I shan’t disturb you further,” Acheron said, pulling a pillow around his neck and a set of headphones from his bag. “Oh, and good luck with your research, young lady.” 

“Thanks, you too,” you told him, although he was already pulling on an eye mask and probably couldn’t hear you. 

You turned away from the man to look out the window, your thoughts whirling. If you believed that your family could be cursed, couldn’t you also believe in vampires? The logical side of your brain said no, emphatically rejecting the notion because it was ridiculous. Utterly insane. 

Something in your gut said otherwise. The tight lead ball of anxiety burning in your stomach, the thing drawing you towards Old Derdriu despite everything that screamed at you to stay away. You looked again at the distorted photos of El Dorado, trying to imagine it in its prime. It must have been a sight to behold, unlike anything you had ever seen before. 

It didn’t matter what you did or did not believe. It was just like you told Acheron, you needed evidence first. Rubbing a hand over your face, you returned to your reading. 

III.

24th day of Verdant Moon

I had a dream last night. Sometimes I get these wicked nightmares which I guess makes sense considering what happened but last night it wasn’t a nightmare which almost makes it worse because when I woke up crying, it wasn’t just because I was alone, but because I feel so alone that it hurts, it hurts bad. People aren’t made to be alone. I don’t know how to be anything else than a set, a pair. It was always just me and him and now that he’s gone I have a gaping hole in my chest and I think that if I chase down answers it’ll mean something but I know it won’t, I’ll wake up just as alone as I did this morning. 

My brain conjured this idea of a man just to taunt me, I think. A beautiful man who looked at me like he knew me, and I knew him even though I don’t. I woke up the second before our hands touched and just like that we (we, us) were out in the nothing of Fodlan’s great empty flatlands and there was a high wind warning and a great big semi-truck with Ernest Shipping painted on the side and a “rate my driving” sticker on the back. And then there were squealing tires and creaking metal and crunching glass and so much noise from all sides as the world closed in around me, the cab of dad’s vintage SUV giving way to make room for something else crudely forcing itself through. The wind was screaming, and so was I. But dad wasn’t, he didn’t make any noise as his body got crushed. Dead on impact, the first responders said. And yet, after I wriggled out of the mangled mess of what must have been a car—moments before it caught fire—I was relatively unharmed. A miracle, they said. Lucky, they told me. If dad hadn’t swerved the way he did, it would have been me who died. And it’s not even like I’m traumatized, right? I can write about this all I want, I told it to the police and the lawyer and everyone about it and it’s all fine, I’m perfectly fine, I’m well adjusted and alone and accursed, and I want to scream and be angry and cry until I’m all dried up but nothing, nothing is going to make it stop, all I can do is chase down this fantasy and shove all of this down because if this is what sanity feels like, I don’t want to be crazy. 

In that dream, the man I saw had beautiful eyes. Blue green, like a sea breeze or something else equally poetic and reckless, surrounded by these thick, dark eyelashes. Now that I’m awake, all I can do is ascribe meaning to the meaningless, but it was like he was inviting me to him. I’ll be in Old Derdriu tomorrow and I’m probably just losing it but I keep thinking that it's where I need to be. 

IV.

Old Derdriu was more or less what you expected. Small, quaint, and beautiful. It had the unique mixture of mountainous charm and oceanic appeal, giving the fresh air a green, salty weight. You spent the first day getting a measure of the place, glad for the mild weather. There was some displeasure when you realized one Mr. Phlegethon had checked into a room right next door to your own the day before—he even attempted to catch you in another conversation before you excused yourself—but you were quickly absorbed into your preliminary attempts at researching the small town.  

Although all of it was only a prelude to, or maybe a distraction from, what you truly wanted. After lunch, you rented a pretty metallic bicycle at a place on main street. It fit the scenery, looking a little dated with its tall handlebars and a basket. An uncomfortable reference considering why you were here. All the same, hi-yo silver away, you left town to follow the northeast highway as per the directions on the map you bought earlier. Unfortunately, you quickly realized what you had already known to be true. El Dorado was exactly as inaccessible as Mr. Hanneman explained in his old article. The dirt road turn off was gated and locked, the rusty fence adorned with a large, angry “PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign. Even the famous golden tower could not be seen through the overwhelming barricade of trees.

Standing there on the empty road, the bike propped between your legs and dust and the thick scent of pine filling your lungs, unease worked through you. It came upon you slowly, and then all at once. The world was telling you to leave. Winds quieted, birds hushed, even the sunlight dimmed a shade. But something else beckoned you, calling out so vividly you felt yourself lurch forward a step, the bicycle wheels turning a notch. A wild and insane part of your mind was prepared to abandon it right there and break past the intimidating tree line, damn the consequences or legality. You even thought you could probably find El Dorado yourself, no matter how deeply it was buried, that its call would lead you directly to it. Blood following blood, an innate tracker buried in your DNA that had gotten you this far.

To spite the heavy silence, you laughed at how ridiculous that thought was. A wild, uncomfortable laugh. The trees swallowed the sound whole. 

Turning around, you rode back into town. Only a part of you truly understood the choice you made while standing there in the stillness of the forest, although you knew absolutely that it was the only possible ending. 

V.

28th day of Verdant Moon

I looked it up. People can create false memories, it’s a symptom of trauma or mental illness, our brains are suggestable and weak and we just make stuff up by mixing real things with other information. Other information, like all of this weird shit I’ve been reading about El Dorado and Old Derdriu and the original Lady Macbeth and everything. Witch, wiccan, whatever. Vampires aren’t enough, curses aren’t enough, why not just add in a witch? Why the hell not. 

The dreams I’ve been having, I think it’s something like that. Constructed memories of El Dorado and that same guy, the one with the pretty eyes. It’s weird though, maybe normal, they’re not bad dreams. Just about the castle, and him. It’s a break from feeling like I’m going to suffocate on all of this. They don’t feel real, exactly, just…

I don’t know, there’s no point in dwelling on it, I’m probably doing more damage by thinking about it so hard because then I just remember how alone I am and start tearing up and it’s so stupid. This journal is going to be used as a case study one day. People go wild for crazy women, right? There’s a whole cast of them flowing through my veins.   

VI.

Acheron’s premise that the people in Old Derdriu hoped to make money off of the notoriety of their past was ridiculous. Questions regarding El Dorado were answered bluntly, but icily. Most people seemed like they wanted nothing to do with the dark history, especially not to make a profit off of it. You could say that you understood and respected it, but your frustration only mounted the more you realized how inaccessible the truth was. Your entire life had been built on convenient ignorance of unsavory history, and here you were.

Again.   

That was fine. Your dad faced all sorts of difficulty in his historical research, you remembered him complaining about it on more than one occasion. So you did the thing that wasn’t committing felony trespass and went to the library to gather information. Research. 

The library in Old Derdriu was easy to track down, within a short ride from the inn. What you didn’t expect was what you would find. In the front, it was fairly typical. The reading area and magazine shelves and receptionist desk, even a few computers along the wall. But, behind the front desk was what you could only describe as a tower of bookshelves. The unconventional arrangement had you craning your neck to look up, shocked at how the shelves expanded upwards for what looked like three floors with twisting stairs and platforms providing access to the collection. Every place that could store a book, had a book. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how they were organized.  

A lone girl sat behind the desk in front of the tower of books, the only other person in the front. Her name plate read Flayn, and she twirled one of her long curls around her finger as she idly flipped through a magazine. When you approached, she looked up with a big smile.

“Hello!”

“This is… the library?” you asked. 

“Yes, it is. Welcome,” Flayn responded sweetly. “If you need assistance finding anything, I would be more than happy to help.” 

“I would really appreciate that,” you said, tearing your eyes from the tower of books to look at her directly. “I’m looking for books about the history of this town, specifically El Dorado. I’m not particular, whatever seems the most informative.” 

She blinked, her smile lapsing somewhat. “Of course,” she finally said, standing up. “If you take a seat at a table over there, I will see what I can find.” 

“Thank you so much,” you said with a nod. Slowly, admiring the scope of the library, you walked over to one of the tables and sat down. While you waited, you pulled out your tablet to continue flipping through websites that had mention of El Dorado. This one was old, the kind with a black background and dark red cursive font. There was very little to actually be learned, it was a ghost story that told a risque tale of blood sacrifices and a sex cult.

It was all ridiculous, of course, but one line gave you trouble, made your stomach turn uneasily.

Why was it fire? The author wrote. Not, I think, to rid the town of some undead threat. After all, the vampire was hiding away in El Dorado. No, they chose fire to burn the witches.

“Excuse me,” somebody said, calling your attention away from the unsettling words and up to the narrowed green eyes of an older man.

“Yes?” you asked, trying not to look guilty beneath his piercing glare. You hadn’t done anything, but something about him made you feel as if you had, you just didn’t know what it was yet.  

“From your request, I can only assume you are researching El Dorado,” he said, his voice as stiff and stony as his demeanor. 

“I am.”

“And what, may I ask, is your reason for conducting such research?” 

You floundered for a moment, caught off guard and confused. Finally, you shook your head and shrugged. “Curiosity, I guess,” you said.

“Are you in any way associated with a man who calls himself Acheron Phlegethon?”

“What?” you asked, confusion replacing the discomfort. “No, not at all.” 

“Are you sure?” he pushed.

“Well, I’ve met him. He tried to sell me his books,” you said, frowning. 

“Are you sure that’s all?” 

You realized pretty quickly what this man was actually asking, what he wanted to hear. “I’m here for… personal reasons,” you explained. “This place has meaning to me. Er, it had meaning to… someone very important to me.” 

“I see,” the man said. You could practically see the calculations going on behind his stare, your words reduced down to ones and zeroes as he analyzed them.  

“Is that okay?” you asked. 

“Yes, of course. I would never withhold knowledge from the genuinely curious. I suggest you start with this one,” he told you, setting down a large book bound in green. “It offers the most comprehensive history of Old Derdriu. These,” he set down two more books, “are supplementary material. While I cannot vouch for their factual integrity, they provide further insight as to what researchers have discovered about Old Derdriu.” 

“Thank you,” you said, pulling the books towards yourself, almost afraid he would take them away. There was that feeling, that possessive need. A craving, even.  

His lips thinned out as he considered you, his icy expression locked in place. “I ask that you do not cause any trouble while you’re here. The people who live here have suffered enough harassment.”

“I understand, honestly,” you said emphatically, although his warning made your stomach clench and you weren’t lying, but was it really the truth that you weren’t going to ‘cause trouble’? Did you mean that? Could you? 

VII.

[The following text are segments taken from letters found in the attic of a Derdriu home with other antiques. Forensic analysis can date them as being contemporaneous with the burning of Old Derdriu, however much of the contents have suffered such severe decay that entire sentences and paragraphs are illegible. Due to this, it is impossible to determine the author or glean any further context. Notes have been added in an attempt to clarify certain points, but without support, all researchers can offer is speculation.]

“My dear sister...discovery, but I fear I will not…seems that my death is inevitable, all I can do is…she offered me a chance, a slim hope that is buried beneath the earth…” 

“...sister… bad news… if something good came of it, does that make it right?... better left buried lest we… believe in such stories?... truly be Claude? [this is possibly a reference to Claude von Riegan. The mysterious circumstances surrounding his disappearance have long been a point of interest for those interested in the occult—See page 127 for further information]... put my trust in legend, or… risk my soul for… shall sleep, tomorrow we will return to the site and search for…”

“…I know nothing of the truth, it is obscured by… can trust, she claims… of the Agarthans [The “Agarthans'' are another popular yet unproven occult group based upon an ancient civilization. Artifacts supposedly associated with them were found in El Dorado]... and Lady Macbeth hopes to… blood and soul, I…” 

“...forgive me… of my selfishness and hubris. I am frightened… a blight upon us… she will suffer the curse of Seiros [The goddess of the Church of Seiros, who has historically been used as an occult figure following the purge of faith from Liecester]... and yet it is too late…” 

“He is awake. The Reign of Blood has begun.” 

[This line is one of the most contested within these letters. Since it is on its own page, with this single preserved sentence written in a shaky hand, there are those who argue it was included in order to bolster the cult and supernatural narrative surrounding El Dorado and the burning of Old Derdriu. If these letters are accurate, it is the last communication documented from any of the 257 people who disappeared, likely perished in the fire that reduced the town to ash.]      

VIII.

“Hold on a moment, young lady,” a familiar voice called. You paused, turning to face Acheron as he hurried down the hall, stopping you from entering your room. 

“Yes?” you asked, more than a little suspicious. With the key in the lock to your room, at least you had a swift method of escape. 

Acheron came to a stop, dramatically swiping at his shiny forehead. “I have a proposition for you.”

Your jaw dropped a little at the blunt statement. “I-I don’t think-”

“We have the same goal here, no?” Acheron asked, steamrolling over your obvious conclusion without the slightest shred of self awareness. “To discover the truth behind the infamous El Dorado. And yet we are waylaid by these pesky townsfolk at every turn. I have had enough of it, I say. It’s time to take action.” 

“What do you mean?” you asked hesitantly. 

He looked around the empty hallway before leaning forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority that the castle’s security is not as good as they would have us believe. If one knows how to circumvent it, that is.” 

You considered him for a long moment, chewing on your lip and refusing to openly indulge your immediate excitement. “What are you saying?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Acheron asked. “I would see the famed El Dorado for myself.” 

“It’s dangerous to go inside, people get sick,” you said.

“Bah. The stories about any sort of lingering sickness within its walls are wildly exaggerated. The local youths brag about having visited as a rite of passage. If those scamps can make it in and out, I see no reason to believe I should be capable of anything less. I, of course, am extending the offer to you only out of courtesy. You hunger for the truth as desperately as I, do you not?” 

You considered him for a long moment, wondering if this was some sort of setup. 

“When do you intend to go?” you finally asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Acheron told you. “I would quit this dismal town as quickly as possible. All I need is good footage and photographs of the inside.” 

“Do you have the right gear?” 

“Gear?” he asked, frowning. 

Of course it would have been too much to think that a man like him would think this through. “Yes, gear. Flashlights, a map, the right kind of clothes—”

“Is all that really necessary?” he asked, cutting you off. 

“Have you ever done something like this?” you asked, omitting the fact that you hadn’t. But, unlike Acheron, you had common sense and some experience with night hiking. “You can’t just rush in unprepared, you’ll get hurt.” 

“Hm.” Acheron’s mustache twitched and you could tell he was thinking up some way to argue with you. But, eventually, reason won out. “Very well, I shall procure whatever is necessary tomorrow.” 

“If you buy this stuff town, they’ll know what you’re planning.” 

Acheron’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then I shall make a trip into Derdriu and return in the evening, we can meet at the road leading to El Dorado upon my return.” 

You wanted to argue, to deny your interest on the basis of not wanting to break the law. The risk factor was far too high, you were a fool to go along with it.

“I found a book today that has the plans for the inside, I’ll find a way to make a copy of them,” you said, anxiety and anticipation going wild in your gut because you knew how wrong this was, but you also knew that it was what was bound to happen from the start, something you couldn’t change or control. “Let me give you money, I’ll make a list of what we’ll need.” 

Act 3

"The monstrous sight

Strook them with horror backward but far worse

Urged them behind: headlong themselves they threw

Down from the verge of Heav'n" 

I.

31st day of Verdant Moon

This will only end in the hallowed halls of El Dorado, an owed price for the folly of Lady Macbeth, damning her bloodline, bringing a curse to us all. 

Yeah. Like this is some sort of fucking movie or something. I wonder if insanity is a legal defense for criminal trespass. I don’t think I’m insane, but isn’t that what crazy people all say? Yes officer, I only broke into this blocked off historical site because I had a dream where a beautiful man told me to. Also, incidentally, I had to figure out if I’m cursed or not so I can decide if I’m the cause of my dad’s death. Oh, and you might be interested to know that my great great great great whatever grandmother was a witch and vampires might be real.

It’s foolproof. 

II.

Acheron was right that sneaking into El Dorado was easy. Too easy. Disturbingly easy. After you got past the gate, there was only a security booth to creep past which should have forced you into the view of security cameras, but a convenient hole in the fence circumvented that obstacle. If you were even slightly more worried about getting caught, or maybe slightly less desperate to see inside, you would have given up right then and there on the grounds that breaking and entering shouldn’t have been as simple as ducking through some trees and making a tense, but relatively short, trek through the woods.

All sense left you when you broke the clearing into what used to be the grand lawn of El Dorado, the vague threat of getting caught by angry landowners falling far to the wayside as you stood in front of the grand majesty of King Claude von Riegan’s personal castle, staring down the centuries old castle with equal parts trepidation and excitement. 

Other than the cicadas and frogs and slight wind, the night was very quiet. Acheron fiddled with his camera, getting ready to take footage of the inside. All you had to potentially take photos with was your phone, although you weren’t inclined to gather evidence of your crime. It was enough to watch, to look, to commit this sight to memory. 

And what a sight it was. Nothing like you had ever seen, except in dreams that were not dreams but you didn’t dare call memories. Overgrown with thick, possessive greenery and fallen into a state of dull disrepair, the castle was truly a breathtaking spectacle, the years of ruin only added to the sense of tragic mystery. It was nothing like the stout fortresses of the west, or the elaborate Imperial complexes in the south. Terrible with its jagged maw of an entrance, the intimidating golden tower looming above. Beautiful, the result of long lost artistry. Foreboding and alluring. 

No longer were you looking over your shoulder out of paranoia, but staring down each window and shadow of the castle’s aged, inscrutable countenance for some sign of the life you could practically feel thrumming from within. But, even suffering from the hyperactive state of distress, you knew you couldn’t leave. It wasn’t interest or curiosity, it was a fixation, an urge, a compulsion. 

You had to go inside. 

You had to get away.

“Wait, before I forget-” You pulled out the set of walkie talkies you had brought. They were the ones you and your dad used when you went hiking. You didn’t want to think of that. “Testing, testing, one two three.” Your voice, crinkling through the static, exited the other walkie talkie. 

“What is that?” Acheron asked, raising a thin eyebrow. 

“Walkie talkies,” you said, handing him the second. “In case we get separated somehow. There’s no cell service out here.” 

“Do you intend on making a private excursion?” he asked.

“No, but…” you looked at El Dorado, uneasiness once again sinking through your gut. It was as if the castle itself was watching you, the eyeless windows winking in the moonlight. “Just in case.” 

“Hm.” Acheron clipped the walkie talkie onto his belt, and so you did you. It was too bulky for your little sling bag. “Well then, after you.” 

“What?”

“You have had more time to familiarize yourself with the layout, it’s only natural that you should lead the way.” 

You wondered if Acheron was scared. It was difficult to tell if he was any more pale than usual, and he wore the same blustery confidence as usual. It didn’t matter. If he got scared and bolted, you would do this alone. You were getting used to that, right?  

“Okay,” you said. You weren’t scared. Maybe you felt a little nervous. But you weren’t scared. 

Staying vigilant for any strange movement or sounds, you ascended the cracked, overgrown steps, telling yourself over and over that you were not afraid. There were no such things as vampires, ghosts, or curses. And if there were, you would know for yourself. Answers. You would get answers. 

The large door was mostly intact, but it was stuck in a perpetual state of half-open. Almost like an invitation. A horror cliche. There was a pinch in your bladder and your heart thudded too heavily in your chest and the animal part of your brain didn’t want to breach the shadows and go inside. You were propelled not of your own free will, but of some existential force that tugged you forward. Step by step by step until you were inside the breezeway, the central entrance hall of El Dorado. 

The general plan that the two of you had discussed before sneaking into the private estate was to get into the Golden Hall, the three story vaulted ballroom off of the northern wing. It had been the jewel of the gilded paradise of El Dorado, but nobody had seen it for decades because of the infection that supposedly filled the inside of the castle. The path there would take you through the breezeway, the atrium, the courtyard, the pleasure plaza, and the dining room. Not into the heart of El Dorado, but deep into its rotted guts. 

A very quiet, but incredibly persistent, part of your mind pushed you there with the hushed notion that it was where your dreams took place. You had to confirm for yourself that it was completely different in real life, that your mind was making things up. Even if you gleaned no further insight from this misguided exertion, settling that fact would go a long way in convincing you once and for all that you weren’t cursed, just a little mad. At least one of those problems could be solved with medication.  

Broken glass littered the breezeway, hidden like little jewels within piles of leaves and refuse and the broken bits of castle that had wilted to the ground. You tried to imagine El Dorado’s beauty in its prime, shining gold and inviting, sunshine filtering in through the dome ceiling and high windows, wind playfully teasing the long curtains. But you couldn’t, it was too dark. Darker than you might have thought, darker than the thickest section of the woods, so dark that the places outside of the range of your ThruNite seemed to be physically encroaching shadows rather than void of light. 

Hanneman had been told to only go into rooms where the light touched, that it was the only way to stay safe, but that didn’t seem factually sound, did it? Surely that wasn’t the most accurate method of determining which areas were safe. The only thing that actually feared sunlight, if myths and legends were to be believed, were vampires. There was no sunlight now, and you doubted vampires feared LED’s. 

Gripping your light in a sweaty fist, you forced yourself forward, the ground crunching beneath your boots. The terrible, heavy dread got worse with each step. It sat like a weight right behind your sternum, beating behind your eye. The other part of the feeling, the insidious part, was the familiarity. 

Bad. Bad. Bad. 

You wanted to explain the feeling as nothing more than animalistic paranoia and some malignant fear of the dark, but it made the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, your breathing picking up. All across the breezeway—throughout most of the castle, really—balconies lined the halls and rooms. You couldn’t see what was above, there was no light coming in, not even diffused moonlight. Somebody could have been watching from above and you’d never know. 

Keep going. It was fine. Everything was fine. 

“I told you that this place was safe,” Acheron said, startling you. “If it weren’t, this level of upkeep would be impossible. I have little doubt that they hire people to ensure the roof doesn’t cave in for occasions just like this.”

 You exhaled, looking around with that thought in mind. He had a point, the place did seem a little too well maintained for the number of years that had passed. Then again, maybe it was just good construction. Or maybe something that still lived here. Something ancient, something immortal.  

The two of you left the breezeway, entering the main atrium hall. Hanneman had featured many many photos of this room in his article; he had been fascinated by the intricately carved stonework. It was too dark to see much of that now. In fact, you very badly wanted to get out of the atrium as soon as you entered it because of how unnervingly dark it was. Two tiers of balcony circled around the ground floor, shadows lurking ominously right behind what was left of the railing. Every little sound echoed, rippling through the motionless air. High above, a chandelier caught the shine of your flashlights, moving with some breeze you couldn’t feel.  

Something made a sound, a scuffling. To your right, on the stairs. You flicked your flashlight to it quickly, your hands shaking with adrenaline. 

“Did you hear that?” you asked breathlessly, nervously holding the light on the steps as if to keep them from moving. But there was nothing, just the large stone staircase and decaying walls and long-abandoned artistry memorialized and forgotten in some old Life magazine article.   

“Hear what?” Acheron asked. 

You exhaled harshly, looking away from the empty stairs and kicking yourself for being so jumpy. It could just be a stray animal. That’s what you told yourself. Rats, racoons, birds, any number of things could have made El Dorado their new home. 

“Nothing.” 

There was some relief when you entered the courtyard, even if the scent of overbearing foliage and vivid green rot was nearly suffocating. At least there was more air, and you could see the stars twinkling above. Full, or almost full, the moon draped the open space in silvery light. Ignoring the overgrown shrubbery, flowers, and grass, you looked around at the balconies wrapping around the second floor. The construction of El Dorado was almost made for someone wanting to spy on guests. Or intruders. Acheron was talking to the camera but you weren’t really listening, too busy focusing to hear any sign of movement, trying to find what was making you so uneasy.

Vampires in El Dorado. Lurking in the dark, in the moonlight, waiting for ignorant fools to wander in. A missing king, a goddess’s curse, a burning witch. The Reign of Blood. You could almost smell it, the tangy iron of blood and the thick smoke of a town burning to the ground.

“Are you coming?” Acheron called. 

You shook your head in an attempt to cast out those thoughts before scurrying to catch up, passing the large stone fountain that had once been the featured centerpiece of the courtyard before the ripe overgrowth took over. The standout piece was a large, intricately carved deer. Once, it must have been a magnificent beast, but now its head was cracked in half, the prongs of one set of antlers sticking out of a murky film covering the stagnant water settled in the basin. Something dark grew over the broken statue, starting on its fragmented head and dripping down to give the gruesome illusion of blood. It watched you pass with the remaining stone eye, forever frozen in a proud, alert stance.

A breeze trembled throughout the courtyard. The castle taking in a breath. You shivered, pointedly forcing your gaze forward.  

Acheron lagged behind to force you to take the lead under the pretense of messing with his camera, leaving you to enter the so-called pleasure plaza first. Careful to not get caught by the jagged row of broken glass and wooden teeth attempting to bar your entrance, you stepped into the decaying mouth of El Dorado’s recreation wing. This was the place where Leicester’s elite once came to enjoy themselves, a yawning space that time had seen to shambles. Because of the many doorways and hiding spots, this room was even more unnerving than the atrium. You would have to cross it to get where you needed to go. 

If you were being entirely honest, you weren’t sure you had any desire to see the Golden Hall anymore. Rather, you weren’t sure it was worth the stress of getting there. Considering the unreasonable fear you felt going through areas you knew to be safe, you worried what you might find in a place nobody had seen for so long, worried about what secrets were better left to die. And that pulsing, pounding, beating of familiarity just kept getting worse, harder, closer. Louder. 

You needed to get out.

You needed to know. 

Inhaling the sweet scent of rot and age, you continued onward, your footsteps hollow against the sinking floor. Each sweep of your flashlight caused the shadows to move, to crawl away from you as if to hide. It hit each object without any subtlety, erasing details and making the darkness that much darker.

You forced yourself to carry on. Carefully, cautiously, unafraid. That’s what you kept telling yourself. Show no fear and all that. Although, that began with the presumption that there was something around to see your fear. 

Your skin erupted in painful prickling chills almost as soon as that thought came to you. And then, in the same moment or before or after or so close you couldn’t tell the difference, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye. You flashed your light quickly around the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of a rat or some other disgusting but inoffensive animal to reassure yourself that you were safe because you still had hope that this was all innocent, that you were the crazy one for believing in ridiculous stories of the supernatural. 

Something retreated behind the doorway. 

Your stomach sank with freezing cold ice and panic. That was no rat. 

A person? It certainly seemed human sized. Those were footsteps too, weren’t they? Disguised beneath the sound of your own? And if it were somebody with authority, somebody who wanted you to leave because you were trespassing, they wouldn’t be lurking around watching you. So that meant it was somebody doing the same thing that you were. But, somehow, you didn’t feel as if it were another trespassing explorer. You felt it in your gut.

“Acheron, hold on,” you said quietly, stopping. 

“Yes? What is it?” he asked loudly. Too loud, bumbling around with his footsteps echoing against the walls as he turned to face you. You winced, holding up a hand to shade your eyes from the glare of his light. 

“We need to leave,” you told him, speaking softly and calmly. “Now.” 

“But we’ve hardly seen anything,” he said. You couldn’t see his frown, but you could hear it. 

“I’m telling you, we need to leave,” you said softly, desperately trying to remain calm. “We’re not alone.” 

“Someone is here?” he asked loudly, shining his light in a large circle, catching it all on camera. “Show yourself!”

“Acheron!” you hissed. 

“Don’t you want a head start?” an unfamiliar voice asked. No. Not unfamiliar. Jarring though, because you didn’t recognize why you would know it. What memory was attached to that disembodied sound. 

Acheron let out a high pitched sound of terror which scared you nearly as bad as the voice, almost causing you to fall over.

“Who is that? Show yourself!” he demanded. No answer. Of course there was no answer. No sound, not even the faint echo of footsteps. 

“We have to leave,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Acheron, your voice an octave too high with stress. “We have to get out of here.”

“It’s nothing. I told you that the local youths often come here, did I not?” he asked, maintaining that feigned sense of control. “I demand you show yourself!” 

“Acheron, please,” you begged, tugging at his jacket. He kept his camera fixed on where the voice had come from. It was from the hall branching off of the entrance out of the pleasure plaza and into the courtyard, essentially barring your most direct route of escape.

“You really ought to listen to the lady,” the voice said, just as casual, just as playful, just as recognizable. You hadn’t really been aware of a distinct echo beforehand, but the room was large enough to cause the voice to bounce around, to obscure the speaker’s location. Not only disembodied, omniscient. And you were stupid and crazy but you were acutely aware of how dangerous this was, it was a primal instinct to recognize danger. 

Freeze finally ran its course, returning some semblance of sensation to your numb limbs to take flight. You didn’t think, you ran, turning away from the voice to bolt in the opposite direction. Right then, you didn’t care whether or not Acheron decided to follow. Since you couldn’t leave the way you came in, you picked the nearest door. Terror thundered in your chest, a compliment to the sound of your footsteps on the rotting floor. You, with Acheron right on your heels, entered into a music room or another sitting room, or some other area where the wealthy and powerful whiled away their hours of excess. You shouldn’t have looked behind yourself, but you did and you could see, silhouetted in the moonlight from the courtyard, the unmistakable form of another person. And then you were pushing Acheron further into the dark with a fistful of his jacket, driven only by the need to get away. The door was intact enough for you to throw it closed behind you, and the sound rattled through the air.

The scent of wet rot was stronger back here, but you didn’t even think about stopping. The door didn’t open as you both scrambled through the room and into the hall, but you knew from the plans that there were other ways in and out of most rooms in the castle. If not directly, then from above, or even from below. 

“This is the wrong way,” Acheron told you crossly, although his control was fraying with his labored breathing. 

“Just run,” you told him, pushing at his back. You could have let go and run past him, but you were too scared of being alone, of having to navigate this dark, creepy place by yourself. 

He didn’t argue. Or maybe he did, you didn’t even know, couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your heart and harsh breathing, your body synthesizing musty air into iron-tanged rasps that cut up in the inside of your throat. You had no idea where the hallway you ran into led, but it didn’t really matter. Away, that was what mattered. The hallway was narrow and stank of humid rot, entirely dark save for your flashlights, but the room at the end had windows, filling it with blessed moonlight. Slamming the door behind yourself again, you continued forward, stumbling to keep up with Acheron. 

Until you were yelping in surprise, the floor giving out beneath your feet. There was a brief moment where gravity hooked beneath your bellybutton and yanked, and then the floor hit, and it hit hard. Although you instinctively tried to fall in a slightly upright position, the momentum dragged you into an awkward roll, your body curling so as to protect your head. For a miniature eternity, there was no air, there was no thought in your head, there was no light save for the blinding radiance as impact blazed white hot agony through your head. Gasping, writhing on the cold, hard floor, you blinked teary eyes, staring at the hole that had just eaten you with some vague idea that you were dreaming, that this was all a made up fantasy. It was unreal, and it was painful.  

A moment later, a beam of light hit your face. So bright, like a little sun. You sucked in a lungful of air, tasting blood. Then, almost unconsciously, you jerked sideways and lurched around onto your knees. The pain enveloped you in a mad rush all once, your empty body dry heaving with nausea. Only, there wasn’t enough air to expel the sour bile in your stomach, leaving you to choke and suffocate on nothing instead. That tapered off into a few pathetic coughs a moment later, your entire body shaking and clammy. 

“Oh dear,” Acheron said, his voice thin with fear. “Are you hurt?”

All you could manage in response was a groan, and then a broken sob. But fear was a good motivator to get moving, and adrenaline shocked your system enough to force you upright. Now that you could remember, more or less, how to breathe, the worst of the damage was where you had initially landed on your hip, your shoulder hitting nearly as hard a second later. It sent violent, lurid pain straight down your arm and leg, the entire left side of your body alight as if from a branding iron.

“I’m fine,” you croaked out, not knowing if it was true but knowing that it needed to be true. 

“Thank goodness,” Acheron said, his voice heavy with relief. “I don’t suppose you see any way to climb back up?” 

You couldn’t see anything outside of the hot spotlight from above, your ThruNite had gone dark and skittered away somewhere into the shadows. At first, you only felt panic at the realization, terror that you were stuck in the darkness. It took you a long moment to think past the pain and the dark and the fear to remember that you had a backup light. After a few tries of fumbling with the zipper on your sling bag, you got your sweaty fingers around the yellow plastic base of your second flashlight. It was nothing so good as the hefty ThruNite, emitting a buttery yellow glow, but it was something. You waved it around, although you knew it was a lost cause before looking. The hole you had fallen into was rotted all the way through, leaving a few jagged boards around the edges, some of which you had brought with you on the way down, and parts of which were embedded in your hands and knees. There was no way back up. 

“No,” you said, painfully staggering to your feet and brushing yourself off as best you could. “I’ll have to find the stairs, I think… I think there’s some in the southern wing. Meet me there and we can—” 

“And stay here?” he demanded. “Are you mad? No, no, I simply cannot. I shall… I shall run and send help. Yes, that is the best course of action.”

You squinted against the blinding beam of his flashlight, mute with confused shock for a long, silent moment. 

“Acheron, you can’t do that,” you said softly, more bewildered than afraid. 

“You cannot expect me to retrieve you myself,” he said defensively. 

“No, no. You can’t just… just leave me here,” you said weakly, panic closing in around your heart, ice fizzling out like bubbles in your head. 

“I will not put myself at risk for your own carelessness,” he told you harshly. “If you remain there, the rescuers should find you quickly.” 

And that was it. His light disappeared, leaving you blind and blinking up at the hole in the desperate hopes of seeing his face, of seeing some sign that you weren’t actually alone. 

“Acheron,” you called, unable to keep your ragged voice soft. “Please don’t leave me here.” Nothing. You called out again, and nothing. No footsteps, not even the sound of doors opening or closing, although the violent rush of blood could have covered noises like that. And then there was only your heavy breathing and the sour bite of vomit in your throat and the creaking sound of the castle’s breathing in time with your own. 

With shaking hands, you got out the walkie talkie. It took you two tries to find the button, and then the sound of static. “Acheron?” you asked. “Do you copy, Acheron?”  

You didn’t get an answer. At least, not from the walkie talkie. You heard something. From far away, up above, you heard this howling, like an animal, but very distinctly human. Your guts lurched, a shiver slithering down your sweaty back, all the way through your body. 

You quickly pressed the button down again. “Ah-Acheron?” you asked, looking around the empty room. The shadows of decaying furniture followed your yellowy light, almost mockingly avoiding it. “Acheron, are you alright?” 

The speaker let out a little burst of static, startling you. “Sorry, he’s pretty busy right now,” a crinkled voice on the other side said. “Can I take a message?” 

You paused, your chest clenching. “Who is this?” But you knew. You knew very well, you just didn’t know. 

“Your guilty conscience. Trespassing is a serious crime.” 

“Where is Acheron?” you asked. “What did you do to him?” 

“Do to him?” the man asked, sounding like he was offended by the question. “Nothing. He ran off as soon as he saw me, so now we’re playing a little game of hide and seek. Sorry, no girls allowed this round. You and I can have a match when I win, okay? Okay, so you’d better start looking for a really good spot.”

Your mouth was open, gaping with no sound coming out. You felt nearly as winded by this as you did from the fall, unable to think, to formulate any rational reaction. “I-I don’t understand.”

“You’ve never played hide and seek? Oof, your childhood must have been a real bummer. The point of the game is that you hide and I seek. Simple, right?” 

“I’m not… not playing,” you said. “I just want to leave. Please… Whatever this is, I… Please stop.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of sportsmanship? Even this coward is giving it a chance.” He paused, and then raised his voice, calling out to someone else. “Isn’t that right? Why don’t you tell her what a good time we’re having?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... We’re sorry, so please don’t… don’t hurt him,” you begged, your voice wobbling with tears and panic.  

“I’m not sure I get why you’d defend a guy who was willing to abandon you here. I mean, who knows what could happen to a girl like you in a scary place like this. It’s practically falling apart. Not to mention all of the creepy and dangerous things that could be lurking around.” 

You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Please,” you said, although you weren’t sure what you were pleading for. 

“I’m in a good mood tonight, so I’ll give you some advice. First of all, the basement is no good. There aren’t very many escape routes, you’ll definitely get cornered. And, I don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve heard that it's haunted.” 

“Please stop,” you begged. “I’ll leave, I’ll leave and-”

“Hey, hey, don’t panic,” he said soothingly. “You’ll need to save up all that energy for running. Oh, and you might wanna ditch the walkie talkie, it’s a dead giveaway.” 

All this time, you had worried about vampires. But it made more sense that some lunatic would use this place as hunting grounds. Preying on the stupid and reckless and your delusions that you were somehow cursed and connected to this place. You were cursed alright. It was the worst curse of all—blind naivety. 

“Please stop,” you begged again. It wasn’t that you wanted to talk more with the potential lunatic, but hearing his voice was better than not hearing it because at least it meant you weren’t entirely alone down here in the dark. But there was no answer, just some static. “Hello?” You asked, your voice even weaker. “Hello?”

No answer, over. Over and out. Ten-four. 

You stood there for a long moment, sore and sweaty and trembling, your body all at once wrung out and over energized, your heart beating way too fast. The light didn’t reach far enough, it was like the shadows were gnawing at the edges of it, attempting to retake their territory. A little part of your brain understood that you weren’t capable of thinking rationally, the part that recognized the insanity of all of the actions that led you here. But knowing that and overcoming blind, animal panic were two different beasts entirely. 

Escape. That was all you could do. At first you thought about searching for your fallen ThruNite, but you were afraid to linger in here too long. You had no idea where it had ended up, there were too many places in the room it could have been hiding. That left you with the weaker incandescent light and, if that failed, your phone’s flashlight. 

Your past self was a lot smarter than your current one, thinking to bring some water. That cured the rancid tang of metal in your mouth, settling you somewhat as you considered your options. Rather than abandon the walkie talkie, you shut it off. It was stupid, but you couldn’t just abandon your sole source of connection to any living beings. You checked your phone as well, but the same NO SERVICE bar sat at the top. 

There was no other way than forward. The room that you fell into didn’t have doors, only dark, decaying holes where doors might have once been. The one on your left was the source of the dank, rotting scent. It was completely flooded, the water covered with an inky, oily film, your light reflecting off of it unnervingly. When you steeled yourself to venture forward, you realized that the hall was slightly flooded as well. Not more than an inch or so, but enough to make your boots wet, and enough to make each footstep splash and squish, rendering stealth impossible. Then again, the light made that impossible anyway. Shining your light both ways, you debated which way to go, trying to remember the castle plans. The trouble was that you had no idea where you might have fallen. Everything was dark and creepy and awful and you just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. To close your eyes and imagine your way out of the situation, to stay right there without ever moving and escape. 

After a second of despair and terrified self pity, you went right. 

If you followed the hallway, you would find a way upstairs. That made sense, there had to be some practicality to the design of this forsaken place. Or, that was all you could hope for. In reality, the dark and uncertainty threatened to turn your guts inside out, vomit biting your throat as you skirted along the wall. It was so quiet, unnaturally so. In the silence in the absolute void of light, your mind conjured noises. Extra footsteps, the sound of breathing. Echoes where there shouldn’t have been. 

You were afraid to blink, that when you opened your eyes something would appear in the beam of your flashlight. But you didn’t want to see anything, either, it would be better to face death ignorant to its face. You wanted to shield yourself from whatever horrors might exist. 

Staying in place was a death sentence, going any further was uncertain terror. The man said the basement was haunted. By what? Ghosts? Witches? Vampires? Murderers? 

Did it even matter?

Each open doorway you passed came with the anticipation that something would jump out at you. Or, worse, that you’d look in and see the dark silhouette of something inside. Somehow, that thought was almost as terrifying as being assaulted. Animals attacked on sight, true predators were the ones who were patient enough to lurk, to wait, to watch, to toy with the fear of their prey. And that’s what you were. Prey.  

On and on. Down the deep dark hall, your footsteps squelching on the damp floor, down down down to the corner where you turned, your light terrifyingly weak, nothing more than a pathetic glow against the all consuming darkness. The moment you saw a set of stairs, you could have wept with relief. Maybe it was stupid because it wasn’t as if they would lead you anywhere good, but those stairs were the best thing you’d ever seen. You gave into the spine tingling fear and ignored the pain of your body to run to them, splashing out of the water and taking the steps two at a time. 

There was no door at the top, just a sharp bend leading into a wider hall, the stairs tucked away and likely used by the servants. You didn’t care. This hallway wasn’t flooded, and the scent of death and decay wasn’t nearly as strong. It left you with the same problem though. Where did you go from here? Where were you? 

Relief soured into dread. Now that you were upstairs, the game had begun. 

It would have been smarter to shut off your light, but without any source of ambient illumination, you would be completely surrounded by the darkness. You stayed very, very still, straining your ears in an attempt to hear any stray sound, anything out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. The castle creaked and groaned, and your heart raced, and your ears rung faintly. 

Indecision and fear nearly paralyzed you. Like drowning, you had no idea of which way was up, you were merely thrashing in the blind darkness, hastening your own demise in your desperation to live. 

You found yourself walking without thinking about it, clinging to the wall with some idea that it would protect you. Just keep going. There was a sharp turn and then you realized that there was a light ahead. At first you thought it was a trick of your imagination, but you switched off your flashlight and blinked fast to adjust to the darkness, eventually making out that it was light. Soft, pale moonlight. That meant outside, that meant escape. 

Continuing to cling to the wall, you hurried towards the opening, eventually turning to the corner and finding yourself within your originally stated destination. At least you knew where you were. Nowhere near the exit. 

What rotten, twisted irony. You could almost laugh if you weren’t so close to tears. The Golden Hall, now flooded with thin silver moonlight, was exactly as beautiful as the name suggested. You knew it not from the second hand descriptions—they didn’t even begin to accurately describe the sweeping, luxurious ballroom—but because you had seen it before.

Far above, the cold moon observed you through panes of broken glass. So close, yet impossibly far. Taunting, tempting, representing an unreachable whisper of freedom. Your knees almost buckled, giving into the pain and exhaustion as you considered having to brave even more of the castle if you were ever going to get out alive. The Golden Hall echoed your own personal despair, a decaying corpse of what it once was, its profoundly decadent construction fallen to ruin. But you could imagine—remember, it was a memory, constructed or otherwise—how it looked in its prime. Shining, lustrous gold. And a man, one with entrancing eyes and a sly smile. His hands had been cold but the feeling was so warm, your own heat igniting you both. 

“The point of the game is to hide, you know,” someone said from behind you. In your despairing trance, you had gone further into the ballroom. Now you whirled around, clutching your chest in terror. “Although I am impressed you found your way up. Even I get the creeps going down there. Somebody really ought to do something about the flooding.” 

Shaking hard, you flicked your flashlight on, illuminating the man in its weak, yellow glow. He didn’t shy away, looking at you head on. His footsteps were slow and measured, impossibly graceful. Yes, yes of course. So obvious, so brutally, painfully blatantly obvious that it would be him. In the dim glow of your light, the most you could make out was the gold wink of his earring, but you knew without seeing that his eyes were that lovely shade of green, tinged with the romantic oceanic blue, so striking against his tan skin and black eyelashes. You knew that as surely as you knew the creases of your palm, or the constellations in the sky. 

“I admit,” he said, breezing past your silence, “I do have a slight advantage. You hurt yourself when you fell, right? I could smell your blood all the way from the catwalk. I’ll let you know if it tastes as good as it smells.”

“Stay away from me,” you demanded, surprised at how clear the words sounded despite the saliva pooling on your tongue. 

“I mean it, you smell really good,” he said, ignoring you and continuing forward. “Hey, why don’t you make this easy for me and put down that light? Nobody likes a sore loser.” 

“I told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, stay away,” he said flippantly. But he did stop, tilting his head in consideration. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you? Fine. If you’re going to run,” he gestured behind himself at the exit into the dark hall, “now’s your chance.”  

You didn’t think about the cheeky smile he wore, or the mocking tenor of the offer, or the reason he might let you run in the first place. You just did it, just ran, not looking back. There was blood in your throat and your entire body ached and you weren’t entirely sure you knew where you were going, but you didn’t pause. 

Step after pounding step, your heart racing, your breath coming out in sharp little gasps. Through the hall, which spanned miles and miles and miles, into the dining hall with its dust and cobwebs and ruined finery. You hit your bruised hip on the doorway which nearly sent you tumbling onto the ground. The red hot pain was so intense you had to stop and lean on the wall, your body physically refusing to go forward. 

Could you hear him? Were those his footsteps coming down the hall or your own telltale heart with its madness inducing beat? 

There was no time for your pain. If you couldn’t get away from here, you would die. That was a fact. Rubbing your sweaty palm on your hip as if to soothe it and sobbing dryly with all the pitiful disgrace of a child, you took off again. 

When you burst out into the pleasure plaza, the place of that first confrontation, hope reignited in your heart. It didn’t matter that there was still a significant dash to the exit, at least you knew where you were. Ignoring all else, you retraced your original ill-fated steps out into the courtyard. The moon was hidden behind the golden tower, peering into the front of the castle and leaving the courtyard nearly as dark as the halls. It didn’t matter. You raced across, blindly passing the one eyed deer in his long night vigil.

Until your toe caught on a loose rock, and you launched forward onto your elbows and knees, skittering forward across the ground. Once more, your flashlight was flung from your grip and landed somewhere ahead in the dense foliage. A harsh yelp left your mouth and you collapsed, completely boneless and exhausted and in genuine, insistent agony. Everything ached and the terror was relentless, pain consuming every panicked thought and infecting every inch of your body. You were doomed. Damned. Dead. 

Footsteps approached from behind. Easy, casual, measured. You flipped onto your back, wincing at the weight it put on your bruised hip. Your pursuer didn’t look dangerous. The outline of his messy curls gave him an innocent silhouette, and his hands were empty of any weapon. 

“Ouch, that must have hurt,” he said. “You should be careful, you could injure yourself if you don’t watch where you’re going.” 

“Stay away from me,” you got out between gasping breaths. 

“I bet you’re tired from all that running, huh? That’s fine, I think we’ve had enough fun for the night.” Without pausing, he dropped down onto his knees, one between your legs and the other astride your hip. You cried out in protest, getting your trembling arms beneath yourself to crawl backwards, but he caught you by the strap of your sling bag, and then with a fistful of your shirt to keep you in place, caging you in with his body. You couldn’t see the color of his eyes, they were only dark as he leaned down over you. 

“Stop it, please,” you begged, weak and trembling, tears sliding down your flushed cheeks, mixing with the sweat. “Just let me go, please.” 

“I’m sure you get this all the time, but you smell unbelievably delicious,” he said, his nose brushing your sweaty neck. You could feel your pulse jump against the thin skin there and you held completely still, a million thoughts slamming into each other all at once in your head. Vampires, murderers, insanity—anything and everything but most of all was just the mindless, irrational terror and despair. You were going to die. In a final spasm of rebellion, your back arched and legs kicked, but your body was caught between the jagged ground beneath and the firm press of his body above, pinned flat. And your hands weakly pushed at his chest, but it was a lost cause, and he wasn’t listening to your constant mumbling pleas to stop. 

Another pathetic sob hiccupped in your chest. You wanted your dad, you missed him. You needed him. And then you went limp because, now and forevermore, you were alone. 

“Come on, you don’t need to cry,” he murmured sweetly, a smile in his voice. You didn’t respond, staring up at the starry sky above. They were cold and without shape or form. Indifferent to your pain. 

The touch of his lips on your neck was shockingly cool, you almost wouldn’t have believed it was a mouth until you felt the needle-like puncture of fangs. That made you jump, squealing, but he held you in place which was probably a good thing because he was biting your neck and that could get dangerous fast. The pain sharply worked down through the rest of your body, the unnatural intrusion of something beneath the skin sending you right back into high alert. And then his lips closed around the created wound to suck.

A little whimper left your mouth, almost confused because even with the unambiguous pain of being bitten, there was something more. The wet release of sensation that followed the bite bloomed out from the point where his fangs pierced your neck in a flizzling wave. He sucked hard for a moment, but then went stiff against you, pulling back with a sharp intake of breath to stare into your eyes. 

He looked shocked, almost innocent if it weren’t for your blood smeared across his mouth. “You’re…” He breathed out that word faintly, reverently. There was meaning there, a meaning that you understood. Letting out a little laugh, a bubble of genuine exuberance, he released your shirt so that hand could delve into your hair, so he could pull you into a kiss. 

His skin was impossibly cold, unalive, and you could taste your own blood as he licked between your lips to part them. While his eyes were squeezed shut, dark eyelashes resting on his cheekbones, yours were wide open.

The kiss wasn’t violent, it was amorous. And familiar. He held you, practically cradled you against him. He felt it too, he understood what you had known from the moment you saw him.  

There was no way to escape the violently seated weight of your own body, of every sensation and feeling he inspired within you. Although, in another situation, the kiss might have seemed sensual, it was only grotesque and terrible. A display of affection in a moment of horror. You didn’t want it, your body thrummed with fear and pain, but you also felt yourself giving into the overwhelming wave of defeat. Even with all that was unnatural and terrible, this man’s kiss was imbued with some sort of cosmic sense of belonging. 

If the pain weren’t so sharp, you probably would have relented. 

Instead, you used it as an opening, as your final chance to reject this twisted insanity. Your hand scrambled out to the side, blunt nails scraping the ground and open wounds packing with dirt. But you found what you were looking for. Stray rubble, forced up and broken by the relentless roots of new growth, nature overcoming manmade structure. You wrapped your bloodied fingers around the chunk of displaced stone and swung at his head, thrashing against his grip at the same moment. 

It was enough to displace his body from on top of yours, maybe out of surprise because you certainly didn’t feel any human give of flesh and bone beneath the weight of the rock. You didn’t stop to consider that, or anything. He grabbed the strap of your sling bag as you scrambled away and you unclipped it without thought, refusing to let it catch you, to keep you trapped. It didn’t matter, you didn’t need it. You needed to escape. You were little more than a wild animal, the taste of your own blood on your lips, blood dripping down your neck, fear infecting every cell of your being. 

“Wait a second,” he called. Disgruntled, not pained. 

The first few steps, you were practically crawling, your back hunched like a beast as you used pure momentum to carry you into the atrium. And from the atrium to the breezeway, your back painfully straightening out, hip screaming in agony. You didn’t think about it, you just continued forward. Ran out into the night, ran through the woods, sticks and foliage catching your clothes and skin, ran down the dirt path to the road. There wasn’t a single thought in your head to get help, just to get away. And then you were flying through the night on your silver bike, your body pushed past the point of weary, into some territory where you weren’t even sure you were actually alive anymore, just acting because you had to act. Although it seemed to take hours of cycling down the dark road, there was this vague impression that no time at all passed before you were coming up to the inn, the bicycle’s wheels crunching across the gravel alley before you ditched it. 

Your room’s window was still open, the way you left it so you didn’t have to sneak in and out the front. The lights were on and they were warm and bright, inviting. You scrambled in, bloody and filthy and sweaty and shaking, and slammed the glass pane shut so hard it rattled, pulling the blinds shut to protect you from the night. 

And then you wept, and you retched, and you waited for sunrise.  

Act 4

“Die he or justice must; unless for him Some other able, and as willing, pay The rigid satisfaction, death for death.”

I.

1st day of Horsebow Moon

It’s all real. There is something living in El Dorado. He got Acheron, I waited all night and he never came back and they’re saying that he left yesterday but I know he didn’t. I left him there. I abandoned him there. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. 

If you find this, it means he came for me too. 

II.

A woman sat in the waiting room of the police station when you entered, her legs crossed as she casually read the paper. There was nobody else around, not even at the desk. A lazy fan swiveled in the corner, whirring loudly but not doing anything to cool the room so much as it just pushed around the warm air. It made the high necked shirt you were wearing that much more uncomfortable. Trying very hard to hide your limp—your hip wasn’t seriously injured, but you’d have a hell of a bruise for weeks—you walked up to the desk, peering into the back to check if anyone was there. No luck. It was almost eerily quiet. 

“Are you here to talk to the police?” the woman asked, looking at you over the top of her paper. 

You opened your mouth to respond before settling on nodding instead. 

She turned to the next page, her attention drawn back down. “What about?”

You hesitated, not knowing how to answer, or even if you should. Before leaving the inn, you hadn’t thought very hard about how you would present your story. The only evidence you had was your sore body, but you had to do something for Acheron. Even if he was annoying and rude and unpleasant, that didn’t mean he deserved to be dead and forgotten. 

“I know all of the folks on the force,” she explained. “I’m sure I could help you out.”  

“I… I’m here to give a statement, that's all,” you told her, aware of how hoarse your voice was. You sounded and looked rough, there was no hiding it.  

“Well, they’re at lunch right now,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and wait with me?”

You looked at the empty desk, and then at her, and then sat down, once again trying not to wince at the way your hip complained. Really, your entire body complained. You used practically half a bottle of Bactine trying to clean up the mess of shredded skin on your hands, elbows, and knees. Not to mention the bruising. 

“I’m Judith, by the way,” she said.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said. 

“I take it you don’t know who I am,” Judith said, a hint of amusement in her eyes. That perked you up, just a bit. Not in a good way. So lost in your own miserable anxiety and fear, you hadn’t really considered how off putting her demeanor was before now. 

“Should I?” you asked. 

“You might be interested, at least. I’m the owner of El Dorado and the surrounding property.”  

You felt the blood fade from your face, your empty stomach twisting with guilt and fear, the sore muscles clenching uncomfortably.

“Don’t make that face,” she said, folding up her paper. “I’m not here to report you.”

“I-”

“That’s not to say I couldn’t,” she said, cutting you off, “but I figured I’d give you a chance to do the smart thing first. It’ll save both of us a lot of trouble if we agree that nothing happened last night and move on with our lives.” 

You froze. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Do you know the punishment for felony trespass?” she asked. 

“Acheron’s still in there,” you whispered, adjusting your high necked shirt again. “They have to save him. Somebody has to do something.”

“I heard your friend left town,” Judith said. 

“No, I saw him. He was real, and he got Acheron,” you insisted, tears welling up in your eyes. The words didn’t make any sense, even you weren’t entirely sure how much of it you meant. What you thought, what you felt, what you believed. Your head pounded with a violent headache, your entire body sore and clammy. 

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but hallucinations are a side effect of things like black mold,” Judith said, her eyebrow arching. “It’s dangerous. There’s a reason that place stays locked up.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Could that be true? Maybe Acheron had left after all, you weren’t exactly in the clearest of mental states. He could have escaped, it was what he intended. And the rest of it, the man who stalked, taunted, and attacked you, maybe there was some other explanation for that. Maybe you really were losing it.

“You can go ahead and make a report, if you want,” Judith said. “It won’t matter. All of the evidence points to your friend packing up and leaving. Without a body, the only crime here is yours. They’ll bury you in whatever charges they can make stick.” She paused, giving you a sideways glance to make sure you were listening. “None of that has to happen. No report, no paperwork, no crime. You go back to your inn, pack your bags, and leave town. Everybody’s happy.” 

A couple of answers came to mind, and then a couple of complaints. Eventually, you just nodded. 

“See? I knew we could handle this peacefully.”

“I’m scared,” you said softly, the pitiful admission leaving your mouth without thought. 

Judith sighed, looking at you with a disapproving mixture of compassion and pity. “Don’t worry. Even if there was something there, I promise you that it’s not getting out any time soon,” she said, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. That passed quickly and Judith stood up, tucking her paper under her arm. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you. I’d say that I hope to see you later, but-”

“I’m leaving soon. Tonight if I can,” you said quickly, getting to your feet as well. 

“I thought that might be the case. Well, then. Have a safe trip.” 

III.

1st day of Horsebow Moon

I took a nap earlier, while the sun was still out, and dreamed of him. He wants me to go back. Maybe I should, maybe it’d be better if I did. When he kissed me I… I don’t know. I think about it and I’m not scared, I just want to cry. My heart hurts. Why? 

I wish it had been me too. I really do. We could have gone out together in a blaze of glory, us rogues. At least I wouldn’t be alone, I wouldn’t be thinking that when he touched me, I didn’t want anyone or anything else, and I felt-

I can’t think like that. 

The past is written in ink and stone and blood and ash.  

I’m leaving tomorrow morning, it was the earliest time I could find to get out of here. I’ll have to get back in a car. Thinking about it makes me sick, but there’s no choice. She says it’s not real and I know that’s a lie. The bite on my neck is real, I couldn’t have made that up. She’s lying. They’re all covering up for this, that’s all I can think.  Earlier when I ordered food, the delivery guy acted so strange, like he knew. It’s insane to think, but I swear, everybody in this awful little town is in on it. 

I put the note from earlier under my mattress, just in case something happens tonight. For some reason, I keep thinking that it will, jumping at every little sound. The walkie talkie keeps bursting out static, like it’s connected to the other one, but that’s impossible because Acheron had the other one and the range isn’t that long. I could have sworn I heard a voice from it while I showered too. Maybe it’s connected to another channel. Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I’m going to die. Maybe he’ll come for me. 

Death doesn’t scare me, not really, but I don’t want to die alone.

Act 5

"And should I at your harmless innocence

Melt, as I do" 

I.

Fiercely clawing your way out of the heavy shackles of sleep, you shouted yourself fully awake, thrashing in an attempt to escape an unknown threat, sickness churning violently in your stomach. Being awake hurt. Why had you been asleep? Everything hurt. Fear was more potent than pain and you forced yourself to breathe, to focus on your confusion and make sense of the world around you. Unfamiliar, although that in and of itself wasn’t dangerous. You had always existed in a state of ever-shifting unfamiliarity. What was wrong, what was dangerous, was that you knew where you were. Rather, you had a feeling. 

“Woah, woah, easy,” he said, backing away with his hands up. You blinked rapidly, panting, trying to fight your way out of the haze. The tide of unconsciousness threatened to consume you once more, lapping at your heavy head, urging you back down. It was nearly more than you could take to keep your eyes open, but you fought it. Something was wrong, you needed to be awake. As your vision brightened bit by bit, you met a pair of green eyes, and your blood turned to ice.

“It’s you,” you said, your voice soft and close to breaking, mushy in your mouth. Nearly inaudible. Everything was sore and stiff and painful, and it was so unbelievably hard to keep yourself from drifting again. It had to be a drug in your system, but you couldn’t think properly to know how or why. “You… You’re-”

“I usually go by Claude,” he told you with a winning grin. And it was a smile you knew. Intimately, honestly, a smile so familiar you ached. 

You blinked hard, shaking your dizzy, heavy head in frustration, unable to accept what you were seeing and hearing. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t remember the last thing you’d been doing before you woke up here, the squishy bit of brain behind your eyes pounded at the effort. And that name. You knew it, you had long attached it to the man in your dreams no matter how little sense it really made.

Or maybe it all made perfect sense, and that was why you were so scared. Claude von Riegan, resident vampire of El Dorado. 

“I… What happened?” you asked weakly, tearfully. “Why do I…? Dizzy…” 

“Don’t worry, that’s from the little concoction I slipped into your food before that kid dropped it off,” Claude said. “It’s not poisonous or anything and, trust me, I would normally never use such underhanded tactics, but I couldn’t have you ruining things by making a big fuss. It’ll wear off soon.”

“No no no,” you muttered, your words bordering on incomprehensible with the effort they took to get out, “this can’t be happening. This can’t…” 

“Would you feel any better if I told you it wasn’t?” he asked nonchalantly, sitting on the sofa across from the bed, his arms spanning the back in a casual position. 

With blurry vision, your eyes took in the room around you. It seemed normal enough, if lavish. Big bed, large furniture. The smell though, that was distinct. Not rot, but old. Aged. 

“You have been having an awful lot of weird dreams lately,” he continued thoughtfully. 

You exhaled harshly, going still. Then, slowly, you met those playful green-blue eyes. They danced with candlelight and mirth. Enticing, exactly like in your dreams.

“I hope you don’t mind, I got bored while you were asleep and had a little peek at your diary,” he told you. “I’d love to hear more about that strange, beautiful man who haunts you in the night. He sounds intriguing.”  

Had you written about those dreams? You couldn’t remember what you might have put down, usually you just went in and dumped as many thoughts onto the page as possible. The invasion of privacy was like a knife to the bone, but you couldn’t think of what you should do about it, the world was too abrasively heavy to know what to do with anything. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. Tears! Like you were going to cry! It seemed impossible to fight, like you were just as helpless to yourself as you were to what was going on.  

“It was fascinating to see how much you pieced together. I’m glad you’re smart, I really am. It’ll make this a lot more fun.”

You shook your head again, which didn’t help the dizziness. “I want to leave,” you said, “I don't want to be here, I can't…" Your voice slurred a little, like you weren’t in complete control of your body. Your thoughts too, they kept getting away from you, slipping out from your grasp. 

"Out of curiosity, where would you go?" Claude asked. 

You sniffed pathetically, your thoughts falling to an abrupt halt against the question. "What?"

"If you left town right now,” he said, “where would you go?"

You stared at him, unable to figure out what he meant. 

"You don't know, do you?" Claude asked, but his tone was all-knowing and smug. "I thought as much."

"I do, I just…" you said. But you didn't. You had no idea about anything. What you would do, what you were doing, everything was a confused mess and you just needed to get out of here, get away. Your breathing was picking up, your heavy head spinning with it. 

“Shh, calm down,” Claude said gently, switching from the couch to the bed. It dipped with his weight and you didn’t think to move away, just stayed where you were and looked at him, attempting strength but only managing desperation as you tried not to break down completely. “I can tell you’re scared, but I’m not going to hurt you.” He paused, smiling non-threateningly. “And, you know, I wouldn’t have had to do any of this if you didn’t play hard to get last night. So why don’t we agree we were both in the wrong and move on? Forgive and forget, no harm done.” 

“I-I want to-to leave,” you insisted, taking inventory of yourself to figure out if you were even capable. Everything was so foggy, disoriented, your body unbelievably heavy. It was getting better, but slowly. You weren’t sure you could leave the room, let alone escape. 

"Sorry, but that's not gonna happen," Claude said, and it wasn’t a threat but the casual way he spoke made the statement that much worse. He was simply telling you something that was. A fact, a forgone conclusion. 

"Someone will… will come looking for me," you said with more confidence than you actually felt, grasping at straws to make your case because you didn't have anything else. 

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Claude said. "They still think that I'm too weak to leave, seeing as the Macbeth bloodline has completely died out and all." He smiled at that, meeting your eye knowingly, unflinchingly. "Without the blood that roused me from my accursed slumber, there's no way I'd have the strength to steal somebody all the way from town and back."

Pieces began to shift into place. Slowly moving, scraping together as your fogged brain did its best to comprehend what he was telling you. The vague outline existed, but you couldn't quite pin it down, couldn't quite see the whole. 

"My blood…" you mumbled, pressing your hand to the puncture wounds on your neck.

"But," Claude continued, ignoring you, "let's say that they know you're here. It's not impossible. Are you really going to place a bet on complete strangers risking their lives for you when they can't even be sure you're still alive? Personally, I wouldn't."

Your breathing, already unsteady, was only getting more out of hand the longer this conversation went on, the pressure behind your eyes mixing a headache with the threat of tears. A hot flush worked its way through your body, a sure sign of genuine panic, some potent mixture of terror and the effect of whatever drug he'd given you. 

“Hey, calm down. I'm not trying to scare you,” Claude said, “but I'm not gonna lie to you either. So let’s get to know each other a little. I’m sure I’ll surprise you.” 

Surprise you? The enormity of what was happening finally settled somewhat. He had kidnapped you, presumably by drugging you. He had killed somebody. Many people, maybe.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice trembling and small.

Claude huffed, slight irritation wrinkling his brow. “No,” he said. “Frankly, I’m offended you’d even ask.”

“You’re crazy,” you said. “You… you killed Acheron, you…” You put a hand to your neck again. The needle-like punctures had bruised, the skin tender and sore. 

“Okay, okay,” Claude said, trying to placate you. “I know I might have gone too far, and I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do that again. I was just a little excited, you know? I’ve been stuck in this place for centuries all on my own, too weak to leave and haunted by the ghost of my terrible, yet sympathetically tragic past.” 

He paused, eyebrows up as if expecting you to say something, prompting you to say something. How could you possibly respond to that? He spoke so fluidly that you could almost miss the way he casually threw around the word ‘centuries’ as if it were normal, as if it made perfect sense.

“Doesn’t that make you sad?” Claude pushed. “Doesn’t your heart just ache for the pain I must have been feeling all this time?”

“You’re crazy…” you whispered again, unsteadily sitting up against the headboard, drawing your legs closer to yourself to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. You couldn’t ignore the evidence that there was something weird going on here, but you couldn’t ignore reason either. A crazy guy with razor sharp teeth living in a castle famous for its vampiric and occult ties hunting and killing trespassers was more reasonable than the alternative, wasn't it? You couldn’t just give up and submit to the fantasy, not entirely. You needed to make this make sense, to find a valid explanation other than the impossible. 

“You already tried that one,” Claude told you. “And, for the record, I’m not crazy. If you think about it, and I know you have, this is meant to be. Who are we to deny fate?"

“Fate?” you repeated. “No, that’s…” Crazy. It was crazy. Everything about this was insane.

“Then why are you here?” Claude asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, actually, don’t answer that. I already know. Oh! Speaking of which…” He stood up to find something, pawing through the mess haphazardly left on one of the tables before straightening up with a phone in hand. 

“That’s mine,” you said, tensing up.  

“Yeah, you left it here. Aren’t you glad I took care of it for you?” he asked, waving it around as if to taunt you into lunging for it. 

“Give it back.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

“Give it back.”

“Ooo, how very charming,” Claude said, oozing sarcasm. But he gave it to you anyway, tossing it onto your lap casually before sitting back down. “You know, if you’re going to break into creepy forbidden castles, you probably shouldn’t take something so important. Especially the thing that has all of the information about where you’re staying, what you’re doing, who might care if you go missing suddenly… Or, actually? You should do that, it makes things easier for me.” 

You clicked the home button, greeted with your familiar background, a flower your dad found for you on the lake. That was last year. Not so long ago, but it felt like a lifetime. You weren’t sure what you were looking for as you swiped the screen to unlock it. There was no service here, you already knew that. The phone may as well have been an expensive brick for all the good it did you. 

“I’m astonished by how much information can be crammed into such a tiny little device,” Claude said. “Although, in your case, there wasn’t very much to find. No friends, no family, no home… I’m sorry about your dad, by the way.” His voice lacked all levity when he said that, almost like he meant it. 

“Don’t,” you said, stiffening. But it was a weak kind of anger. Whatever he had used to drug you sent your emotions way out of whack, fear and anger and sadness getting all knotted up and leaving a lump in your throat.

“Nobody to worry that you’ve gone missing. Nobody for you to miss,” Claude continued to muse. “Nothing for you to leave behind. If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if you weren’t waiting for this exact thing.” 

“That’s… You’re wrong.” 

“Of course, I do know better,” Claude said, ignoring you, “I know why you risked life, limb, and the law to break into my humble abode. Rather, I know why you think you did. You want to know why you’re cursed, and why all of these terrible things happened to you. You think that when the truth is laid bare, it won’t hurt anymore. Once everything makes sense, you won’t feel so alone and scared. You and I are pretty much the same in that regard. I can’t stand not knowing things.” 

You shook your head quickly, refusing to hear his words. He wasn’t right anyway, he was just assuming, just pretending like he knew you for the sake of some twisted power trip. Then again, he was right, wasn’t he? Your brain wasn’t so focused that you could simply deny the truth, deny that you thought answers would make the pain stop. 

“Amateur prose aside, you’re right about almost everything—the curse, Lady Macbeth, Old Derdriu, me. You are cursed, Lady Macbeth was a witch, I am a vampire, and so on and so forth,” he said flippantly, disregarding the supernatural as if they were matters of tired fact. “But I have to say ‘almost’ because you’ve misunderstood something very important. Honestly, your little tirades border on willful ignorance sometimes. I can’t tell if you’re intentionally missing the point or if you’re just that obtuse… Er, no offense. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“No,” you said. 

Claude huffed, frowning. “You’re probably the only girl in the world to come face to face with the literal man of her dreams and still insist that you don’t believe in fate. I’m actually a little amazed right now.” 

“You’re lying,” you said. “You’re lying so I… Because I’m…” 

“You’re not insane, if that’s what you’re going to say,” he told you bluntly. “You’re not weak either. No, you just want a way out, don’t you? There’s nothing for you out there, you know that. You’ve been searching desperately for someone to swoop in and give you direction again.” 

“No,” you said again, refusing to hear those words or to believe them.

“Careful,” he said, “if you lie too much, I might just feel compelled to do something about it.” 

Your breath caught, your body freezing in place. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, tears burning your eyes. 

“Aaaand back to square one,” Claude said, rolling his eyes. “Okay, I see we’re not going to get anywhere like this. Time to move on to Plan B.” He twisted up onto his knees, like he was going to crawl towards you.

“Don’t come near me,” you said with wide eyes, clumsily scooting away, covering your neck defensively. Your body wasn’t moving correctly, your limbs awkward and ungainly. Although, if you were honest, he didn’t look that intimidating in the warm light. No, he looked beautiful. That was the point, wasn’t it? Those green eyes, the soft hair with one little curl flopped over his forehead, the pretty face, the little gold earring, all of it was meant to entice. Vampires were beautiful on purpose, they were both bait and trap. 

“I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you. All I want is to get to know you a little better,” Claude said innocently. “Thing is, I’m a hands-on kind of learner.” 

“Stay away from me,” you told him as firmly as you could manage, watching him distrustfully with this terrible tingling sense of anticipation. Like you wanted him to do something.

“I mean it. Fear and pain makes your blood all sour. Pleasure, on the other hand…” He trailed off with a grin, letting the implication speak for itself. “Well, we’ll get there.”

“No,” you said, winding up your arm to throw your phone at him. It was hard to keep your arm lifted, the muscles were so heavy that they trembled with the strain. Claude’s eyes widened, and then narrowed, his irritation obvious. 

“Oh, come on. There’s no need for that.”

“Stay away from me,” you said again, your voice coming out more like a whine. At this point, your thighs were clamped so tightly together that the muscles ached, your arm wavering from the weight of your phone. Claude reached for your wrist, but you dropped the phone before he could do anything, deciding to make your escape instead. 

There was no surprise that you, unsteady and dizzy and drugged, nearly fell off of the bed when you tried to jump onto the floor. You definitely would have face-planted if a set of cold hands didn’t catch you.  

“I know this is happening pretty fast,” Claude said, gently pulling you against him. You couldn’t do much to stop him, your head spinning, your mind on the fraying edge of sense from the sudden shake up of blood. He was inhumanly cold, but the fabric of his buttoned shirt was soft. The smell was wonderful, clove and orange and something lower, masculine. “Believe me, if I could give you more time, I would. But we have to make do with what we’ve got, right? And I’m…” His arms tightened around you, not that you were at risk of escaping. When you nervously peered up at him, Claude caught your eye hungrily. His throat worked hard as he swallowed. “Honestly, I’m starving.”

“Stop,” was the most you could offer, slurring the word. You realized that there was no heartbeat in his chest. Of course there wasn’t, he wasn’t alive. His cold hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing along the warm, sensitive flesh of your back, to your ribs. “No,” you protested, squirming. His body was unyielding and firm against your own in the most intimate of ways. You had never been this physically close with another person, not like this. 

“It’s okay,” he told you, his nose brushing the crown of your head. 

“It’s not.” 

“It is,” Claude affirmed, unendingly gentle. He was tracing little patterns on your back that made you shiver. You should have been fighting to get away, but the scent of him was intoxicating, and you felt… Not peaceful, there was too much about all of this that was uncomfortable and scary to be peaceful, but you didn’t feel displaced. “You don’t want to be alone anymore, do you?”

Your composure finally collapsed, tears welling up in your eyes. You hid them against Claude’s cold, empty chest, clinging to him because you had nothing else. 

“It’s okay to let it all go,” Claude told you, continuing to pet your skin sweetly. “I’ll make you forget, at least for a while. I don’t want to brag, but I’m the best you’ll ever have. I’ve had a few years of practice to really hone my technique, you know? You won’t remember a thing by the time I’m done with you.” 

Your heart pounded heavy and hard once, twice. 

“What do you mean?” you finally asked, mumbling the words against him to hide your red face because you had a feeling you knew what he meant, the price he’d demand to cure your loneliness. In a way, it made sense. Another piece of a puzzle that would fit in just as it was meant to, as it had been destined to. 

“Wait…” Claude pried you away from his chest, gripping your chin to force you to meet his eye. You tried to avert your gaze, but there really wasn’t anywhere else to go, anywhere to hide. “What do you think I mean?” 

Your thighs squeezed together, heat rising to your face.

“I dunno,” you said, trying to squirm away, overly aware not only that you were in his arms, but practically cradled in his lap. 

“I can’t tell if you’re being coy or not,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way.” 

“What doesn’t?” you asked. 

“I’m talking matters of the heart,” Claude said, letting go of your face to wrap an arm around your waist, his grip impossible to fight even if you weren’t still dizzy and leaden from the drug. “And matters of the body. More specifically, your body.” His other hand delved down, slipping beneath the elastic waistband of your sweatpants to press against you through your panties. You hissed out through your teeth, thighs clamping down around his hand like a vice. Claude only groaned, his palm grinding against you. “I’ve gotta say, it’s awfully cute. You’re so warm and soft.” 

“Stop,” you protested, your voice thin and your face hotter than ever. 

“Pleasure makes your blood sweeter,” he said, the air of his words brushing against your ear. “The more, the better.” 

You shook your head, hiding your face against his chest. “I… I don’t…” 

“It’s a fair deal, don’t you think?” Claude asked, his fingers teasing you through the thin fabric, curling to press between your folds, skimming over the sensitive flesh beneath. You squirmed, your hands weakly tugging at his wrist. “We both get something out of it.”

“I… don’t…” you stammered out again, not sure where you were going with it. 

“And it’s much more respectable than a messy quickie out in the courtyard. Blood as precious as yours deserves to be savored in its finest form,” Claude said, dragging his finger over your clit, the extra friction of the fabric adding to the sensation. You shuddered hard, heat sinking low in your gut. “I think we’ll start with three and go from there.” 

“Three?” you asked breathlessly, your head spinning so hard you had to rest it against his chest.  

“Yeah, I’m going to make you come three times,” Claude said, his tone more than a little indulgently condescending. “To start with, at least. You know, to sweeten you up. It’ll soothe your nerves too. As for what happens from there…” He shrugged, the movement impeded by the way he was cradling you. “I like the spontaneity of figuring it out as I go. It’s more romantic, don’t you think?” 

“Nn…no…” you said, your stomach sinking, sickness and something else—something that was decidedly interested in the proposal—swirling dangerously low within you. Claude hadn’t stopped teasing you through your panties, and you weren’t really pulling at his wrist anymore so much as just holding on.  

“What, are you thinking more along the lines of four? Five?” he teased. “We’ve got more than enough time to kill.” 

“That’s not…” You whimpered, holding tighter against him when he wedged the fabric between your pussy’s outer lips to grind even harder against your clit. It bordered on too rough, but it was working as intended, your clit swelling hot and needy, your hips jumping forward in an unintentional chase for more. “I can’t… do that.” 

“Did I mention how good I am at this?” Claude asked. “Not that I get the impression you’ll be too terribly difficult.” 

You whined in objection, squirming in a half-hearted attempt to escape. 

“That’s not a bad thing. The opposite, actually. Like I said, the more, the better,” Claude said, his other arm wrapping around your waist to adjust you, to make it easier for his other hand to work between your legs. You were too sensitive and you didn’t know how much of it was natural and how much of it was from the drug, only that pleasure was pooling up quickly in your core. 

You swallowed against the excess saliva pooling on your tongue, past the lump in your throat. “I… I don’t…” 

“What?” he asked. “You don’t… something. Sorry, I didn’t catch the last bit.” 

“I…” 

“You weren’t going to lie and say you don’t want this, were you?” Claude asked, his cold lips brushing the shell of your ear. Your hips jerked, your mouth falling open. You could feel the way your body was coiling up tense, desperate to come. It would be a quick flash of pleasure, hidden and tight beneath your clothes, but it was still pleasure, it was still good. 

“I’m—mmm…” You pressed your lips together to stifle yourself, holding even tighter against him. The wave of heat was building too fast, too frantically. Exhaustion, drugs, your general mental degradation, you could pin the blame on any number of external factors so you didn’t have to take responsibility for what you felt. The result was the same though, and it was you and you alone who chased the tantalizing build of pleasure.

“Do you feel that? That’s the sweet, sweet feeling of me being right yet again,” Claude said, saccharine and smug. “Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”  

It was the pet name that really did it. Nobody had ever said something like that to you, and the heavy weight of it in his voice pushed you over the edge with an anxious little jerk of pleasure and a choked noise in the back of your throat, with a hot flash that made your clothes feel too tight, that made your clit pulse beneath his touch, rubbed raw with the friction of fabric. It was awkward and cramped and thin and it was everything, you clung onto him as the fizzles of heat sparkled out, your muscles contracting, your mouth open and silent. 

When it was over, when Claude quit rubbing those evil little patterns over your sensitive clit, you let out a shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself down. Without the distraction of pleasure keeping you on edge, you felt the bite of nausea in your throat. The recognition that this was wrong, and that you had no idea what to do to fix it, or even if that was possible. 

“The thing is that when you come, your body releases all sorts of hormones. It’s a fun little cocktail that behaves in basically the same way as sugar. For me, at least,” Claude explained, unceremoniously dumping you onto your back in a boneless splay. “A couple of orgasms is… It’s like the difference between gnawing on a day-old biscuit and savoring a cinnamon bun with icing.”

“What are you doing?” you asked. You tried to hold onto him, but Claude easily knocked your arms away so he could pull your sweatpants off. They were cast somewhere to the side before he hooked a cold hand under your knee, lowering himself between your legs. “What-”

“I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” Claude explained, looking up at you with bright eyes. He looked so innocent, so sweet. So mischievous. “You don’t mind, right?” 

“Mind what?” you asked, trying to close your legs, to hide yourself from him. The panties you were wearing were old and plain, far from anything even approaching sexy. But the idea of removing them was worse, you couldn’t stand thinking of him looking so forwardly at your bare pussy. The humiliation would kill you. “Please stop,” you said, your voice pinched and small. 

“Oh, wow, would you look at that?” Claude asked, his finger tracing the wet spot soaking through your panties. Your hips twitched, the muscles in your thighs tensing. “It looks like you don’t want me to stop.”

“Don’t look,” you said, squirming in an attempt to get free. 

“Don’t look?” Claude repeated, feigning guilelessness. “So it’s okay if I touch, but only so long as I keep my eyes closed? Good to know.” 

“No, that’s not-” 

He cut you off, his tongue replacing his fingers, dragging over the wet spot with a depraved sort of intensity. And his eyes, as he said, were closed. Already, the sane thoughts of sickness and doubt were beginning to scatter anew, your body responding to the promise of new pleasure. Claude exploited that, continuing to lickyou through the damp fabric of your panties while you squirmed, settling for covering your face in place of fighting him off. Not that he was looking. 

“You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?” Claude asked, hooking his fingers beneath your panties to slowly peel them off. You fought that, but it wasn’t hard for him to wrench the cotton from your grasp, the elastic tearing before he got them all the way down and off. When he ghosted his cool fingertips over the bruise on your hip, you shivered. “I’ve barely done anything and you already came once. Every time I touch you, it makes you twitch. I thought you were just discrete, not writing about any boys in your diary, but the truth is that you’ve had nothing to write about, right? Well, until now, that is.” 

“What are you doing?” you hissed down at him, finally panicking enough to grab his hair, trying to pull his head out from between your legs, shame raging a horrible storm within you. Claude groaned, flashing a grin up at you as he casually tossed one of your bare thighs over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, you can pull my hair all you want. I don’t mind,” he said, his cold lips brushing your inner thigh. You thought of his fangs and how easily they had pierced your neck, falling still as he passed the artery there. But that wasn’t his destination, you realized. Claude separated your outer lips, staring at your bare pussy for a long moment before his head dropped forward. 

You yelped when his cold tongue began to draw relentless patterns over your swollen clit. His fingers kept you spread open for him and you couldn’t breathe, every single muscle in your body pulled taut in preparation for the orgasm you were being enticed into. Disgust and humiliation remained constant, sure, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade your body from the pleasure. 

Even when your thighs closed around his head, certainly suffocating him, Claude didn’t falter. Even when you pulled at his hair, even when your hips jumped against his face, he just groaned, doubling down. He had to have been putting on a performance, considering how loud he was, eating you out as sloppily as possible so you had no choice but to revel in the depraved noises. The rest of it was all you. Your moaning, your whimpering, your gasping. Your body didn’t belong to you, you couldn’t force yourself to stay still, couldn’t stop the noises from leaving your mouth, couldn’t stop the hot coil of pleasure from building and building and building. 

“I c-can’t,” you got out breathlessly, “I-I… I can’t.” 

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Claude said, looking up at you from beneath thick, dark eyelashes. “It’ll make this a fun surprise. For you.” 

Forcing your hips flat against the bed, his wicked tongue continued to push you even closer to the precipice. You whimpered, tossing your head back because there was nothing else you could do. It was embarrassing and awful and you hated it, but you knew you weren’t far off. Heat ballooned up in your core, all of your blood seemingly rising to the surface and making your entire body too hot, too tight, too tense. 

Claude’s lips closed around your clit and sucked and you came with a helpless cry straight out of some trashy porno, your entire body tensing and shuddering and completely overcome with nothing except for the raw sensation of pleasure. By the time you were spent, your fingers were twitching, the rest of your body limp and sweaty. 

“See what a difference a can-do attitude makes?” Claude asked, looking up at you with a big smile. You shook your head, breathing too hard, too fast. Unable to meet his eye. “As in, I can make you do anything I want. Funny how that works out.”

“I-I need… a moment.” 

“No you don’t,” Claude said. Messily, hungrily, he moved up from between your legs, his lips tracing your abdomen, your stomach, your ribs, pushing your shirt up to gain access to more and more of your bare flesh. When you realized he was trying to remove your shirt and bra, you fought it, desperate to retain some modesty. 

“I don’t want-” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Claude scolded. “Remember what I said?” 

With his supposed can-do attitude, it wasn’t difficult for him to get your shirt and bra up and off, shoved past your shoulders and arms until the knotted wad of fabric dropped onto the floor. You tried to cover your bare tits, but Claude barely paused, simply slapping your arms away so he could map your chest with his mouth too. Palming one breast, pinching the aching nipple between cold fingers, he wrapped his lips around the other. 

“Claude, I don’t-”

He effectively shut you up by biting your nipple. Not with his fangs, and not hard, just enough to make you squirm, writhe against him like you had last night, stuck between his unyielding body and the mattress. Sweaty and hot and desperate, but now for completely different reasons. 

You made another sound that was intended to be his name but didn’t come out that way, it was barely language, and far from comprehensible. 

Claude groaned, the fingers of his other hand pushing into your pussy at the same moment, driving right past the tense muscles of your entrance and deep into you. The weight was enough to make you really moan, the feeling of him stretching out your inner walls electrifying your entire body. You could hear how wet you were for him, feel how easily his fingers curled and scissored inside of you, reigniting the little ember of need low in your core. His mouth switched to your other nipple, leaving the first red and aching, and all you could do was hide your face, one hand threaded through his hair as if looking for an anchor point. You thought you needed a break, but already you were back in it, already wanting to come again.

His fingers fucked into you with a sloppy sound. In and out, curling and scissoring and not at all gentle. Not that it mattered. Your body was entirely pliant, moving with him. More than that, responding to each swipe gleefully, needfully, pulsing around his cold fingers and sucking them deeper, your back arching to press your chest harder against his mouth, your thighs squeezing his hand to keep him in place.  

“You’re tight,” Claude said, pulling off your nipple with a slick pop. “Is it possible that you’ve been saving yourself for that special someone?”

You shook your head, more than a little aware of the way his taunt made you tighten around his fingers. So close. Just a little more and you were going to come for him, the heat having gone from a smolder to hellfire beneath your blushing skin, your entire body wound up.

“Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been suffering all by yourself, waiting for your prince to show up and take care of you?” Claude asked, making his point with each hard thrust. “Cause, I’ll be honest, that’s what this feels like to me. Sensitive, tight, needy… Those are all classic symptoms of neglect.”

It was difficult to breathe. Difficult to think.  

“Please,” you breathed out and you weren’t sure how he heard you, you could barely hear yourself over the crushing thrum of blood in your ears, but Claude responded with a groan. 

“By the way, that is the magic word,” he said. Despite the quip, he fingerfucked you roughly and carelessly. His mouth on your tits was beyond pleasurable. It was exquisite, terrible. You came again, your entire mind clearing out as pleasure shuddered through you, stoked by each thrust of his fingers. They kept on curling, teasing, grinding against your g-spot, going as deep as they could each time. Your orgasm felt like it lasted too long, leaving you wrung out, shaking and almost confused. Maybe that was just because of how hard you were breathing, your brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen.  

Sweat slicked your skin and tears had dripped down your cheeks into your hair and everything glowed when you managed to blink your eyes open.

“You don’t mind, right?” Claude asked, his mouth moving up from your sore nipple to your neck. His hand hadn’t stopped moving, fucking into you. He pulled his fingers out only to add a third, to add that much more impact to each thrust. 

And he. Didn’t. Stop. Claude didn’t so much as pause when he bit into your neck, pushing you past numb overstimulation, past the discomfort, and right back into the cruel build of yet another orgasm. Unlike last night, the piercing sting of his fangs into your flesh was only good, hazy bright red and sharp, followed by the sweet, cool release of his mouth fixing around the wound to suck. It hurt, but the pain was only an aspect of pleasure. And when Claude groaned happily, his tongue lapping at your blood with the same desperation you felt beneath the assault of his fingers, you moaned openly. 

You came again when he bit into your neck a second time, his fangs digging into your flesh mercilessly. The needling sting made you writhe, but his fingertips curled at the same time to press against your g-spot and you couldn’t help it. At this point you were so wet it was dripping past his fingers, slicking your thighs and the bed. Claude sucked even harder at your neck, enough to make you lightheaded. 

Whining, you pulled halfheartedly at his hair. Not for him to stop, but because you wanted him to fuck you. Actually fuck you. At this point you probably were insane, but you didn’t care, all you could imagine was how full you’d feel, pierced by both his fangs and his cock. 

“You want another?” Claude asked, pulling away from your neck. When he pulled back, his lips were wet with your blood, his green eyes alight. “Some girls would be begging for a break right about now.”

“I…” 

“No, no. It’s okay to be a little greedy sometimes,” he said, grinning, the picture of poise and control despite the lunacy swirling within his gaze. 

“Nn-no, I want you-you to—” You let out a high pitched mewl when his other hand dropped to touch your clit in time with his fingers inside of you, writhing desperately, helplessly. This wasn’t what you wanted, you didn’t think, but already sense had flown from your mind, replaced by the intense dread and need that had reduced you to a babbling, mindless thing.  

He had to have known what he was doing to you, how far your mind had degraded, but that didn’t seem to matter to Claude at all. Torturing you with the dual assault of his fingers, he moved back down your body, muttering for you to hold still before his fangs punctured your inner thigh. Biting the sensitive, giving skin hurt in a different way than your neck, but you were already on your way to coming against and when he sucked hard on the wound, you just whined, gripping his hair in a desperate attempt to stop yourself from falling apart completely.  

Claude moaned, sucking hard as you sobbed and moaned and trembled through another orgasm, dripping and squeezing his fingers, twitching with overstimulation and pain and pleasure and the raw rush of ecstasy. He finally let up when you whined, his mouth releasing your thigh and pulling his fingers out of you with a final little press against your g-spot that made your legs jerk. What little sense you might have had before was long gone. 

“Now… What was it you wanted me to do?” asked as he sat back. “You were mumbling, I couldn’t quite understand.”

You turned your face away from him in embarrassment, still trying just to breathe, let alone speak. Claude laughed indulgently. Warm, sweet, even affectionate. He leaned over you to press a kiss to your neck, lapping at the beads of blood that had welled up. Even as you burned, he was cold.

“Look at me,” Claude told you softly, sweetly. 

And you did, meeting his eyes again because you were beyond refusing. What you didn’t expect was for him to take advantage of the way you were gasping for air and shove his fingers in your mouth. They tasted like you and maybe a distant part of your mind was disgusted by that, but it was so much easier to do what came naturally and suck on them, your tongue cleaning his skin of your wet arousal. The reaction seemed to amuse him, and, curiously, he pushed his fingers a little deeper. Predictably, you choked. Claude pulled them out with a spill of saliva. Filthy, but everything was already so wet, the added mess made little difference. 

“Oop, sorry,” he said without the slightest shred of repentance, sitting up and unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it aside. You could barely remember what had happened to your own clothes. “I’d hate to put words into your mouth, so why don’t you tell me what it is you want.” 

You shook your head, closing your eyes in an attempt to collect yourself. More than ever, reality loomed as a detached concept, floating above you and below you but not quite stable. There were reasons that was probably dangerous, but you couldn’t think hard enough to know. Every time you tried, it was just the heavy thump thump thump of your heart, and sweat, and your heavy, heavy head. 

“How about I tell you what I want, and you can let me know if it's agreeable to Her Highness?” Claude asked playfully. You peeked at him from beneath your eyelashes, barely coherent enough to be surprised that he was naked. Beautiful, the warm tan of his skin belying the bloodless cold beneath. Vampire biology, as it turned out, was comparable enough to human biology. “I want to see how many times I can make you come on my cock before you either beg me to stop or pass out. Preferably while enjoying a little more of your blood.” 

You blinked, some sense returning to your head as your eyes followed the trail of dark hair down his abdomen to his cock. A bit of fear because the sight of his hand stroking it made you very aware of what was about to happen, and then his words registered and you froze up entirely. 

“Oh, don’t make that face, that was a joke,” Claude said, scooping you up. The world rolled, your head heavy and limbs limp. “I won’t let you pass out, you’d miss all the fun.” 

“Dizzy,” you muttered, trying to hold onto him for stability, everything he just said fleeing your head as the reality rolled and twisted and shifted incomprehensibly. You couldn’t be afraid of what was happening when you didn’t even know what was happening, although that was distressing in and of itself. 

“You’re okay,” Claude said sweetly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, capturing your attention back onto him. Something to hold onto. “I’ve got you. Just relax, let me take care of you.” 

Amidst the blurry, disorienting world, his eyes were familiar and clear. Beautiful. You must have muttered something in the affirmative because it made him laugh, the sound rumbling in his bare chest. Claude kissed your lips, your cheek. Then you were turned around and falling forward. It was difficult to balance on your hands and knees. He had to settle for your knees and elbows, your arms were trembling too much to hold you. 

“You really are gorgeous, you know that?” Claude said, his hands tracing over your waist, down your hips. He didn’t put any pressure on the hurt one, simply tracing the very tips of his fingers across the ugly bruise. With how sensitive the skin was, it actually felt good, tugging a harsh shiver down your spine. “I’m serious. I mean… Look at you. Not that you can. I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Shame made a brief reappearance as Claude groped your ass, playing with your body a moment before spreading your cheeks, exposing you enough to run the tip of his cock through your slick folds. That made you shiver even harder, your body tensing up, your pussy squeezing around nothing, dripping a little more in anticipation. 

“A meaner man would make you beg,” Claude said, nudging the blunt head against your hole. You exhaled shakily, desperate and nervous and filled with red hot lust. 

“Claude,” you said.

“You’re lucky I’m so nice.” With that as your only warning, he nudged his hips forward. Once the head was in, you were more than wet enough for him to slide in smoothly. 

But Claude still took his time, holding you tightly against him to fill you with little rolling thrusts, his cock dragging against your fluttering inner walls bit by bit so you could feel everything. He held onto the headboard with one strong arm, the other holding your back flush against him which was good because, especially now that you were so full, you had no control over your body. In contrast to your feverish, sweaty skin, Claude was cold and smooth, his flesh unyielding and hollow. Your pussy worked around his cock, adjusting to his size. Any discomfort was easily smoothed out by how right it felt. How perfect.  

“Scratch that, you’re going to be lucky if I ever let you leave my bed,” Claude said, his voice a bit harsher, more affected, his arm tightening around you. 

You whimpered, your body unintentionally responding to what should have been a threat but only registered as a delicious promise. Claude still hadn’t moved. Every little movement made you tighten and flutter around him, a new reminder of how deep he went, how completely full you were. Claude groaned in turn, the sound muffled against your neck. 

When he bit you again, you could feel the way your cunt clamped down around him, your hips desperately twitching in an attempt to make him move. The piercing ache of his fangs spread through your skull, your spine, and then his lips latched onto the wound as if to soothe it. The sound of Claude sucking against your skin was beyond lewd, sloppy and wet and needful. 

“Please,” you whimpered. Not to make him stop, but to make him move, to fuck you properly. He pulled off of your neck with a slick pop. 

“I thought you’d want me to be gentle,” Claude teased, pulling out of you slowly. He didn’t take on the sensual tone of a lover, remaining playful despite what he was doing. “But that’s not true at all, is it? You want to be used. You want me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk, let alone escape from my devious schemes. Then you’ll have no choice but to be a pretty little blood bag for the mean, mean vampire of El Dorado. Am I right, or am I right?”

The words made your cunt tighten despite yourself. “I-” When he thrust back into you, his hips smacking loudly against your ass, you could feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, it was rough and rocked you forward. Only, he held you in place, leaving you with no escape. 

“Exactly, I’m right,” Claude said, repeating the motion, making you cry out pathetically. “Of course, I almost always am. You’d think I’d get sick of it at some point and say something wrong just for a change of pace, but…”

You weren’t really listening to him. How could you? Each thrust was hard enough to practically throw you forward, but the cage of his arm kept you in place so he could keep up the rough pace, fucking into you like you were little more than a doll. You wanted to meet him halfway, wanted to participate, but you were too far gone to possibly keep up. Luckily, Claude didn’t seem to mind either way. 

His fangs buried into your neck directly on top of the wound from last night and it should have hurt horribly, but instead it threw you over the edge, your pussy tightening around his cock and your body trembling as you came. The sensation was hard and rough and completely physical, pleasure blooming out from the place where his cock slammed into you and spreading outwards in wonderfully sensitive sparks of heat. 

Claude growled. You could feel the vibrations in his chest, his throat. The iron tang of your blood mingled with the filthy scent of sex, and the sound of him slurping at the skin of your neck was nearly as lewd as when he ate you out, like the sex was the same as the blood drinking, the two acts intrinsically linked.

The inside part of your consciousness remained in the heavy, hot confines of your body, desperate for a break so you could come down from the orgasm but unable to deny some hot, painful desire for more. The outside part of your mind floated above, like a balloon, disconnected and distantly interested in what was happening, almost like this was a dream. The two parts warred. One mind focused only on Claude and the pure physicality of it all, the other in a state of disbelief that any of this was happening at all. 

Neither mattered, really. Within your chest, your heart raged in a double time beat, racing against the blood loss and the syrupy thick pressure of exertion. Superficial pleasure raced over your skin like electricity. Claude bit into your neck again, drinking even more of your sweetened blood with desperate fervor. You tensed up, realizing that you were going to come again with a twinge of panic. Your body rebelled at the idea, but it would be more painful to deny the pleasure, it would leave you shaking and wanting and desperate and it would hurt. 

“You just can’t get enough, can you?” Claude asked. You moaned wetly, pathetically. He licked a wide stripe up the side of your neck. Even now, his tongue was impossibly cool against the bleeding wounds. 

He let you fall down, pushing your torso into the mattress. You went without protest, boneless and limp. Claude held you up by the waist, his thrusts slowing down as he experimented a few times. You didn’t really realize the point until your body jerked with intense, almost aggressive, pleasure. 

“That’s it, right?” Claude asked, a smile in his voice. You weren’t sure why he asked in the first place, your body’s reaction to him hitting your g-spot was more than telling. It felt good, beyond good, but it was in an electrified, panicked sort of way because at this point you were overstimulated and dizzy and every time he fucked into you it was unbelievably pleasurable, so much that it hurt. It didn’t help that Claude was being so rough, his thrusts losing tempo. And you just took it, jerking each time, spasming around him, moaning helplessly, that coil of heat building with too much intensity, with too much raw-nerve pressure. 

“C-aa-n’t,” you gasped out between thrusts, your voice heavy and wet.  

“Can too,” Claude told you, twisting your hips a little, enough to add that little bit of extra sensation. You pressed your face against the sheets as you came, your moans coming out practically as sobs because of how utterly overstimulating it felt as your pussy unintentionally clamped down around Claude’s cock, forcing more pressure on your g-spot, cruelly dragging out your own orgasm. He was muttering something, praise maybe, but you couldn’t hear it above the roaring of blood in your ears. 

Pretty soon Claude moaned loudly, layering your name with the heavy sound of pleasure. You realized that he was coming too, slamming into you roughly before his hips stuttered, flush with your ass. You shook and gasped and whined, your pussy fluttering and squeezing him, accepting the torment. Inviting it even, dripping around him even as he buried himself too deep inside of you, finishing with a few heavy thrusts. 

Claude laughed lightly after a few moments, although it sounded more like a sound of exhilarated joy than humor. You hoped he wasn’t laughing at you, although you couldn’t do anything even if he was.

He kneaded your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch himself pull out of you with a rush of wetness. Shame had burrowed deep into your gut, but you felt enough to pull away, to press your thighs together as soon as you had the chance.  

“I may have gotten a teensy bit carried away,” Claude admitted. 

You didn’t open your eyes or respond, not even when he threw himself down onto his side and gathered you against him. He was cool and smooth, his flesh inhuman against your own. You were the feverishly sweaty one, although you realized as he held you how cold you felt on the inside. Cold and sore and empty. 

“I know you’re not asleep,” Claude said, nuzzling against the side of your neck, lapping up the blood before sucking lightly at the freshest wound, groaning at the taste. 

You didn’t move. If you did, if you acknowledged the cold or him or the discomfort or anything, you would have to deal with how awful you felt. Blood loss felt a bit like altitude sickness, at least insofar as it left you lightheaded and nauseous. The sore overstimulation was different, but you definitely didn’t want to deal with that. Mostly, you just wanted to stop existing and shirk the discomfort and pretend that none of this was real. 

Claude pulled away from your neck, smacking his lips contentedly. 

You continued not to move as he adjusted himself, his arm leaving your waist to reach for something off to the side. “Can you sit up a little?” Claude asked. Your head spun as he pulled you upward regardless of your answer, the world lurching. Your pussy leaked uncomfortably, coating your thighs and the damp sheets. Every inch of your body either ached or felt clammy and sour. Your head pounded with a headache. Your skin was too tight, sweat dripping into the scrapes and bitemarks. A straw appeared at your lips, urging you to finally open your eyes. “Here—drink this.” 

You looked at him from beneath fluttering eyelashes, meeting those pretty green-blue eyes before looking at the bottle he held. 

“Whassit?” you asked, your voice slurred and barely recognizable. Your stomach protested at the thought of taking anything, but your mouth was bone dry and tasted like blood. 

“Water,” Claude said, pushing the straw past your lips. You just accepted it. Maybe you shouldn’t have, he already admitted to drugging you, but you weren’t thinking clearly and it was easier to just do what he said. “Humans need a lot of water. Especially after losing so much fluid.” He paused, smiling playfully. “Do you always get that wet or am I special?”

You blinked at him, taking in a few more mouthfuls of water before dropping the straw. Claude set the cup aside, wiping the excess water from the corner of your lips, and then smoothing over your hair, pulling you against his chest happily. It was easiest to let it happen. He really did smell good, spice and citrus and musk and Claude. The man of your dreams, he called himself.   

“They thought they could trap me here forever. After their massacre and the fire, they…” Claude didn’t finish that thought, his voice troubled. There was no heartbeat in his hard, muscled chest, but you could feel the rumble of his voice. “She had family, sure, but her blood was cursed. No Macbeth woman would be able to release me from this place ever again. And then you came.” He paused, petting your hair again. “More than once, if I recall.” 

You groaned softly, eliciting a laugh from him. 

“Yeah, that was in poor taste. Unlike you, who tastes excellent,” Claude said affectionately. A moment later, he sighed, returning to a somewhat serious tone. “Anyway, the point is that, vampire or no, I’m man enough to admit that I needed saving just as badly as you. That’s enough, isn’t it? We really should stick together, us accursed outcasts.”

You didn’t say anything, you weren’t sure what you were meant to say. Your thoughts, still, were little more than confused slush. And, more than that, you weren’t sure that was the sort of thing that needed a response. 

Claude accepted your silence and kissed the top of your head. And then he just held you. Not like he was afraid you would leave him, but like he was afraid you would cease to exist altogether, his arms nearly desperately keeping you pressed against his chest, his hands brushing your back or nose ruffling your hair as he reminded himself that you were still there.

And maybe those thoughts were just projections, but you didn’t think they were. 

II.

1st Day of Ethereal Moon

Now it’s just us two. Me and Claude ruling the world. Explorers, adventurers, wanderers. Rogues who hide behind the horizon to keep the night close. I told him that the other day and it made Claude laugh. It didn’t hurt even a bit to say, either. Dad would like him, I think. Claude likes discovering things and chasing mysteries and all that too. There’s always somewhere new to go, we never stay anywhere long enough for people to notice our shadow. It can be hard sometimes, but I’m not alone. It’s as good an ending as any. 

Happily ever after. 

[lauralot89]

If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose.

Okay I am fully aware that this is deeply sad, that Jonathan is in hell on earth and will be traumatized for the rest of his life as a result of this, and that his abuser and captor is the only person who acts remotely like a person and is even vaguely safe to be around and how bad that's fucking up Jonathan's head, I get all of that and it is so tragic and so compelling

but I can't not do this

"My tablets! quick, my tablets!

The quote is actually "My tables!" I'm not mocking Jonathan for this, just wondering what the editing process was like in the 1890s.

I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor.

Does Dracula have a shadow? Is that ever mentioned?

Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses

Bumpy nose girls represent

It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.

Jonathan you sad golden retriever of a man

Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer.

You know, do you think vampires get annoyed by ticklish victims or does the pain of the bite overpower that startle response?

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me!

Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

"Yes, I too can love

If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half-smothered child.

Dracula this is insufficient

Of one thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed me

see again my earlier note about all this being deeply sad and add to it that now Jonathan is trying to make himself believe he just passed out and dreamed this all, essentially helping Dracula to gaslight him, and it is tragic.

but

for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood

oh sweetheart it can get much worse

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hello N,

I hope you are well. Love your blog. I’ll start off by saying I love all the characters but I really love Loustat together even though I know all the relationships are relevant to the story so I’m excited to see them all play out.

I’m kind of a lurker on Twitter and it’s interesting to me to see what different groups have to say. My question is how do you think the fandom is going to respond to Nicki and Lestat’s relationship? I know a lot of people have turned on Lestat after season 1 and will turn on Armand after season 2. There some people already saying Nicki was treated better by Lestat than Louis was if the show goes by Nicki and Lestat’s relationship in the books. They are saying Nicki wasn't beaten, his song wasn’t a ploy to get Louis back, and Nicki wasn’t cheated on. I don't think I agree with this and I don't they understand that Lestat was human when he was with Nicki and the dynamics were very different. Also, we still don’t have the full picture of what really happened between Loustat in season 1. They did say something I might kind of agree with though and that is that a lot of people who are intolerant of Loumand because it interferes with Loustat will probably be more accepting or excited about Nickistat. I worry for Lestat because I can see pitchforks for him all over again.

Hey!

Glad you like :)

Sooooo, first off I'd like to note that one might need to be careful when comparing future canon while mixing show and book.

What I mean here is that we can extrapolate, for the show, but what they choose to focus on (and the abuse angle is certainly a focus) might not be wholly predictable. And comparing what was shown, and the books, and expectations...

But let's look at some of the points

"Nicki wasn't beaten". Right. He wasn't in the books. True! (I'm not counting the shoves with which Lestat tried to get Nicki away from himself after turning here, because that is quite a different setup). But... Louis wasn't either?! He and Lestat fought. Quite on equal level. That's an important difference.

There was no "song" for Nicolas either in the books. Nicolas was the musician, he wrote the music.

Also, as you said yourself - they were mortals, and maybe more importantly their love affair really only lasted a few (intense) months. In the books there certainly is no cheating (apart from some kisses/flirting with others at the theater), but I don't see how that should come into play into that short a timeframe either?

Lestat did not really cheat on Louis in the book either. True, there was Antoine, but... Lestat wanted Antoine to be a part of their setup, not run away with him. With Antoine, too, it was the music that drew him. And the timeframes and actual relationships to mortals are so very different for vampires, I really, really do not see that as the same level. Of course Antoinette was presented very much on that cheating level. But, as said before (and as you say, too), we know there's twists incoming, and there were inconsistencies with her finger in the show, et cetera.

We will not be able to judge Nickistat or Loustat before season 3, earliest, imho. The others probably, too.

So that's my few cents re the points you mentioned^^

... In regards to Nickistat and Loumand.

Nickistat happens between Nicolas and Lestat, while mortal, and one of them is then raped into vampirism. Which, in turn, leads to a downwards spiral for Nicolas, and ultimately to his death. This is a couple that has no say in what is happening to them wrt the vampiric side. They are both - no matter Nicolas original intent to die in Paris, and his viciousness later wrt to Lestat's 'light' - victims there. It's simply tragic. (Edit: Nicolas pressures Lestat into giving him the Dark Gift, while that is with intent I don't see it as a free choice in the context either, given the circumstances.)

And Armand plays his part in all that, too.

Now, Loumand is tragic, too. But for very different reasons. Their relationship happens between vampires. And both chose this life (as debatable as this may be wrt to actually knowing what one is getting into and other... influence). Loumand is tragic because despite the initial interest in Louis by Armand through his fixation on Lestat he falls for Louis, but destroys long stretches of that relationship through his actions. And Louis falls for Armand, and betrays Claudia again, and despite her death and Armand right there... he cannot help but love Armand. Even though it almost destroys him, too.

Now, having said that, and totally apart from the overview - Nickistat can never be a threat to "Loustat" because Nicolas is dead.

He is already dead in the show. We will get to see that death still. We will get to see the tragic events leading to it, no matter how they'll spin it.

But Nicolas is no threat to Louis.

He is the past. He will stay the past. Louis is the future.

And I think that may be why some will be more... "accepting" of Nickistat.

Now, as per the "intolerance" for Loumand...

I'm sure for some there is also the racial issue at play here. Unfortunately.

BUT - Loumand has quite the toxic potential as well, and I really don't think they'll shy away from that. They have more than hinted at that.

Now, these books are 50 years old. There's shit incoming, and a LOT of it has to do with Armand. Armand was the villain of the first books, and then later that changed with his own recollection of events. But it won't change what's about to happen for Louis. Armand is the one who influences him, spell-binds him, kills Claudia (in a very gruesome way), and then lies to Louis, for decades. That is all text. I doubt the show will downplay it, given what we know already.

Those who know the books, and who are Loustat shippers only (to put it that way) might brace themselves in a different way for Loumand than they do for Nickistat.

That's not to say I necessarily agree with this. But I understand it.

The way they set up Armand in the show he is supposed to seem like more of a "threat", the "love of Louis' life"..., while Nicolas... simply cannot and won't be one. *shrugs*

So, last but not least wrt to the pitchforks...

Ahhh, no worries. It's Lestat. (And I mean, since he is fictional...?^^)

The story will unfold, and that will be that.

I for one do not worry about all that at all tbh - I just want this show to get the seasons that have obviously been planned already in someone's head.

Gimme :))

[coyote-nebula]

strawberry

Stephanie is having a life crisis, and Bruce is there to check on her. He relates to her predicament a lot more than she expects.

Prompt: please tell me it's not blood Word count: 1000 Characters: Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort

🍓

The granite countertop was fantastically cool under Stephanie’s forehead, but it warmed so fast that she had to keep moving to a new spot. All the thoughts churning in her brain were probably cooking her neurons; she tried to remember if she’d seen any sodas in the Wayne fridge.

Or milk. God, that would be tragic, to make cookies and not have milk— she might have enough time to go down to the fancy twenty-four hour convenience store at the end of the road, but she’d have to go now and probably speed too. Better check.

Stephanie lifted her head and yelped.

Bruce was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a half-awake squint.

She tried to push her heart back through her sternum. “B. Can I help you?”

He didn’t react. “Is that blood?”

She glanced down at the container she’d forgotten to lid. “…Uh, yeah. Good catch. I know it totally looks like strawberry puree.”

Bruce hummed. “Have you recently contracted vampirism.”

“No, but a vampire friend recommended it for spicing up my baking, you know? I was thinking about doing some filled cupcakes. Or maybe swirling it in some cake batter. Do you have milk?”

“Yes,” he said, but he went to the refrigerator and looked inside anyway. “Are we out of peanut butter cups.”

Stephanie pictured the empty orange bag she’d stuffed in the trash. “Not… sure? There’s some in the oven.”

“Hn.” He closed the fridge. “Smells good. Cookies? Is there blood in them.”

“No, the straw— the blood is for later.”

“Hn. Are you alright,” he asked. “It’s four a.m.”

The oven timer saved her from having to answer that; she hopped up and took the cookies out— they did smell good— then got two glasses down for milk.

When they were full, she turned around to find Bruce standing over the oven with his eyes closed, sighing into a half-molten cookie.

“How are you not burning the crap out of yourself right now?”

“”S not that hot,” he said, and took another bite. “They’re good. Excellent.”

“Thanks,” she said, trying to keep her preening on the down-low while she hissed through prying half a cookie off the sheet for herself.

She passed him milk. They chewed in silence.

Sugar and carbs combined with crumbled peanut butter chocolate was, as she’d hoped, fortifying.

“You remember when Alfred got fear gassed?” she asked abruptly. “And we found out that after a certain age, you can’t tolerate much of the antidote but it also works better at low doses?”

Bruce’s chewing stuttered. “Yes.”

“So, I had this senior patient at the hospital today who’d been exposed to fear toxin. I was supposed to load her up, just drench her in antidote, so I went to the attending doctor to say ‘hey, I think there’s a mistake here, let’s not give her a stroke.’ She blew me off, so I went to the charge nurse, who also blew me off because I’m a student, right? What the hell do I know— and meanwhile the patient is screaming her lungs out and about to have a heart attack because I have to waste time arguing with people who aren’t listening so I went back and gave her the correct, not insane amount of antidote before she could freaking code and die and then she was perfectly fine! But I charted it like some kind of honest moron and my instructor is pissed—”

“You saved her life,” Bruce said quietly, listening with his arms folded.

Stephanie took half a breath. “I think I’m getting kicked out of the nursing program,” she said, then took a deep breath and let it out. “Actually… I want to quit.”

“You’ve already decided?”

She half-shrugged. “Nursing is great and important and it’s… not for me.” She picked at the other half of the cookie she’d broken. “Leslie thought it would be good because it’s hands-on and it’s a slightly less dangerous form of helping people, and Mom thought so too. But it’s…”

Bruce drained his glass and took another cookie off the sheet while she thought.

“I’m listening,” he said at length, gently even though he didn’t look up from the bite he was about to take.

Stephanie was glad. The illusion of distraction made it easier to think.

“I don’t mind, like… supporting someone else’s problem-solving occasionally,” she said slowly. “But usually, I want to be the one solving the problem, you know?”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “I can relate, yes.”

“Taking orders from Batman and sometimes even following them is about as much chain of command as I can handle,” she said, watching the good-natured roll of his eyes. “Anyway, maybe I need a day job where I don’t hold lives in my hands.”

Swallowing, Bruce and his thoughtful expression reached for another cookie. “You could bake.”

Stephanie snorted. “Yeah, and have a bakery with evening hours instead of morning hours. I’m sick of not getting my beauty sleep.”

Bruce nodded. “You can borrow the catering kitchen for now.”

For a moment, she didn’t track. “You’re not going to give me a ‘don’t be a quitter’ speech?”

“I work in a quiet office with large windows. Sometimes I nap,” he said, taking another bite and closing his eyes in an expression that, for him, passed for bliss. “I understand.”

Tension Stephanie hadn’t even noticed in herself dissolved. “And… the patient. You think…?”

Bruce looked at her. “I would have done the same,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

Warm relief filled her chest.

She smiled and glanced around the kitchen, already tidied from the cookie dough and the puree. “Well, no promises that I’ll be a baker instead of a nurse, but I do want to make vampire cupcakes.”

“Sleep first,” Bruce said, wiping his hands. “I’ll hide these.”

She yawned and nudged his arm. “Thanks for being chill.”

“You’re safe,” he said. “I can be chill.”

Stephanie grinned. “It was just strawberry syrup, B. G’night.”

Bruce smirked. “Goodnight, Stephanie.”

🍓

view on ao3

[eternalchiyo]

𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕊𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕜 ~𝔻𝔸ℝ𝕂: ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖~

Hello, hello! I am so excited to finally share my little story with you. I hope you have fun reading!

Summary: Chiyo is ordered to pack her things and start living in the human world.

Word Count: 1923

„Close your eyes,” the boy said.

She closed them and felt something cold touch her neck. After he moved away from her, she opened her eyes again and looked down. An amber pendant was now hanging around her neck.

The girl looked at the boy, a curious look on her face. She wondered what this was about, there was no special occasion for him to be giving her presents.

“It reminded me of you.”

He wasn’t very talkative by nature, more so if it came to showing his emotions. But the stone from the pendant radiated the same warmth he felt whenever he was around her. Mesmerized he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way she looked at him when she smiled. Her eyes were almost sparkling and emitted the same kind of warmth.

Only for him, his everlasting spark.

Chiyo was lying in bed, doing nothing except staring at the ceiling. She turned her head when she heard a quiet thump against her window. A big moth had flown against the glass, trying to get to the only available source of light, the candle by her bedside. There weren’t that many lights on at this hour and she didn’t really need one either. However, she still liked to have it around. It was weirdly comforting.

She stood up from her bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet as she made her way over to the big window. The moth flew inside when she opened it.

Then she caught it with both her hands.

She observed the struggling insect as she held it by its wings. They were so delicate, so easy to destroy, if she wanted to.

“You poor thing…” she said quietly, her delicate pale fingers slowly tearing through the wings until she ripped them off completely before throwing the creature into the flame.

Earlier that day she found out her father was sending her to that house. Ever since she heard that, her mood began spiraling downwards gradually. She didn’t want to see him again, yet alone live under the same roof as him and his brothers!

She overheard the servants talking that it was by direct orders of none other than King Karlheinz himself. She respected the Vampire King, of course, but she felt that her father was a bit too eager to please him. He was obsessed with trying to be favored by the King. Why? She had no idea, they were relatively wealthy, or at least had a high enough standing at court to be part of all the important festivities and high enough for her to be able to casually get to know his sons even though she was only half a Vampire.

Being able to get to know the King’s sons also meant she knew how horrible they could be, and she worried about the reason she was told to go live with them. She never found out why. Of course, she had tried to fight back against her father, but he only chastised her with a hard slap to her face, telling her how much of a spoiled brat she was. Her cheek still hurt where his ring-clad finger had hit her.

One of the things she learned years ago though, was that the King never did something without reason. The brothers would also often comment on how their father used people as pawns. Like a very elaborate game of human-sized 3D chess. So there was definitely some sort of reason that he wanted her there and it would be very beneficial for her to find out why. She doubted any of his kids would know and there was very little time before her departure. Chiyo disliked that.

She did hear about the sacrificial brides that were sent to the Sakamaki sons every so often, and she also heard about their tragic fates. Surely, they wouldn’t be interested in sacrificing one of their own. Then again, she hardly was recognized as one of them anyway. Vampire society made it painfully clear it didn’t like her ever since she first stepped into court as a young girl.

“God, I hate this.”

Too bad God didn’t exist.

She was sitting inside a black, fancy car. She didn’t care enough to know what brand it was; a car was a car. All she knew was that it was black and shiny and that she did not like the smell of the leather seats. She preferred the carriages from the demon world, but she realized they might be seen as a bit outdated in 21st century Japan.

She had visited their mansion in Japan once when they freshly moved in there. She wasn’t sure how many years ago that was, her sense of time betraying her since she spent most of her day-to-day life in the demon world.

The house looked bigger than she remembered. The sun was already setting when she arrived. The familiar that drove the car also carried her luggage inside the house, but soon enough she was left alone in the empty hallway.

It didn’t seem like there was anybody at home right now. While she did not expect a welcoming wagon and flowers upon her arrival, this was disappointing. She felt so out of place. Business as usual.

She crossed her arms and huffed, sitting back against one of the velvet sofas.

After what felt like an eternity, she heard the door from the main entrance open.

“Huh? Do you smell that as well? Someone’s here.” She heard the distant voice say. Did that mean they weren’t aware of her arrival?

“Oh? It looks like Chiyo from the Himura estate decided to pay us a visit.”

Tall, dark hair, and this way of articulating himself.

“Reiji,” she said. She knew nobody else that was so stuck up in their way of speaking.

“Chirin, what are you doing here? Did you miss us?”

She looked at them in disbelief. They really didn’t know!

“What is that disgusting half-breed doing in our house?” This angelic tone could only belong to that brat, Kanato.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? Direct orders from your father,” she said.

Everyone was visibly confused, the question of ‘why’ hanging between them heavily. She couldn’t answer even if she wanted to.

Their gazes shifted to the oldest when he entered the room. Shuu seemed like he was going to just try and escape everyone, using the flight of stairs, hadn’t he been discovered by his siblings before he managed to.

He stared at the group lazily before shifting his gaze to Chiyo for a moment. He frowned slightly at the sight of her.

“Right…he mentioned something like that, but it was too troublesome to pay attention to the details,” he said and made his way through the carefully stacked suitcases, knocking some of them over in the process. His younger brother sighed exasperatedly, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I apologize. It seems there has been some miscommunication here, so we weren’t able to prepare for your arrival. We do actually have another guest staying here at the moment.”

Another guest?

It turned out, in the time she hadn’t seen the odd family, a few things had changed in that household.

Kanato successfully expanded his wax doll collection for one.

The other thing was their long-term guest that went by the name Yui Komori, who was painfully human. How she survived for so long, Chiyo had no clue, but she either had enough wits to escape blood-loss for months, or there was something else special about her. Both would be equally impressive. The rumors about the unfortunate young girls being sent to the Sakamakis in the human world turned out to be true and Chiyo assumed most of the vampires running their mouths were jealous of the free meals that such an arrangement implied.

Reiji arranged so that a room on the upper floor was prepared for her as soon as possible. It was far away from the triplets but dangerously close to Shuu. Seeing as her stay in this house had been marked as indefinite, she would have preferred it to be as far away from him as possible.

Chiyo groaned as she threw the last one of her suitcases open. Unpacking was never a favorite of hers. She blew at one of the strands of hair that came loose to get it out of her face.

She wanted to go home!

The helplessness of her situation annoyed her. At least the rooms came with big closets, so she could fit all of her dresses.

“Huh… how did that get in here?”

An amber necklace was between the fancy fabrics of her favorite clothes. She hadn’t seen this piece of jewelry for many years, and she had no idea how in the world it could have made its way inside her suitcase. She didn’t recall putting it in any dress pockets but maybe she did and just forgot about it.

She took it out and let it dangle in front of her face. The big stone glowed as warm as ever, as if it were new. But it wasn’t. It was as old and outdated as the feelings associated with it.

It reminded me of you.

She threw the necklace away. It landed between the pillows on her bed.

What a jerk.

“I can’t believe you simply ‘forgot’ something important like this. Do you not listen to our father at all?” Reiji asked. He was pacing around the living room, complaining as per usual.

Shuu was sprawled out on one of the couches, one earbud inside his ear so at least it looked like he was listening to his brother. Yes, he had been listening to what their father told him, but he simply decided to ignore the fact that this woman was going to live with them for who knows how long. Besides, that guy hadn’t specified that he wanted Shuu to relay this information to anyone else.

“It would have saved me a lot of trouble had you just told me she was arriving, but no, you choose to make running this household even more difficult. If you do not want any responsibility even though you are the eldest, then at least try to not make it any more complicated for me.”

The track on Shuu’s MP3 player ended and a new one began playing. Chopin.

He tried to focus on that instead of Reiji’s irritating voice.

“Are you done complaining?” he asked finally.

What use was there getting worked up about this after the fact? She arrived here fine and alive anyway. She had a room and was probably arranging her perfume bottles or something pointless like that.

“Good grief,” Reiji said, “there really is no point in trying to talk any sense into you.”

“Exactly, so you can leave me alone now and do something more worthy of your time.”

Reiji scoffed and left shortly after.

That woman was already getting under his skin. He was irritated and not even his favorite music could help calm him down. Shuu had done his best to erase the memories he had of her. Up until now he had the impression of having done a good job. Clearly that was not the case at all, when as much as looking at her almost made him lose his cool. Even now he could feel her presence, her scent already clinging to the furniture in the room. How terribly troublesome.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 24

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 23 🟣 Part 25

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Fluff, ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of drug abuse, addiction, tragic backstory, August's completely unwarranted hatred of jellybeans.

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: Family trip!!!

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo

“Tell me something,” you whispered to Mike, who was sitting in the way too comfortable chair next to you, reclining the seat — probably without feeling any guilt towards Marshall and Sherlock, who were sitting behind him. They had plenty of leg room left. “How are we flying first class right now?”

“August refuses to fly coach,” Marshall answered that question for Mike. The answer didn't surprise you. Like, at all.

“It’s not like we can't afford it,” August snapped from the seat in front of you. The one next to him was empty.

“Charles would be proud of you,” Mike taunted. You didn't see the smack that followed, but you heard Mike's pained grunt all too clearly.

“Please don't break him,” you laughed. Mike snuggled into your side, glaring at the seat in front of him and kicking it for good measure. “And you can stop this tantrum right now, or sit next to August.” It was a good thing he was so damn cute.

“He's not wrong, though,” Sherlock pointed out, a hint of amusement to his voice. “Charles is the only other member of our family with the same insistence on certain levels of luxury.”

“Do I count as a member of your family?” you chuckled. All of your guys looked at you as if you'd gone crazy. And it was a silly question; of course you were a member of the family. “Because I think I might just be learning to appreciate those standards.”

“And exactly how expensive are dates going to get now?” Mike asked with a smile. “Because… Just because they are all fucking loaded, doesn't mean I have unlimited access to those funds…”

“Mostly because an ungodly amount would be spent on Jelly Beans, and an even more ridiculous amount would be spent on videogames,” August sneered. Mike just shrugged — he could hardly deny it; the fact that your arrangement meant Mike didn't need his mountains of Jelly Beans anymore, hadn't exactly meant he wasn't still eating plenty of them, much to August's chagrin.

“August, just because you live a boring, joyless, Jelly Beanless life, doesn't mean I have to,” Mike sighed.

“How long has this been going on?” You asked Marshall and Sherlock.

“I'd say since the invention of the Jelly Bean,” Sherlock said, “but Mike wasn't around back then. I believe that happened somewhere in the late eighteen hundreds…”

“As long as Mike has been around, then?” you asked, not wanting to ask them too many invasive questions such as ‘how in the hell do you know when the Jelly Bean was invented?’

“At least for as long as they've known each other,” Marshall answered, explaining that that hadn't happened until about thirty years ago. Still, that was a long time to have a whole feud over candy, you pointed out.

“It's a long time to be addicted to candy,” August growled.

“Eh, I guess an “addiction" to Jelly Beans beats all of those other addictions I had,” Mike shrugged. “Oh…” His cheeks flushed when he saw the troubled look on your face. “I guess I never told you…”

“Much of anything, Mike,” you said softly.

“It's not the best story.” He tried to shrug it off, but you could tell something was bothering him. “It's, eh… It's not exactly a version of me I want you to know about, either.” He looked at you, the sadness in his eyes becoming more and more pronounced as time went by, and it took some serious effort to convince him you loved him for the man he was now, not who he was forty years ago.

“Alright, fine,” he sighed. “What do you know? So I know where to start…”

“That Marshall ran into you in the eighties and that you were hanging out with a bunch of goths and goth-adjacent figures,” you summed up quickly, eager to get to the rest of the story.

“Alright, well… What’s important is that you know we're talking about Berlin in the eighties. My dad got a job there, so we moved from here to Berlin when I was six or something. That went well for a few years, and then my dad died when I was fourteen. I didn't think much of it at the time, but over the years… Something about it doesn't check out, and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if my mom killed him because he had an affair with his secretary, but whatever. Water under the bridge, I guess.”

“Mike! The fuck?” He said it so casually…

“Sweetcheeks, it doesn't matter, okay? Dad was gone, mom worked all the time to keep a roof over our heads, and I became completely unbearable—”

“And that never went away,” August said. You could tell he was smiling.

“Hey, thanks!” Mike replied, rolling his eyes. “Anyway. I'm a completely unmanageable teen at this point, and Berlin in the eighties was not the place for that. Like, it goes wrong shockingly quickly. I think I was sixteen when it really started going south.  Like I said; Berlin in the eighties was something else.”

“There were two things the government couldn't exactly get a handle on,” Marshall interjected. “One was vampirism, the other heroin. The two went hand in hand, more or less.” He looked down at his hands, clearly not at ease.

You had just decided not to press the matter when Sherlock offered an explanation. “Junkies were… not simply easy targets, although it would be hard to deny that they were.” It actually took you a while to notice that Sherlock and Mike had switched place, and that while you were looking straight at Sherlock, who was now sitting next to you. “Back in the day, addicts and vampires were connected by the mutual illegitimacy of their existences — although the vampires naturally had several advantages over humans from marginalized communities—”

“Anyway,” Mike cleared his throat and appeared next to you again. “The thing about a junkie is that they'll do pretty much anything for a fix. Including volunteering to feed vampires in exchange for some cash. Now, those were not the people you've heard us talking about up until now…”

Apparently, the goths you'd heard about had been the ones who took Mike in, the ones who tried to get him clean. “And they succeeded,” Mike said with an apologetic grin on his face. “Several times, even. My mom had stopped caring at that point, and then when I was nineteen — a few weeks before Julia, my ex, ran into Marshall — mom died, too…”

“He found out what I was not much later,” Marshall said.

“How?”

“I walked in on them, after Julia and I broke up, except I didn't walk in on what I at first expected to be walking in on, if you catch my drift.”

“Went about as well as you'd expect from the guy who's pretty much okay with everything,” Marshall laughed. “We did really well for a few years.”

“We'll spare you the lengthy, boring part with all the domestic bliss,” Mike swooped in before Marshall could elaborate. “When I was… twenty-two? Fairly sure I was twenty-two, yeah… Anyway, I met a girl—”

“Of course you did,” you blurted out before you could help it, immediately looking up at Mike with what must have been the guiltiest look of your entire life so far on your face.

“I don't blame you for that. Anyway… She was in trouble — the kind of trouble I'd been out of for years, at that point, and I thought I could be to her what Julia and Iris had been for me, but—”

“You relapsed?” you tried. Right on the money.

“Yep… Even years later, Hedwig — that was her name — pulled me right back under. Wasn't her fault, of course. It's not like she put a gun to my head and forced me to stick a needle in my arm or anything. Can't even say it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't met her. Anyway, the point is; it happened… Not a great time. I—” He nervously fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “I’m happy to tell you the rest, but… later?”

You took his skittish look at the other passengers to mean he’d prefer a more private setting. Deal.

A left turn and the change from smooth asphalt to crunching gravel beneath the tires of the car startled you enough to let out a loud, disapproving hum and lift your head. You hadn’t been asleep, per se, but definitely dozing off a little, your head resting comfortably on Marshall’s shoulder. Mike’s hand was on your thigh, eerily — vampirically — still ever since you’d asked him for the third time if he could stop moving it because it tickled. He enjoyed tickling you, you were not a fan.

“We’re here, princess,” August said from the front seat, and you leaned over to look out the window, seeing nothing but forest, forest and more forest.

“We’re where?” you asked, surprised at the absence of the house you’d expected to see.

“The estate,” Marshall noted calmly. And exactly how big was this estate? “Big enough.”

“Charles likes his privacy,” Mike noted. His fingers were tapping a gentle rhythm on your knee now, and his legs restlessly bounced up and down with excitement. “You’ll love this place!”

The car finally pulled into something that actually looked like a driveway — that is to say, it was the same gravel, the same road, but you could finally see that there was a house attached to it. Mansion. Villa. Actually it was closer to something resembling a small castle, but this wasn’t Europe, so…

“Charles also likes extravagance,” August snarled his answer to your unasked question.

“I can see that,” you muttered breathlessly as you followed Mike out of the car when it came to a halt in front of the stairs that led to a pretty grand front door. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Right here, darling,” he called from the top of the steps, where August was also already standing — holding both of your suitcases and your backpack.

“Wait, how did the three of you travel so… light?” And how had it not occurred to you to ask that question before now?

“We have everything we need here,” August explained. “Mike, get her up here!”

One of the heavy wooden doors opened the second Mike put you down, and a small woman stumbled through it. She was a little older than you, with long, black hair down to her waist, and she looked absolutely exhausted.

“Priya!” Sherlock said, grasping her elbow to steady her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Holmes,” she replied before turning to you and reaching out her hand. “Hi, I’m Priya. I’m—”

“Dinner.” Oh, for the love of god, why did you have to snap at her? You didn’t even know the woman, but the thought of her feeding your vampires was entirely too much. “Sorry! I—”

“I get it,” she chuckled. “My sister, Nalini, has your… talent. She’s protective of her family as well. And you’re not wrong, just a bit impolite.” You deserved that.

“I don’t know what came over me,” you said. “I’m so sorry.” Not to mention how rude you would have been if you had been wrong… What if this woman hadn’t even had any idea she was visiting vampires?

“Are you sure you’re okay, Priya?” Mike asked, his brow furrowed, and his voice concerned.

“I’m alright, guys,” she laughed — but it took a lot of effort to do so. “I’ve been sick before, I always survived.” With the back of her hand, she wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow, and you noticed an intricate reddish design on her palms. She caught you as you tried to get a better look. “From my eldest sister’s wedding,” she said. “I can show you pictures later this week, but I really have to go. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can start sleeping off this cold, or whatever it is.”

“Please let us know when you get home,” Sherlock said as he walked her to the cab you’d just stepped out of.

“That was unnecessarily rude, princess,” August snapped when the car drove off.

“I said I was sorry,” you muttered quietly, not daring to look August in the eye. “I… You’ve all known her for a while, haven’t you?”

“She’s been coming here for years. About a year before Sherlock and Mike moved away,” Marshall explained. “Now, what’s really bothering you about this?”

“I thought you’d never been in this kind of… arrangement before,” you muttered, also avoiding Walter’s eyes.

“And we haven’t. You heard her; she’s not like you.” Marshall ushered you into the hallway, where the others were already waiting. The sound of the door falling shut behind you made you jump. “Charles was willing to pay a small fortune to drive her out here. Once a month, just as usual. And all the rules of the Bank still applied, just as usual. So, if you’re worried for so much as a second that you’re not special to us, you can stop that now.”

“Did she say she would be back later this week?” you asked softly. Part of you hated the thought of anyone but you feeding your vampires — even the ones you hadn’t met yet…

“She’s a friend of the family, not just… dinner.” The unfamiliar voice behind you startled you more than the closing door had, and you spun around as quickly as you could — but not quicker than the owner of the voice, who had apparently already walked around you, and was now standing behind you. “Would you stand still and let me do the moving, please?”

Two hands descended on your shoulders and gently turned you around, so that you were now face to face with the ‘new’ vampire. He was handsome, his face all angles and edges, with kind eyes and a charming smile. Judging from the sour look on August’s face, this had to be Charles.

“Charles Brandon, pleasure to meet you,” he said softly as he took your hand in his and shook it briefly. Perhaps too briefly? The charm of his smile almost made you overlook the sadness behind those kind blue eyes. Almost.

Next to you, Mike was swaying back and forth on his feet, waiting for introductions to come to an end so he could— Before Charles had even fully let go of your hand, Mike lunged forward to hug the man. “Alright, kid,” Charles laughed, “you’re home. It’s okay.”

“Where’s…” Mike asked as he let go so the others could subject Charles to similar treatment of warm ‘glad to be back’-hugs. Of course, the one between August and Charles was short and tense, but other than that, it was a perfect display of warm familiarity.

“Right behind you,” another unfamiliar voice spoke. This time, you didn’t bother to turn around — a wise call, as a split second later, another man appeared before you.

“Melot,” he said as he reached for your hand, raising it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. For some reason, it made your heart skip a beat. Melot looked much younger than Charles, or any of the others — younger than Mike, even — and you were fairly sure it didn’t have much to do with the dark, shoulder-length curls that framed his face. “I’m glad you’re finally here.”

“He’d ask you how your trip was, but… he already knows,” Charles noted, adding to your confusion. “I see she hasn’t been told much about him? Does the same apply to me?”

“She knows enough,” August growled, followed by a grunt as Marshall kicked him in the shins.

“August, that’s enough, go to your room!” Sherlock snapped. It was absolutely hilarious to hear those words from him, but what really had you in stitches was the fact that he actually walked away — presumably to the aforementioned room.

You only stopped laughing when Mike gently nudged your side with his elbow, at which point you looked at the others in the hallway, who were all looking at Sherlock in bewilderment. After a strange, tense silence that lasted far too long, August joined you again.

“Would someone fucking explain to me why he got to do that, here?” he sneered.

Melot chuckled softly. “It would seem that our hierarchy changed with the coming of our queen.”