#and he’s a vampire and tragic??? count me in | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

samandcolbyownme · 6 days ago

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Colby smut??

Summary: reader flips their humanity switch off after a tragic event and Colby works to get her back.

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, mentions of death, reader loses best friend, blood, blood drinking, compulsion, bitchy!reader, drinking, kissing, hair pulling, choking, oral (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, general filth

Word Count: 5.5k | unedited

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Your watery eyes scanned over the banquet hall, your head nodding with each person that comes up to pay their respects to you for the recent loss.

“Loaded question.. but..” Colby sits down next to you, “Are you okay?”

You sniffle, nodding as you look at him, “Yeah, yeah. I just… I think I’ve had enough of this for one day.” You stand up, making your way to the parents of your best friend, “Hey.. guys..”

“Y/n.” Jen, Raya’s mom sighs, “Thank you..” she pulls you into a hug, squeezing tight, “Thank you for everything you’ve done today, you are family to us, and I just.. if you need anything please don’t hesitate to call us or stop by.”

“Thank you, and same for you and Jason. Raya was...” You sigh, fighting back tears, “She was.. everything to be. The best person I could have ever had in my life. I loved her like she was my own sister.”

You feel Jen’s body jolt with her sobs and she steps back, “You were the best person she could have had in her life, too.” She rubs your cheek and you turn to give her father, Jason, a hug.

“You were good to her, kid. I’m so happy you stuck around with us.”

You smile and nod, “Me too.”

You turn around, Colby tilting his head slightly as you walk back over to him.

Colby was your best friend, too. Well, you were more than friends but not really official lovers.

“I think, I’m going home.” You pick your jacket up from your chair and Colby stands up, “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No.” You shake your head as you put your coat on, “I need to walk home. I think the time to reflect on everything will be good for me.” You flick your hair out and sigh, “Tell Sam and everyone I said bye.”

“Okay.” Colby nods, “If you need-“

“I can handle myself, Colbs.” You shoot him a smile and turn to leave.

As soon as you walk out, the cool air hits you and your demeanor changes, and you push yourself into step one of your plan - finding somewhere no one will find you.

You walk down the street, hands in your pockets as you think about everything today, yesterday, last week.

Raya Tylers. Beloved best friend and daughter, has died.

You couldn’t help but blame yourself, hate yourself for allowing her death to happen, but as Colby keeps saying, it didn’t have anything to do with you. There isn’t anything you could have done to help her.

You walk across the street, moving in the opposite direction of your house.

You only had a short time to do this because once Colby and the others showed up at your house to find you no where do be found, the search party would ensue.

You stood at the tree line, listening behind you for anything- anyone, and nothing. You vamp through the trees, coming to a stop when everything you’ve been putting off hits you like a ton of bricks.

You gasp for air, bending down as you fight back the sobbing but you can’t control it. Gasps and sniffles fill the dark air as you let out everything.

You fall back, leaning up against the tree, hands covering your face as you feel the mascara burn your crying eyes.

You tilt your head back, staring up at the space through the dead tree at the night sky.

“Fuck.” You sniffle, “God..damn it.”

You get up, wiping your face as best you can before taking a few deep breathes to try and calm down. Raya was the first friend you made when you came to this tiny little town. She was there for you when you first turned, she wasn’t afraid of you.

She was there for you through everything, high school, your mom moving away. Your drunken nights when you couldn’t stop going on and on about Colby.

Colby was a vampire, too. You knew he knew how you felt, you just had too much on your plate at the time to add a relationship, and he understood that.

Your head was filled with so much guilt, remorse, hatred. You felt like you were spinning. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, you knew life wasn’t going to be the same without her and you didn’t want anything to do with it.

You took one last breath before closing your eyes, and everything shifted.

You opened your eyes and you looked around, “Huh.” You laugh slightly, “Thought that would be a lot more dramatic.”

You take a step, stopping when you hear the distant sound of campers within the same woods as you, “Noooo, give it back, Will!”

“I think you’ve had enough, Marcy.”

“My name.. is Marissa.”

“Snack time.” You smirk to yourself and vamp through the trees, stopping when you reach the chair the girl is sitting on.

“Whoa!” The guy jumps up, pointing to you, “Where did you come from?”

“Oh me?” You laugh, looking down at the girl staring up at you with a frightened look on her face. The guy laughs slightly, “Yeah, yeah you.”

“Just passing by.” You lean down, staring the girl in the eyes, “You are going to sit still for me and you’re not going to make a peep, got it?”

She nods and you tilt your head up to look at the guy, “And you-“

“What did you- no. Fuck this.” He takes off running and you sigh as you stand up, “Why do they already do that?” You speed and catch up to him, holding him by the shoulders as you look into his eyes, “Go back to your campsite, don’t make a sound.”

He turns, walking back to his camp in silence.

You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes as you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out and sigh as you answer it, “I’m fine, Colby. Okay? You don’t need to check on me every two minutes.”

You walk back to the camp, smirking as you see the guy and girl sitting in their chairs staring at you.

“Well, you aren’t here and you said you were coming here, so that’s kind of.. weird.” Colby pauses, but speaks when you don’t, “What are y-where are you?”

“I’m not home. Simple as that, now if you’ll excuse me. I have a dinner date.” You pull the phone away and right as you’re about to hang up, Colby’s words cause your head to tilt.

“You turned it off.”

You bring the phone back up to your ear and you let out a sigh, “Wow, pretty and smart, look at you go.”

“Why?”

“I gotta go.” You hang up and tuck your phone back into your pocket before walking up to the girl, “Marissa, is it?” You bend down in front of her, “I’m just gonna take a little bite. Hope that’s okay.”

You stand up, “I mean, of course it is, right?” You walk around and bend down, sinking your fangs into her neck.

It wasn’t long until her body fell forward, lying limp on the ground by the fire. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb, licking the blood from it as you walk over to the guy, “I never got your name, hmm. Too bad I don’t really care.”

You sink your fangs into his neck, finishing him off within a matter of seconds before standing up.

You push his body back into his chair and roll your eyes as your phone once again vibrates repeatedly.

You pull it out, watching the screen go from Colby’s incoming call to your lock screen with a bunch of texts from your so called friends.

Colby: please tell me you didn’t turn it off

Sam: Y/n, please. Colby is worried about you.

Colby: just remember that I do care about you

You tap on Colby’s texts, sighing as you type, You keep pushing me and these two bodies won’t be the last ones they find in the woods.

“Oops.” You purse your lips, “Guess I just blew my location.” You look at the two bodies, “It’s been swell, guys. But, I gotta run.”

Colby texts back, but I can’t live without you. Please y/n, don’t do this, you don’t have to.

You stare at the screen, typing out a quick text before hitting send, then die.

You turn your phone off and take off before anyone can catch up to you.

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“Another one please.”

The bartender looks from your empty glass then back up to you, “I don’t think I can do that.”

“And.. why not?” You scoff, “Do I really seem that drunk to you?” You tilt your head, “Really, I want your answer to that.”

“You’ve had… a lot, Miss. I just-“

“Look.” You lean in, sighing as you look up at him, “I just buried my best friend a few hours ago because of something that could have probably been easily avoided, but that’s not the point. The point is, I just want to drink, and drink, and drink and you..” You wave your finger at him, “Mr. Bartender, are getting in the way of that, and I’d really prefer if you weren’t, so why don’t you just do you job.. and get me another drink.”

He sighs and nods, “Coming right up.”

“Thank you. See, that wasn’t so hard.” You roll your eyes and look around. You spot a guy hanging over the banister, but it wasn’t his looks that caught your attention, it was the fact that you knew his blood probably tasted so good.

“Thank you.” You huff as you snatch your glass from the bar and stand up. You make your way up the steps, your eyes staying on his, just like his were on you.

You walk up next to him and he turns, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this moment right here?”

You smirk, taking a sip through your straw, “Seen you looking at me. What? Didn’t expect me to be this forward?”

He shakes his head, “No, not really. Girls from around here aren’t like that. Always playing hard to get.”

“Mm.” You shrug, “Well, lucky for you.. I’m not from here. I’m from a little town, about an hour and a half away. Nothing fancy.”

“Tiegen Mills?” He raises a brow, “Isn’t that place crawling with supernatural?”

“Those are all just myths..” you raise your brows, “Your name?”

“Oh, Zander.” He extends his hand out and you take it, nodding your head, “Serina, and yes. Tiegen Mills.” You lean in, inhaling his scent, “You smell delicious.”

He chuckles, “Oh, well, thanks. It’s a new cologne I-“

“I wasn’t talking about that, Zander.” You smirk, staring into his eyes, “Follow me.”

He takes your hand into his and you lead him to a small supply room, pushing him in before you follow.

“What.. did you mean then?” He asks with a nervous chuckle and you walk up to him, smirking in the dim lighting, “I meant the blood coursing through those veins of yours.”

You lick your lips, cutting him off from speaking, “Don’t move, don’t make a sound. Just let me have a taste.”

You waste no time sinking your teeth into his neck, sucking and pulling the blood from punctured veins.

You spin him around, pushing him against the wall as you continue to siphon.

You hear the door open and you instantly know who is standing there, “What did I say?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to make sure you’re okay.”

You look over at Colby, picking the blood from your lips, “How’d you find me?” You watch as Colby steps in, sighing as he closes the door, “Can you let your little friend go before we have this conversation?”

“What? You don’t want any?” You smirk, pulling away from the guy standing there in silence, “Come on, it’s so good.”

“I’m fine.” Colby shakes his head, “Let him go, and we can go somewhere to talk.”

“Talk?” You scoff, “I don’t need to talk. I’m doing just fine.”

“Are you?”

You squint your eyes at him, “Yeah, Colby. Underestimate me. That’ll be fun.” You turn back to finish your job and you feel a hands on your waist before your thrown back into the wall.

“What the fuck?” You watch as Colby bites his wrist and pushes it to Zander’s lips. Once he pulls his wrist away, he wipes off his neck and looks into his eyes, “You won’t remember any of this. You’ll forget her. Go home.”

Zander walks away, leaving you in the supply closet alone with Colby.

“Again. What the fuck, Colby?” You look at him and he shrugs, “You’re getting sloppy, y/n. Coming to a busy club with multiple potential witnesses?” He scoffs, “Thought you were better than this.”

“Fuck you. I don’t need a babysitter. I was going to heal him, well.” You smirk, “That was until you barged in and interrupted my moment.”

“You were going to kill him.” Colby states and you laugh, “Yeah.” You breathe out, “I was.” You glance towards the door, “Where’s your backup partner, Sam? He come along, too?”

Colby shrugs and you groan, “Let’s just get down to it. Are you guys here to stake me? Shoot me with a tranquilizer to drag me back home and drain me until I’m ready to turn everything that you want me to feel back on?”

He raises his brows, “God, you are bitchy when you’re like this.”

You smile, “That’s gotta be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, okay.” He rolls his eyes, “so where you headed next? You’re just going to leave everything and everyone behind like they don’t mean anything?”

You purse your lip, staring at him like he should already know the answer to that question, “Um, yeah pretty much. Do I need to spell it out for you or something?”

He clenches his jaw and you smirk, “Aw.” You tilt your head, “Am I finally getting under that skin or yours?”

“No you’re just pissing me off.”

“Well.. then.. why don’t we go somewhere else and take care of that?” You walk up to him, “I’ve always liked you, Colby. Well.” You scoff, “That was until you decided to ruin my plan of running away from everything.”

“See, you know what you’re doing, so why can’t you just-“

“I never said I didn’t? God, Colby. I turned off my humanity. I didn’t become stupid.” You walk over to the door and Colby vamps over to stand in between you and your only exit route, “You need to flip it back on.”

“Or what?” You raise your brows, “You’re going to leave me? Please, that would just be easier on m-“

Colby cuts you off with a kiss - a rough, kiss.

He pushes you back into the wall, his teeth sinking into your lower lip, “Is this what you want?” He leans back as his hands move to undo your jeans, “For me to fuck your humanity back into you?”

You bite your lip, “I mean.. you can try, but I’m telling you right now, it’s going to take a lot more than this one time to even get me to budge.”

“We got all the time in the world, y/n.”

His lips crash back onto yours as you work to undo his belt, followed by his jeans. You switch to your own, kicking them off as he pushes his down, “This isn’t-“

“Shut up.” You cut him off by pulling him back in for a kiss. You jump up, his arms catching your legs and you feel the rip of his cock slide into you. You tilt your head back, a moan leaving your lips as he thrusts in fully.

Your fingers slip under the collar of his jacket and your nails dig into his skin, “Fuck, Colby. Just like that.”

You look down at him, your jaw staying open as your eyes lock onto his. He groans lowly, his hand pressing into the wall by your head, “Not how I wanted to do this, y/n.”

“Can you just.. not talk for five minutes.” You huff as you slide your hand up to the hair on the nape of his neck, pulling hard has he rails into you from below.

Colby clenches his jaw, his fingers digging into your hip hard, “Fuck.”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” You smirk as your head rests back against the wall, “Feels so fucking good.”

Colby leans in, attaching his lips to your neck and sucking, which warns more moans from you, “Should have done this sooner, Colbs.” You look down at him with a smirk, “You know what you’re doing.”

“Flip it back on and we can do anything you want.”

“You’ll do it anyway.” You smirk, “I know how much you like me.”

“And I know how much you like me.” He tilts his head, his thrusts coming to a stop, “Why won’t you turn it back on?”

“Can’t this wait?” You glance down, “Kind of in the middle of something.” You smirk, “I mean, doesn’t really matter anyway, you stop now and I’m sure I can find some other-“

In one swift motion, you’re on your back on the floor, Colby railing into you once again.

You moan loudly, your legs tightening around his waist, “Jealous?”

“I just hate you using shit against me when you clearly know how I feel.” He crashes his lips onto yours, muffling your moans with his own, “Just stop this. Come home to me.”

You don’t say anything. You just squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm rolls, your moans becoming louder as his thrusts guide you through.

Colby finishes after, his cock twitching inside of you as you lay there breathing heavy.

He grabs your chin, turning your head towards him, “I don’t want to have to hurt you, y/n.”

“So then don’t. Just accept that this is who I am now?” You sit up as he moves off of you, standing up to put your pants back on, “Literally not that hard.”

Colby scoffs, following it up with a laugh, “If you had your humanity, you’d know that this is hell for me, y/n.”

“So why didn’t you say anything sooner? You know, maybe this is your fault. Did you ever think about that? Maybe if I had you telling me how much you actually loved me and didn’t just treat me like a friend most of the time, maybe this could have been avoided.”

“Yeah because this is everyone else’s fault but your own.” Colby buckles his belt, “No one forced you to turn it off. No one-“

“Look, this has been a great rendezvous, and all.. but I’ve clearly made up my mind, and if you can’t accept that.. than..” you shrug, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Colby walks up to you, his hands on your hips, “Don’t do this to me. Please. Im sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, believe me, I should have. I shouldn’t have pushed those feelings down.”

You bring your hands up to cup his cheeks, giving him a smile before twisting his head. You drop his body to the ground, along with your smile and step over it.

You open the door, looking to your left to see Sam push himself up off the banister.

You close the door and look back at him with a smirk, “He’ll wake up in a few hours.”

You see Sam’s expression change into a form of worry and then you were gone.

Onto the next place.

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A few days later, you decided to turn your phone on again. Honestly, you were having too much fun to even remember you turned it off to begin with.

You see a bunch of old texts flowing in, missed called and what not.

You smirk as you read over Colby’s recent text, If you think snapping my neck is going to stop me from helping you, you’re mistaken.

You roll your eyes, tossing your phone onto the bed of your hotel room. You look at the girl sitting frightened in your chair, unable to move or speak.

You bend down, “Answer my questions and only my questions.”

She nods and you tilt your head, “What’s your name?”

“Hannah.”

“Hannah.” You repeat as you brush her hair away from her neck, “How old are you?” You glance back up at her from the pulsing vein in her neck.

“Twenty eight.”

“Twenty eight. Hmm. You have so much life ahead of you.” You smirk, “I’ll tell you what. You give me what I want, and since I’m not a total monster, I’ll let you go?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.” You lean forward, biting into her neck. You groan at the taste of her blood hitting your tongue, “You taste.. so good, Hannah.”

You feel her body twitch and tense under your grip and you lean back, “Feel okay?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” As you lean in, a knock on the door stops you from continuing and you sigh, “I swear to god.”

“Open up.” Colby’s voice rings through your ears, “Or I’ll bust the door down.”

“Can’t you just take a fucking hint?” You stand up, biting into your wrist and pressing it to Hannah’s lips, “God, breaking your neck wasn’t enough?”

“You read my text, so you should know my answer to that, sweetheart.”

You scoff, pulling Hannah to her feet, “Forget everything that happened here.” You push her towards the door, “Go away.”

She walks to the door and leaves. Colby stops it from shutting and walks in, “Wow. Nice room.”

“Listen, unless you came here to..” you tilt your head, bringing you hands up to apply air quotes, “Fuck the humanity back into me..” you shake your head, dropping your hands, “You can go.”

Colby shrugs, lifting his shirt from his body, “If you say so.”

You vamp to him, your hands sliding up his bare torso, “You really are hot.” You look up at him and he smirks, “Yeah, so are you.”

He goes in for a kiss but you push him back, “This is too easy. What trick are you trying to pull?”

He shrugs, “No tricks, y/n. If you want to be this person, I can live with it.”

“This seems too easy. Seriously, Colby. If I find out you’re trying to pull something, I’ll literally kill you.”

He chuckles, “Yeah yeah, not like you haven’t tried before.” He walks over to you, pushing you back onto the bed, “Just shut up and let me fuck you.”

You raise your brows, biting onto your lip as he crawls up your body. He pulls your shirt up with his teeth before kissing over your bare skin.

Your breath hitches as he bites down and you pull him up to kiss him.

He pushes down your sweats and you kick them off as quickly as you can while he pushes down his pants, “Can’t stop thinking about you.”

“In a sex way, or you’re worried about me way?”

“Both.” He kisses back your jaw and reaches down to draw circles over your clit, “You just felt so good around me yesterday, had to find you for more.”

“Mm.” You smirk, “A part of me doesn’t believe you.”

“Yeah?” Colby moves down your body, lifting your legs to lay over his shoulders, “Let me just.. spell it out for you then.”

You watch as his head dips down between your thighs, gasping out as his tongue swirls around your clit, “Fuck.”

Your fingers lace through his hair, tugging as he makes his way down to slip his tongue inside of you.

You moan loudly as your back arches off the bed, “Fuuuck, Colby. So fucking good.”

He looks up at you and your lips part, panting as his tongue works to get you to believe him.

Your eyes roll back as you feel yourself coming undone, “Shit, shit.” You pull his hair harder, moaning out louder as he guides you through your high before pulling away.

He crawls up, but you quickly flip him over to straddle him. Your brows furrow and your nails dig into his chest as you sink down onto him, quickly getting into a rhythm of bouncing your hips.

His hands grip your waist and his lip pulls between his teeth as he groans deeply, “Fuck, baby. Just like that.”

You look down at him, “Don’t do that. I don’t want you getting attached.” You shake your head, tilting it as you moan out, “I’m still pissed at you.”

“That’s fine, you can be pissed at me all you want. Doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.” His grip tightens, “If you haven’t noticed, I’m relentless when it comes to you.”

“No, you just don’t want me dropping bodies and having our secret discovered.” You roll your eyes, “Please.”

Colby thrusts upward, earning a whine from your lips, “Imagine how good this would be if you had your emotions back on, y/n.”

“I don’t want to imagine anything, Colby.” You slam your hips down, “Fuck, I’m so close again.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just allows you to fuck yourself on him.

“Fuck, fuck.” You tilt your head back, moaning loudly as your walls squeeze around him. Your nails drag down his chest as you roll your hips, guiding yourself through your own high.

“My turn.” Colby moves you onto the bed, flipping you over onto your stomach. He pulls your hips up, instantly sliding back into you.

You grip the blanket beneath you, moaning out as his thrusts aren’t anywhere close to being gentle.

His hand comes down with a hard crack to your ass and you moan out, “Again.”

He chuckles lowly and doesn’t again, same spot, which earns a whimper from you, “Fuck, Colby.”

His hand slides up into your hair, gripping tightly to pull your head back. He leans forward, looking down at you, “What will it take for you to give up, turn it back on? Hmm.”

You roll your eyes, averting your stare away from him, “Why won’t you just give up already?”

“Because.” He leans down to whisper into your ear, “I love you, and I want nothing more than a life with you.”

You scoff, throwing your hips back to meet his, “Shut up.”

He sighs, moving back to grip both of your hips with his hands, “It’ll be rough at first but I promise to be there.”

“Mhm.” You bite down on your lip, fighting back giving him any satisfaction through your moans. He pulls you back to meet each of his thrusts, making it harder for you to continue fighting.

“Just flip it back, baby.”

“Colby.”

“C’mon. We can have a good life.”

You bend down, burying your face into the bed to moan. Your curses are muffled by the thick comforter and soon enough you feel Colby twitch inside, coating your walls with his cum.

He pulls out and flops down next to you.

You lay down and look over at him, “We can have a good life just how it is. No strings attached. You not trying to make me go back to the hellhole of a town.”

“You don’t want to face that Raya is gone. I get that. But having your humanity off isn’t helping anyone, y/n.”

You stare at him, “It’s helping me, and aren’t I the most important person in my life?”

“Well yeah, but-“

“Then problem solved. I’m happy now.” You move to stand up, “I’m going for a shower. You gonna be here when I get out?”

“Do you want me to be?” He sits up and you shrug, “I don’t really care what you do, Colby.” You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

After your shower, you walk back out, “You’re still here. I am not surprised at all.” You roll your eyes and walk over to sit down on the bed.

“I told you, I’m relentless.” Colby chuckles and sits up from laying down, “I care about you. Even if you told me to die. Even if you snapped my neck. I’m not giving up on you.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” You glance back at him as you stand up to put your sweats back on, “Because I haven’t slept all night and I could really use some sleep.”

“Fine. Take a nap.” Colby motions to the bed as he lays back down and you sigh, putting on your shirt before you sit back down, “Whatever.”

You lay down and stare at the wall, taking a few deep breathes before you fall asleep.

“Hey wait up.”

You stop, running around to see Raya running towards you, “Hey! I thought you weren’t coming back for another few days.” You pull her in for a hug, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you. The trip was boring, and I missed my best friend.” She leans back, “Please promise me you won’t turn off your humanity.”

“Why would I do that?” You tilt your head, giving her a laugh, “That’s the worst thing a vampire can do.”

“I know, but just in case anything happens to me, I don’t need you going off the rails and making everyone’s life hell.” She raises her brows, “Please.”

You shake your head, “Why are you all of a sudden worrying about that? What’s going to happen to you?”

“I’m going to die, y/n, and I need you to be okay with that and know that it wasn’t your fault.”

You step back, “Stop it.” She reaches out for you but you slap her hand away, “You’re not here.” She nods, “I am. I’m always with you, but not if you’re not you.”

“Colby!” You scream, “Get out of my head!”

You snap awake, pushing him away from you hard. He falls off the bed and to the floor, slowly standing up, “You know it’s what she would have wanted. She wouldn’t be happy with you right now.”

“She’s dead. Colby.” You swing your legs off of the bed, “She isn’t coming back.”

“Exactly. She isn’t coming back! Why do you want to block out the memories of her? Because you can’t handle a little pain? Y/n, I’ve seen you pull a wooden stake out of your stomach without flinching.”

“That. No. This isn’t the same as that.” You stand up, “You fucking lied to me. You said you didn’t have a trick and yet you fucking lied to me.”

You grab the chair next to you and smash it, leaving only a wooden leg in your hand, “I should have never fucking trusted you.”

You raise your arms and Colby knocks your legs out from under you, pinning you down on the floor, “Stop. Fighting it. Let the feelings in.”

“Get. Off. Of. Me.” You say through gritted teeth, “Now!”

“No.” Colby shakes his head and moves to grab your head.

“So.. you like y/n?” Raya teases Colby, “You know she likes you too right? I mean, you guys wouldn’t flirt like you do if there wasn’t something between you guys, right?”

Colby nods, smiling a big smile, “Yeah. Yeah. I just know she has a lot on her plate right now. Her mom leaving, her college studies.” He shrugs, “I’m here for her though. She knows it.”

Raya laughs, shaking her head, “God I hope I get to see the two of you get married.”

“Whoa, hey. We haven’t even had a first date yet.” Colby laughs and she smiles, “Just man up and ask her already. You know she’ll say yes.”

“What-“ you blink, “No, let me see her again!” You grab Colby’s head, “Let me see her again!”

“Y/n.. I-“

“Don’t. Don’t even say you can’t because I know there’s more. Colby, please.” Your voice breaks and you feel tears welling up in your eyes, “P-please.”

“Let it in. Y/n. I’m right here.” Colby cups your cheek and you close your eyes, flipping the switch.

You burst into tears, falling into him as everything you’ve pushed off floods in like a dam bursting. You can’t even speak, your sobs take over and Colby holds onto you tight, “I got you, sweetheart.”

His hand rubs up and down your back as you sob against his chest, “I-I’m so-so sor-ry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Colby kisses your head, “I get it. If anything were to happen to you.. I’d flip it off, too.”

You look up at him, “Thank you.. for bringing me back..” you sniffle, “I’m sorry I put you through hell.. and-and broke your neck and I-“

You sob again and Colby chuckles slightly, “It’s fine. It’s fine. Just relax. Deep breathes.” He presses a kiss to your head, “I’ll do anything for you. I love you.”

“E-even after ev-“

“Even after everything.”

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Sorry for making you guys wait! I hope this made up for it a little bit! I love you all sooo much! Thank you for reading! 🖤 I’ll catch you in the next one!

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

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tj-dragonblade · 3 months ago

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[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

#TJs Fics #Dreamling #Sandman #Dreamling Bingo 2024

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nyoomfruits · 1 month ago

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osctober day nineteen

prompt: immortal pairing: lando/oscar word count: 500w a/n: set in the sink your teeth into me universe :)

Here’s the thing Oscar’s been trying not to think about.

Werewolves have a prolonged life span. Something to do with their regenerative healing and just plainly the fact that they are supernatural beings meaning they live longer than the average human.

But Vampires. Vampires are immortal.

And so there will come a time that there will be an Oscar without Lando.

Of course, that’s still ages away. Years, decennia, a century, if they’re lucky. But he can’t help but feel like he has to cherish every moment he gets. Especially because there was a time, right after they’d met and he realized Lando was his soul bond, that he didn’t think he’d ever get to have this.

It’s rare, werewolf and vampire pairings. Rare enough that Oscar’s never met one. And he’s starting to understand more and more why. It’s not about the fact that werewolves and vampires are natural enemies, or that they’re incompatible, or that they hate each other. It’s because there’s something very tragic about two lovers who will eventually have to say goodbye and never, ever see each other again.

Lando’s life is going to end. Oscar’s life is never going to end.

“Whatcha thinking about,” Lando says, looking up from where his head was laying in Oscar’s lap, both of them stretched out on the couch, Oscar with his feet on the coffee table. “I can hear the gears grinding from here.”

There’s a soft afternoon light filtering in through the big windows of their apartment, the blackout curtains pushed open, and the light hit’s Lando’s face just so, turns his curls a warm brown shade, makes his eyes sparkle. Oscar and the sun have never agreed on much, with the whole vampire thing, but they can agree on this at least: Lando is the most beautiful thing this earth has ever seen.

“Nothing, much. Dinner plans, maybe,” Oscar says, gives in to the urge to burry his hands in Lando’s soft curls by twirling one of the strands around his fingers. Lando lets out a happy little hum and nudges his head against Oscar’s hand, so Oscar gives in and lets his hand run through Lando’s curls instead.

Lando hums happily. “Can we order from that one place? With the-“ He makes a vague little hand gesture.

“Yeah, sure,” Oscar says. “I’ve been craving Vietnamese.”

“Neat,” Lando says, and then leans into Oscar’s hand a little more.

Lando’s eyes flutter close, his breath evens out. Oscar watches the slow steady rise and fall of his chest, listens to the soft little snuffling noises he makes in his sleep, commits them all to memory.

Someday, this will leave him, and he will be left, cold and alone. But for now, he will cherish every single moment he gets, no matter how small.

#landoscar #drabble #osctober 2024 #vamp oscar my beloved

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witchofthemidlands · 4 months ago

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i would give anything. ANYTHING for a prequel or a sequel featuring matthew goode as dracula where he gets to play probably the greatest modern dracula but with flashbacks to see how he turned abigail to portray the count dracula we know from the book. i know in my soul it would be a masterpiece. they cannot expect to cast the man who adapted matthew de clermont so perfectly that it felt like that was the matthew from the books as a version of count dracula & not expect people (me, i am the people) to lose their minds over it. 🤩 that extra 40 seconds or so of content or lazaar on the dvd should not have been cut.

it's past 3am idc anymore. he was hinted but not officially named & was has less than 10 minutes of screen time but in my opinion matthew goode is the best modern version of dracula i have seen in YEARS.

#that extra 40 seconds or content of lazaar on the dvd saved me personally #it was the charming but menacing demeanour it was so count dracula it was incredible #adapting dracula to modern times is something i had only seen done well ONCE before matthew goode #one of the versions i did for my degree it was just so badly executed i mean they made dracula come off as a middle aged creep with no #vampric qualities or very few of them from what i can remember & another version was just a bit flat #but THIS this was ah it was perfect even though it was only for such a tragically short time #honestly matthew goode needs to keep playing adaptations of book characters because he just brings source material to life so well #he was not even named but he felt like dracula he truly did #thank you to all the matthew goode fans who have come out in full force to add such lovely comments to this post you are all wonderful #this also makes me want to see the next two adow books adapted even though they wont 😭#abigail 2024 #matthew goode #one of my rules for adaptations of dracula is that they have to have a vampire dancing scene lazaar had a minute of screen time but i could #at least imagine how that would have looked because of the beautiful adow

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livefromcastledracula · 1 month ago

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Gothic literature fanons I wish would die a death and disappear from pop culture, here we go...incoming ramble.

DracuMina and tragic, romantic Dracula is a big one. It's just not who he is. There are plenty of other vampires who live these tropes. It's not Dracula. It's Barnabas Collins and Louis de Pointe du Lac and Angel from Buffy and Edward Cullen. It's not Count Dracula. Count Dracula is a bastard and his bastardy is what makes him scary and charismatic and compelling as a villain in the same way, say, the Joker or (pre-Angelina) Maleficent is. He doesn't need to be suave or soft or secretly a woobie out for love to be interesting. He is a smug, smiling monster to the bone and we love him for it.

If there's any tragedy at all to Dracula the character it's the vague hints Van Helsing gives that he was once a great man and that man's soul might still be trapped somewhere in this hollow, monstrous husk of a creature, yearning for the release of true death.

But that man is long gone. What Dracula is now doesn't feel any guilt or remorse or compassion or grief. He is, he schemes, he hungers, he preys. He is Vampire.

Okay, Carmilla...well the big one is that she is in any way not a lesbian. Adaptations that make her an equal opportunity seductress. Ha ha ha no. Book Carmilla shows absolutely zero interest in men. They might as well not exist to her. She is ALL about young women her own (apparent) age. There is that vague anecdote about the Baron's male ancestor in her backstory, but at the time 'lover' was also used in a more one-sided context of romantic admirers, of which a beautiful young noblewoman would have many, so it could as easily imply she'd never even spoken to him. Vampire Carmilla, the one we meet and interact with, is all about the girls and especially about specific girls; like Laura.

Frankenstein... oh there's a bunch, pop culture Frankenstein is probably the farthest away from the book. Let's not even go into "Frankenstein is the monster's name" or "Doctor Frankenstein" or "Igor" or "the monster is a mute lumbering zombie" or even the animated with lightning thing...

...the one that actually irks me is the pervasive idea that Frankenstein is resurrecting dead people, or that the Monster is / has the brain of a specific person who just doesn't remember who he is. Even Penny Dreadful did this one! Even the musical did this one!

Nooo, the Creature isn't a frigging zombie. He's not a revived human. Frankenstein specifically says that he can't revive the dead but that someday if his "creations" are successful he might also discover that secret:

'I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.'

Also very worth noting that despite the frequent fanon that Victor used a random hanged man for the Creature and Justine or even Elizabeth's body to build the Bride, this absolutely does not happen in the book, at no point does Frankenstein consider 'reviving' his dead loved ones. It doesn't even cross his mind. He's not Herbert West 😆

Back to Creech, Frankenstein specifically says he made him eight feet tall because human parts were too small and detailed for him to work on quickly.

'Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.'

"...As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large...."

You can't do that just by chopping up a few dead people. You can't get an eight foot giant by stitching together a bunch of smaller dudes. You can't make a bigger heart and bigger bones and bigger organs just by stitching together smaller ones. So what the heck IS Frankenstein doing?

I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.

Okay so we know he IS collecting flesh to use as raw materials, but slaughter houses interests me. This suggests that the Creature isn't necessarily being built of human flesh.

And that makes more sense, doesn't it? How do you build a humanlike body with bigger-than-human bones, muscles, veins and organs? What if you got them from a bull, a horse, an ox?

But here's another point of interest:

...After having formed this determination and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began... ...The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit...

Months. It's taken him months at least to build Creech.

This book is set in the late 1700s. There is no refrigeration and Victor is working out of a loft apartment at a university.

How. The HECK. Is his glorious Creation not a pile of rotting meat falling apart on his table? How is he preserving it?

Does his magical mad science also extend to preservation? That's never mentioned, but I could imagine that it might involve a fair bit of, well, pickling. He does compare him to a 'mummy' at least once.

So...

Book canon Creech is an eight foot tall giant with flowing black hair, nice teeth, shrivelled yellow skin stretched over his muscle and veins, and watery yellow eyes in 'dun white' sockets. He is probably a bit 'pickled' and potentially a chimera built partially out of animal bones, muscles and organs, though don't think Dr Moreau, Victor was TRYING to make him look human and nobody ever comments on any visibly animal parts.

I wish the 'serious' movie adaptations would go harder on his makeup and effects. As OTT and steampunk Karloff inspired as the Van Helsing movie was, that's actually the level of "oh shit that's not a human" I expect from a canonical Creech, just ditch the steampunk cyborg bits and give the man some hair. Penny Dreadful did good with his alabaster skin and yellow eyes, and Rory Kinnear's still my favorite performance of this character, though they could've stood to use some LOTR-style forced perspective to make him Huge. If Creech could pass for a tall homeless war vet with a lot of scars, he's not 'creature' enough for me. There's probably something poignant to be said there about him thinking that his mistreatment at humanity's hands is because he's an inhuman monster, But Actually people he meets think he's human, they just treat him like they'd treat any other large, disfigured, confused, potentially mentally-ill homeless person they'd meet.

But that's not Mary Shelley's intent, I don't think. He's not a revived, amnesiac human. He's something much more terrifying, poignant, and mysterious. He's an entire new creature, a newborn, earthbound alien species, and that's what makes it interesting to me, because ... what even IS he? Creature is born as a total blank slate, he doesn't know what he is. Victor doesn't understand him, doesn't really comprehend what he's created, so he can't tell him.

So there's no-one alive that can, and there never will be, it's not an answerable question.

There's a deep, abiding existential horror in Creech's existence that is dumbed down to 'came back wrong' if he is a resurrected human. If he isn't, what the hell IS he? Frankenstein is grounded in science fiction rather than the supernatural, but if there's such a thing in its universe as a soul, does he have a soul? Where did it come from? Is he an amalgam of all the people/animals he's built out of, potentially hundreds of them? Is he something that came from somewhere else to inhabit this meat-husk? Is he something else entirely? He doesn't know and never will, Victor never will, no one ever will.

That's haunting, tragic, and terrifying.

#frankenstein #frankenstein's creature #carmilla #victor frankenstein #dracula #mary shelley #the modern prometheus #gothic literature #gothic lit #daily dracula #dracula daily #bram stoker #sheridan le fanu

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farfromstrange · 6 months ago

Text

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!)

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #vampire!au #vampire!matt murdock #matt murdock x you #nun!reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock angst #dead dove do not eat #daredevil #daredevil au #charlie cox #carpe noctem

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see-arcane · 26 days ago

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The most screwed up thing about this particular "sexual liberation via undead serial killer" cliche is that in this case main female character literally dies in the process of such "liberation". Which remake now clearly tries to frame not as her own heroic actions of bravery and kindness and unselfishness, but as her fullfilling some of her deathwish and dark desires for vampire and whatever and as something which is now good for her (!), hey look people she's actually happy now. Barf.

The hell of it is that, on the one hand, this kind of framework really can work well in the horror genre. All the most alarming and/or deplorable themes of a narrative are welcome under that umbrella. Horror needs no moral, no happy ending, no healthy relationships. I see all that and it delights me. If I were to take some fragments of Eggers' interview answers at face value, I could really get behind the concept of these characters as he's painting them.

A leading lady who even as she Knows what she's doing is Wrong, throws herself at it anyway.

I could get behind the Conqueror Undone by Fixation.

The Plotting Zealot who Sacrifices Others for the Greater Good.

Even the Sole Innocent Standing/Technical Final Girl being the grieving husband who wanted to protect a loved one even when he knew she did not want him, arriving too late to see she'd chosen mutual destruction with her problematic undead crush rather than staying to live as the good wife she knew she could never be.

On the surface? This is all really good classic gothic fucked up shit. I might even do cartwheels if this was an original film in the veins of The Witch or The Lighthouse, both of which are A+ depictions of corruption arcs steeped in the supernatural. This is Bobby Egg's jam!

The poison comes in when, once again, we see just whose names and plot Eggers has stapled onto these figures. It really is a Dracula adaptation in all but title, because he's following in the exact same bullshit footsteps as his predecessors. These characters are not his. For as closely cloned as they are from Bram Stoker's cast and story, Orlok, Ellen, Thomas and the rest are F.W. Murnau's creations, born in his original Nosferatu.

Werner Herzog could recognize that (even if he got weird about the Dracula cast renaming for ??reasons??) and kept the foundation of the story and characters intact even as he built on top of them. Herzog didn't hollow out the cast and stuff his OCs into their skins to play out his fanficified 2 goth 4 U versions of them. The Count's tragedy buried in his compulsions, the proactive nature and power of the female lead, the miserable tragic result of her husband's unchecked contamination leading to the blow of oh god, we did everything right and the nightmare will continue anyway...that's all from potential that Murnau left in his film and Herzog ran with it.

Eggers' version of Nosferatu is, by contrast, shaping up to be a more elaborate version of Francis' wet dream, just without all the fancy costumes and reincarnation BS. No, it's not Count Chadracula Gary Oldman, but Orlok is still the Dark and Powerful Other Man who the Girl One reeeally wants due to her Secret Gothdark Nature and Long Distance Horniness which meek and mincing little Jonathan Thomas simply cannot satisfy..!

Like. Bobby. You know how to make an original story. You do. This, here, is clearly your story. It has Black Phillip's hoof prints all over it. It has the Lighthouse's cosmic toxic radiance. Every hint and line and trailer so far is painting it all in your very recognizable colors. And I would be so ready to love it like I have your others.

If only I didn't know you had to wring the neck of one of my other favorite stories to empty out its carcass and graft the hide on to your 'reinvention' that is in every way just a goth-grimier cousin to Coppola's take. Fittingly, it's not unlike what Murnau did to Stoker's work. 'I want to do that too, but slightly to the left.' Well, you're doing it. One hundred percent.

And it makes me so deeply, sadly disappointed.

#Happy Halloween have a rant #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024

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thedarkestrivernymph · 29 days ago

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It's The Season Of The Witch!

Mean! Warlock x Witch! Reader

warnings: suggestive themes, mentions of ghosts, briefly mentioning virginity and its loss, degradation/friendly bullying

word count: 2148

The seasons changed—the greenery losing its special glimmer, fading into muted oranges, soft browns and warm reds, while the skies turned gray, swallowing up the world in clouds and starless nights.

It was biting cold again with your fingers cracking and popping as if they were crusted with frost, trembling as you pulled your scarf higher. As always your nose was buried in a book, squinting trying to make out the words swirling in front of your vision, sparking a buzzing and drumming in your temple.

“Mag’, does this make any sense to you? Here— use two wizard spoons of frog slime, three pines, a strand of gold, the tooth of a vampire and a pinch of cinnamon— do they think I am rich or sumthing? Besides what is a wizard spoon? What does the professor want from me, ugh!” you groaned, visibly agitated, trembling, even though you adored a woollen pullover and a thick fur blanket wrapped around your figure, your dorm was still biting cold—and the cause was clear; the broken window facing the courtyard of the most prestigious wizarding school in the nation “The thirteen wonders” after the thirteen base rules of being a witch.

Sighing you let the lid of the heavy book in your arms fall shut, allowing dust to blow at your face, the howling wind mocking your misery as chuckling reached your sensitive eardrums, you were certain that it was one of the many spirits haunting this school—they loved to humiliate and mock students whenever they could. God since the window broke the protective charm had been broken and some cheap duct tape, and an inexperienced witch such as yourself failed to fix it, which is why you had to dreadfully wait two weeks until it could be repaired.

“Mag—Mag! Magnus!” you called out again, huffing at the lack of response from your familiar, annoyed by his ignorance of you—as he did painfully often, tricking you, pranking you, jesting at your expense, sometimes you wondered if he was a fiend disguised as a friend.

Still no response, not even a soft flitter of paws across the old moaning tiles—nothing. Something hot and flashing suddenly cursed through you, a certain unease settling deep in you, it wasn't unusual for him to ignore you, yes, but you couldn't sense him, that was everything but normal. Rising to your feet ever so slowly, you were quick to grab your wand, fuzzy socks gliding over the floors. No one expect you was here—alright perhaps a few other students scattered around in different rooms all around the huge castle that was your school—yet no one in your year was present, no creaking of tiles, no thuds of footsteps, no laughter, no screams, no cries. Well it was to be expected, it was afterall autumn break, with Halloween just around the corner; a national holiday in the wizarding world. But with no place to go, you had been forced to stay here all alone—well with your familiar who now had suspiciously disappeared.

“Mag?” you called out again shakily, hot panic surging through your veins, face reddening as your heart threatened to burst out of your chest—there would be no one to hear you scream if something tragic had actually happened, no one to aid you in this wing of the building. Approaching the door to the hallway, you took another choked breath, lungs too deflated to properly fill up enough to avoid making your head all fuzzy. Clutching the iron doorknob, wand pointed sharply at the door, you ever so slowly, challenging a snail’s pace, twisted the handle and cracked a split of the door open to peek out with one eye. Judging it safe enough, you pushed the door open all the way, only to stagger the moment you were met with the sight of a stranger.

“Sup’ witchy.” exclaimed the tall shadowy figure of a man, dark locks trailed down his shoulders to his elbows—while his eyes were two piercing jewels of green, glimmering with the familiar silver of something devious in them, that you were certain you knew.

Nevertheless you shrieked-“Stay back!” and attempted to slam the door back in place, only for a large, clawed hand to forbid you from doing so. The corner of his plush lips curled into a toothy grin, pointed teeth showcasing in the display of mischief.

“Ya’re such an airhead, gosh. Were you fed marbles instead of peas as a kid? Why’d ya got that scowl on your face for? It’s me. Your Mag’.” he clicked his tongue in annoyance, an oddly shaped one at that, as was everything about him—more feline than human—but that wouldn't mean that menacing figure was actually your adorable Mag’, right? Magnus was a lithe black cat, with sleek sloped shoulders, piercing greens for eyes and a sharp tongue—he would never stop taunting you in your head. Well the stranger in front of you definitely had that in common with him.

You huffed, rolling your eyes, less defensive, more annoyed than anything, keeping your wand pointed at his chest as a not so subtle warning. “Yeah, so you're Mag’ huh? Newsflash you intruder, Mag’ is a cat that barely reaches up to my knee. If you wanted to lie, you could have at least claimed to be a human, not a cat! Now speak or I will hex your entire bloodline!” you growled lowly, trying out a tactic to intimidate the man clad in black in front of you, obviously a powerful wizard—powerful enough too see through your little guise.

“Oh, witchy. Amusing as always—ya really don't believe ya old ‘pal? I have been your familiar since seven full moons—and that's how you thank me? I am offended.” the man who claimed to be your familiar uttered, bulky arms easily peeling open the door, the rusty hinges crying out in pain as you stumbled back horror painting your face white as a sheet of paper.

“You're not Mag’ stop it! Get out! Right now! Or I will hex you! I am a powerful witch afterall—” his laughter cut you short, your display of bravery faltering as he pushed the wooden door gently close behind him, locking it, ensuring no one would disrupt the both of you. “A powerful witch? Sweety, you're everything but that. Ya are clumsy, forgetful, ditzy, naive, on the dumber side most definitely—” he listed off everything Mag’ usually teased you about, as malicious as the man in front of you, but—it couldn't be actually him, right?

“No—hey—wait, what? How do you know so much about me, you creep!” you demanded voice booming—not even the whistle of the breeze nor the usual giggles of ghosts long disintegrated into the air, only remnants remaining, could be heard—everything was dead silent, a gruesome foreshadowing along with the sick churn of your gut, screaming at your to run.

“Cuz’ I’m Mag’ witchy, duh. You're really dense sometimes y’know?” he chuckled, tilting his head to the side to stare at you as if you were the crazy one here.

“Then prove it! Tell me something only Mag’ could know!” you raised your wand higher, squinting, until your features morphed into a deep distrusting grimace, awaiting for him to speak up and prove himself a liar.

“Oh? Doll— ya really want me to dig up all the dirt I have on ya?” he cocked a brow up arrogantly, strong arms folded over his chest, shirt so tight it clung to each bump and dent of his muscular form.

“Alright, game’s on,” he grinned “Ya loathe your history teacher, you always call her an old hag, despite the fact that she's y’know, just thirty-two, but whatever witchy. And ya hate that one girl’s gut, the one two grades under you, just cuz’ she's got a picture perfect family. But actually her dad's an alcoholic and mommy’s got an twenty year old lover, but whatever dolly, unnecessary details, am I right?” he chuckled softly, the tone rich like velvet, pulling you under a spell, as you stumbled back, sinking onto your bed with your mouth agap, bewildered by just how much he knew.

He quirked a brow at you, staring at your wand still directed at him like an arrow ready to plunge into his blackened heart.

“Still not enough? Alright, anything for ya, doll,” he muttered, sighing as he looked down at you, seeing you sink into piles of furs and wools, decorated with autumn colours—which just fit you so fucking well, he had to bit down on the inside of his cheek “Ya hate grapefruits, but love anything with caramel. Every year on your birthday ya receive a sad little single letter from the orphanage. Cuz' of that—magic is ya obsession, ya strive to be perfect, am I right? And this fixation makes ya so fucking jealous of others—you hate a fuck ton of people, doll, slightly concerning, but nothing condemnable.” he was inching closer with each sentence, stalking closer like an animal ready to pounce on his prey—eyes flickering with something that caged your breath in your lungs.

“Ya kissed only one boy your entire life and get all skittish just at the thought of sex. Despite—ya still touch yourself, whenever your roommate brings over a boy to fuck, like the little fucking pervert you are? Ya dream of being robbed of your virginity, am I right? And doll, here I am, to do so, after hundreds of years of being caged in that awful body, I am finally free and the ditzy little witch that freed me is you, so let me show ya how grateful I can be.” he leaned down, hands splayed across the fur on both sides of your head, breathing into the shell of your ear, as one of his knees softly pressed into the ache between your thighs.

“C’mon let loose, your Mag’ will take care of ya.” honey dripped from his lips, making your head spin from the suffocation—robbed of air and space to breathe, feeling suddenly hot under all that itchy wool, your head was far too heavy to register all the new information rivaling in importance inside of it. So Mag was actually a powerful warlock and he had been hexed, but somehow you lifted that spell and now as a thank you, he wanted to what—fuck? Huh.

You could feel Mag or whatever his real name was lower himself, textured skin brushing against your cheek, while his sharp claws enclosed around your jaw keeping you in place—squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to ground yourself with the feeling of the wool beneath your fingertips, the soft mattress sinking from the weight of the two of you. So that was how you were going to lose your virginity? To a random warlock you had taken as your familiar—who even was he? The black-haired man definitely was your type, and getting your cherry popped by someone who knew you so well, felt sort of soothing, so perhaps this wasn't so bad.

You felt a playful nimble on your bottom lip, okay so this was it, he was starting now, you grimaced, puckering up your lips and readying yourself for a night full of passion.

Until you felt him shake—followed by deep rumbling laughter that ripped from his chest, boisterous and booming, clutching his stomach with one paw while he kept himself from falling onto you with the other as he slumped forward and over you. Prying your eyes open you stared at him perplexed, baffled by his sudden amusement, detecting twinkling droplets of tears rolling down his cheek from how hard he was wheezing.

“Eh— eh?” you blinked, once, then twice, then thrice, your mind blank.

“Witchy, ya're gold! Ya really believed I would ravish ya, huh? Comedy gold! I tell ya—” he couldn't contain his tears, gasping for air, tumbling over to sink into the spot on the bed next to you, the old construct creaking. “By Satan! Ya really are the most entertaining thing ever! I wonder if ya were just always this way or ya were dropped after your birth.” he joked, only slowly did his choking on his own spit die down, as he curled his hands beneath the wild curls that adored his head, staring at you, tilting his head again. “Or would ya actually want to?—”

“Shut up!” you screeched, red in the face, whacking over his devilishly handsome features with a pillow.

He laughed again—and so came the day to an end, with your new very human familiar having caused you a pair of beet red ears and a deep scowl.

#halloween #halloween fic #halloween fanfic #halloween fanfiction #witch reader #male x reader #male witch #warlock #male witch x reader #magic #male oc x reader #oc x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere story #x reader #x you #original characters #original character #oneshot

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sebstanaddict · 2 months ago

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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 >

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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 >

#sebastian stan #sebastianstan #buckybarnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky fanfiction #bucky vampire au #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 6 months ago

Text

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.

#mike hellraiser fic #mike hellraiser #mike (hellraiser)#hellraiser mike #mike hellraiser fanfiction #henrycavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill characters #walter marshall #hc sherlock #henry cavill sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #august walker #august walker fanfiction #natural fic #naturalfic

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astraule · 1 year ago

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“You’re Not a Monster”

Pairing: Jasper x Reader TW: Blood Y/N: They/Them vampire reader. Word Count: 830 Summary: Jasper struggles with his thirst when Bella accidentally cuts her finger on a present. Edward declares that they must relocate to ensure Bella's safety, and Carlisle agrees. Jasper admits to feeling unfulfilled after the tragic mistake, but Alice reassures him that he is still learning and that it's okay to make mistakes.

Y/N POV:

“This one’s from Emmett” Alice confidently declared as she handed over the beautifully wrapped box. Our youngest sibling, Edward, had finally found himself a girlfriend and Alice had organized an extravagant 18th birthday celebration for her. While I had my opinions about the choice, given Jasper's current struggles with his thirst, Alice's enthusiasm more than made up for it.

As I watched my sister jump up and down with excitement, I was completely absorbed in the moment. Little did I know, Bella had cut her finger on the present Alice had given her. It wasn't until Jasper had already lunged forward and landed on the broken piano that I snapped out of my trance. Without hesitation, I rushed over to my brother and father who held him back. "Jasper, everything is going to be alright" I reassured him with confidence. Alice chimed in, attempting to calm him down and divert his attention from Bella's injury. Unfortunately, Bella's situation was far more severe, with her entire arm now bleeding from being pushed by Edward to avoid Jasper's path.

(KITCHEN)

"Close the door now!" Rosalie commanded. "Emmett, go get him an animal to drink. I warned you, Alice, this was a terrible idea, especially with Jasper in such a thirsty state that his eyes have turned black." While my sisters argued and my brother hurried into the woods, I took charge of Jasper's care. Approaching him, I couldn't help but feel sorry for his current condition.

"Don't worry, Y/N. I trust you to take care of him," Carlisle stated firmly before leaving the room. As Edward and Esme entered, he added, "we’ll have a discussion once Bella is safely home. We'll figure things out." My blonde-haired sister whipped around as she turned to Edward, blaming him for the situation. "Your love for a human has failed we’re probably going to have to move again.”

I have always stayed out of my siblings' fights, but their constant bickering has finally taken a toll on me. I cannot stand to see how it is affecting Jasper. "Enough with the fighting already! Let whatever is going to happen, happen. Why are we even discussing this?" I confidently stated. I am exhausted and fully aware of how my siblings viewed Jasper before. I cannot even imagine how they see him now, after he attempted to kill Bella.

"I take full responsibility for this. It's all on me," Jasper declared, though he couldn't hide the tears of regret streaming down his face. Alice comforted him, assuring him that it was simply his natural instincts and the fact that he hadn't had a chance to feed all day.

"Relax, bro. We've got this covered. Take a sip of this and let's plan our next hunting trip," Emmett reassured him. We were caught off guard by his sudden return, as he confidently handed the fresh kill to Jasper, who eagerly drained it.

"Let's get down to business. Bella's father has safely taken her home," Carlisle announced as he strode into the kitchen. "There's no need for discussion, Carlisle. We all know what we have to do. We must relocate to ensure Bella's safety," Edward declared, his head held low. "I understand this is a difficult decision, son. But it's the only option we have left," Carlisle replied firmly.

“Do we really have to leave pops? I was starting to like it here” Emmett said. “I'm confident we'll thrive wherever we go," Rosalie reassured him. "Isle Esme would be a fantastic option. It's stunningly beautiful," Alice chimed in, her hand still soothingly stroking Jasper's hair.

JASPER POV: (Jasper’s Room)

“With no school to worry about, we can have a blast every day of the week. The beach is my absolute favorite place to be, the sun makes my skin glow, and I just can't get enough of it," Y/N exclaimed confidently as they lounged on my bed. Meanwhile, Alice was busy packing my bags, as she always insisted on doing it better than me.

“I don't know how to have fun anymore," I confessed, sinking onto my bed beside Y/N. They leaned into me, resting their head on my shoulder. "I mean, how can I enjoy myself when I've done something so unforgivable?"

3RD POV:

Jasper's words hung heavy in the air, but Alice was quick to offer reassurance. "You're still learning, Jasper. We've all been where you are, made mistakes and had to face the consequences. It's okay to stumble and fall, as long as you pick yourself back up and keep moving forward."

“Jaz, my dear, Alice is absolutely right. You're carrying a heavy burden on your conscience. But listen, we're not just mindless creatures of nature. Our personalities and souls are what make us truly human, even if our hearts no longer beat. I have no doubt that our souls far outweigh any vampire tendencies we may have. Anyone who takes the time to get to know us will see that." As soon as those words left Y/N’s lips, something inside Jasper stirred.

I’m sorry this one wasn’t as long as the past one, but it was just as fun to make, I hope you guys like it just as much.

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vampire-club · 8 days ago

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Heroes | November 8th, 1983

steve harrington x oc

(this entry contains: pining, yearning, slow burn, teen angst, unrequited love, childhood best friends, best friends, friends with benefits, sex, drugs, rock-n-roll, smoking, drinking, david bowie, vampires, potentially erotic soccer playing, dungeons, dragons, and the incurable desire to be known)

word count: 2.5k

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

from the diary of Sara Henderson: writer, actor, biter, striker, team player, good with kids

dedicated to her brother, Dustin, and her best friend, Steve. may they never, ever read this!

that’s where you’ll find me

November 8th, 1983

I didn't feel conscious until we ran into Nancy in the hallway. Tragically, where Steve goes, Tommy and Carol will follow. People who live in glass houses or whatever, I know. But at least Steve actually likes me. Maybe I’m just projecting but I don’t think he likes hanging out with them much. I don’t. Not really.

Steve snatches the flashcards from Barb’s hands, bringing me back to reality.

“I don’t know, I think you’ve studied enough, Nance.” That’s what they were doing last night. Studying. It took two hours for him to fully convince me that’s all that happened. He must really like her if he’s really this thrilled about not having sex.

“Steve-” Nancy starts.

“I’m telling you, you know, you got this. Don’t worry. Now, onto more important matters. My dad has left town on a conference and my mom’s gone with him cause, you know, she doesn’t trust him.” Steve explains.

“Good call.” Tommy says.

“I wouldn’t either.” I add.

“So are you in?” Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are noted for being out of town often. Steve and I were usually the ones in charge of watching over the house. One of the many mistakes his parents have made. We would abide by their rules. No friends and no parties. That’s it. How stupid could they be? Or it could be asked: How stupid am I? Having the house to just the two of us used to mean something. Not anymore. Obviously. Am I bitter? Obviously. Still, a party is a party. An excuse for me to drink in the middle of the week instead of being alone drinking in the middle of the week.

“In for what?” Nancy asked.

“No parents? Big house?” Carol tries to drive the point further.

“A party?” Nancy realizes.

“Ding, ding, ding!” Carol says. Tommys laugh covers my own. I hope Nancy didn’t notice. Mostly for my sake considering it wasn’t funny.

“It’s Tuesday.” Nancy says.

“It’s Tuesday! Oh my god!” Tommy mocks.

“Come on. It’ll be low key. It’ll just be us. What do you say? Are you in or are you out?” Steve says and Nancy looks at me. Me? Don’t look at me like I make good decisions.

“Um…” She hesitates. There are two outcomes. She comes and I have to deal with Steve being a lovesick fool or she doesn’t come and I have to deal with Steve being a lovesick fool AND deal with Tommy and Carol on my own. At least if she’s there I have someone else to fall back on.

“Oh god. Look” Carol diverts all of our attention. Jonathan.

“Oh, god, that’s depressing” Steve says as we watch Jonathan hang up a poster.

“Should we say something?” Nancy asks.

“I don’t think that would help much.” I say.

“How much you want to bet he killed him?” I’m not sure if Tommy is attempting a joke or if he’s serious. Regardless, I scoff.

“Shut up.” Steve says.

And then, Nancy walks over to him. We can’t hear any of what they are saying. Seems like Nancy is doing most of the talking. His face doesn’t change at all really. I can’t imagine. I mean, I’d be a mess if I were him. If I couldn’t find Dustin? God… They look over at us. What a sight we must be. I offer him a small smile. The bell rings and Jonathan leaves quickly as everyone else starts to head to class.

“I’ll see you later.” Steve taps my back as he walks off. “And I’m sure you won’t be empty handed.” He smirks.

“Of course not.” I say shortly. I give him the same small smile I gave Jonathan. Then he’s gone. Empty handed. That’s one of our many deals. He provides an empty house, so I bring the… party favors.

There’s an announcement over the intercom but I inadvertently tune it out. I’m left standing there alone, looking towards where Jonathan just stood. And for the first time, I wonder if this is my fault. I offered to take him home. I should have taken him home. It was late. I was supposed to take Dustin home too. If I had taken Will, would everything be okay?

Before he left this morning, Dustin passed along a message to me. The Wheelers, namely, Karen, invited Dustin and I over for dinner tonight. Something about how it’s better to be together with all of this happening. I’m not one to turn down dinner. That just means that I don’t have to cook. And I know where my brother will be when I leave for Steve’s house afterwards. He heads straight to their house after school but I make a quick pit stop at our house on my way. Men are simple. When one asks you for a favor, there’s always another that will do it for you. With one call, I have two 12-packs of beer waiting in my garage when I get home. He even threw in some weed for good measure. A little something for me to get through dinner and a little something else to get me through a party. Simple.

Dinner is less awkward than expected. Politely, I just sit there and take bites of the meatloaf. Eight of us fill the table. I sit across from Nancy and next to Karen. Though I’m respectful and typically call her Mrs. Wheeler, she insists I call her Karen. The pedestal I get to be on since I’m almost motherly. How thrilling my life is. At least, this version of my life. Chaperoning my brother to his friend's house, having banter with mothers. At least I’m not in charge tonight.

It’s quiet, which is not normal for this group of boys. I don’t have the ability to focus until I hear Nancy speak up.

“So there’s this… special assembly thing tonight for Will at the school field. Barb’s driving. Sara’s going, too.” Karen turns to me right as I take a bite. I try to chew and smile at the same time. Idiot. She turns to Nancy. I turn to Karen

“Why am I just hearing about this?” I turn to Nancy.

“I thought you knew.” I turn to Karen.

“I told you. I don’t want you out after dark until Will is found.” It’s like watching tennis.

“Since we’re going together it's like…safety in numbers” I chime in, trying to help Nancy out. I don’t know how much she likes me. It seems that with Steve’s plans, we’re gonna be spending a lot more time together so I better start trying to win some credibility with her. We are two incredibly different people, but let’s hope that, in some ways, opposites do attract.

“And it’d be weird if I’m not there. I mean, everyone’s going.” Nancy says. I nod.

“Just… be back by 10:00.” She gave in. Win. “Why don’t you take the boys, too” Absolutely not.

A cacophony of “No” “Nope” and “Nuh uh” erupts at the table.

“Car’s… too small” I throw out softly and immediately hope no one hears me.

“Don’t you think you should be there? For Will?” She asks.

Suddenly, Mike coughs into his milk. What’s his problem? Then Dustin slams his fists on the table. What the hell?

“Dustin!” I refrain from yelling but I shoot daggers at him.

“Sorry. Spasm.” He apologizes. I turn and give Karen a reassuring smile. Mike is now covered in milk and his little sister Holly seems to be frightened by Dustin. Dinner pretty much wrapped up there. Instinctively, I help Karen clear the table. Who am I? Soon enough, I’m bidding everyone a goodnight and head out the door.

I know when to go out

I pull right into Steve’s driveway. As soon as I’m parked, I change out of my nice, mother approved, dinner clothes before grabbing my stuff. My home away from home. Only moments after I ring the doorbell does Steve open the door. Seems like he was anxiously waiting for someone. By the look on his face, it isn’t me.

“What? Not happy to see me?” I pout.

“I’m thrilled.” He looks right at the beer.

“Funny.” I say dryly. “I may not be Nancy, but I’ve got the next best thing.” I push one of the boxes into his arms and move past him into the house.

“Yeah, your winning personality.” I scoff as he closes the door behind us. “Seems you left your sense of humor at home though, babe.”

“Good thing I keep a spare on me.” I grab a joint from my bag. “And there’s enough for two.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

I know when to stay in

I get through two drinks before Nancy and Barb show up. As they walk out towards us, Carol leans over to me. I reach for my third.

“Don’t get jealous.” She teases. So, that is exactly how the rest of the night is going to be. Great.

When I see Nancy, I notice she had the same idea to change. Maybe we’re not as different as I imagined.

“Glad you could make it.” I say as Nancy claims the chair across from me.

“Yeah. Thanks for helping me convince my mom.” She says.

“I am a natural liar.” I smile because it’s true. I hope that didn’t come across as bitchy. Did I mean for it to be bitchy? I could have been way more of a bitch. But why would I do that? She hasn’t done anything wrong. I am a bitch, but I don’t want to be one to her. What’s that about?

“Here ya go, babe.” Steve hands me a flask. Just what I’ve been needing. Wait. I hope Nancy doesn’t misinterpret that. The fact that he called me babe. That’s just what he calls me. He’s done that for a long time. She’s talking to Barb so maybe she didn’t even hear it. Why does it feel like I’m walking on eggshells? What is my problem?

Looking through the trees, I can see the treehouse Steve and I made together. It’s astonishing that it’s withstood this many years. The leaves sway gently and my shirt moves with the wind. I feel the breeze on my stomach. It’s a nice enough night. It’s equally nice to not be worried about Dustin. I thought after last night I’d be on my guard even more. With Will still missing, I should be. But I’m not. Selfishly, I’m more worried about myself.

Completely unprompted, Steve grabs a beer and shotguns it in no time before pulling the cigarette from behind his ear. He would make an excellent court jester. And, I guess, I’d be right there next to him.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Nancy asks.

“You’re not?” He mumbles with the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it. I roll my eyes and cough out a small laugh after taking a drag from my own cigarette.

“Uh oh. That didn’t seem to do it for your girlfriend.” Carol says.

“Oh- I’m not-” Nancy stutters. Man, I can’t possibly imagine this ending poorly.

“I don’t think she was talking about you.” Tommy chimes in, gesturing to me. Everyone's heads turn in my direction. Here we go. Fuck. Me.

“I didn’t know you guys were-” Nancy starts.

“Oh, don’t worry Nancy. They’re not together. Anymore.” Carol says smiling. I turn my head slowly to look at her and she winks at me. This seems to be the funniest thing for her and Tommy. He’s trying so hard not to laugh as I turn back to look at Nancy and Steve. I look at him first, hoping he’ll say something. No dice. Really helpful, Steve. If she liked me before, she definitely doesn’t now. Looking at Nancy, I try to spit out a sentence to calm all of this down.

“I wouldn’t say we were ever together, it's just… It’s nothing. Really.” Eloquent. But it’s the best I’ve got right now with everything that is hitting my brain. It’s the truth. But I just proudly proclaimed that I’m a liar so I wouldn’t believe me either.

“She’s right Nance. It was nothing.” Ouch. “These two just like to start shit.” Steve reassures her. I could use some reassurance right about now, too.

“What would you guys call it then?” I could cry. Right here. I could fall to the ground and drown in a puddle of my own tears. But that’s a little dramatic.

“Carol! Seriously, cut it out.” Steve all but yells at her. I take another drag from my cigarette before standing.

“I’m gonna get something else to drink. Steve, do you still have the-” I look over at him and Nancy. If looks could kill, Nancy Wheeler would have just sent me to an early grave. Why did I have to keep talking? I turn and walk into the house without another word. I walk straight into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. In true Carol fashion, she just had to ruin the night for everyone. Or maybe just for me. Looking out the window it doesn’t look like I am terribly missed. Barb is still sitting alone and the rest of them look how they did before I left. Business as usual.

It was nothing.

After only a few minutes, Barb walks in, her hand bloody.

“Shit, do you need help? Are you ok?” I ask.

“Yeah, I just need the bathroom.” She says.

“Down that way.” I point down the hall.

“Thanks.” She rushes off. What is happening out there? As I look out the window again, I see that the rest of them have ended up in the pool. I think that’s my cue to call it a night. I’m not stupid enough to drive right now considering the state I’m in. I’ll just sleep it off for a bit, get home before the sun rises. But when my back hits the couch, the last thing I can imagine doing is sleeping. My thoughts keep me awake. All I do is worry about Dustin. I think through all of the possible outcomes of his life. I used to do the same for myself. Planning for anything and everything. This wasn’t exactly something that I thought of, though. Lying on Steve’s couch, sad, drunk, and pathetic. Something like that.

Unsure. That’s the word. I am unsure. A feeling I’m surprisingly unfamiliar with. I pride myself on knowing a lot, and being confident in what I know. But at this current moment, I can’t help but feel the opposite. It’s him. Steve is the only person who can make me feel unsure of myself. The idea of that is almost… comforting. At least it’s in his hands. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with that amount of power over me.

but you never told me ‘bout the fire

#stranger things #steve harrington #dustin henderson #stranger things fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x original character #steve harrington x henderson!oc #steve harrington x oc #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington x reader

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mayhemchicken-varneyposting · 3 months ago

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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.

#ask #meta #varney the vampire #dracula #varney spoilers #dracula spoilers #sir francis varney #clara crofton #sir george crofton #ringwood #dr. north #The Mob #jonathan harker #mina harker #count dracula #van helsing #lucy westenra #this is a rymer hate blog #sorry for writing a Book i got excited

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