#at first i was like 'why is half the fandom thirsting over an old man'

[cachien]

my stupid dumb laptop has the disk write speed of a computer that hasn't turned off since 1997 and can't run veilguard but i keep seeing posts about davrin x lucanis and about emmrich and my plans to romance davrin are flying out the window every time i see that spindly old man pine after rook in some fashion

[proper-goodnight]

Behind the Curtain Pt. 1

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

The late afternoon sun bathed the small two-story beach house in a golden hue, long shadows casting across the porch with the waning sun. Sierra Six, Six now, sat on the uppermost step, watching with some kind of anticipation as the waves crashed against the shore. He didn’t know exactly what he was expecting, what he anticipated. The debacle in Prague had been months ago now with no sign of the CIA since, but somehow, he got it in his mind that they could or would eventually wash in with the waves, burst through the swaying palm trees and occasional bougainvillea and take him, kicking and making obscene hand gestures on the way back.

The lingering unease never ceased to gnaw at him. As much as he reveled in his little makeshift family, proving more than once that he was Claire’s safe harbor, the specter of the CIA constantly loomed. They were relentless, their methods perhaps having changed where he was concerned, but their thirst for control had not. It bothered them that he had gotten away he knew, and that he’d taken so many of them when he’d gone. The secrets that he carried, the enemies that he had made didn’t just vanish with a change of scenery. Each day, he felt the weight of those past decisions pressing down, and he could never shake the feeling that they were watching, biding their time. 

It was why he slept when Claire didn’t, why he always kept one eye and ear open, ready to delve back into his old instincts as soon as the moment presented itself. Claire’s life wasn’t negotiable, and they had overstepped when they’d taken her away in the first place.

Behind him, the scent of salt and jasmine wafted through the door, common where the house was concerned, and only sometimes disrupted by the blaring of Claire’s favorite records. 

The contrast was steep. Once, he’d constantly been on the move, watching his back; he maneuvered through every possible scenario with absolute precision, and he had always been in a constant state of adrenaline-induced mania. The lives that he’d taken had always been without any particular interest or care; he didn’t miss it. 

Maybe once he’d have considered missing the feeling of purpose, but now he was content with providing security and stability to someone who needed it. 

She’d adorned the entire space with colorful drawings and various knick-knacks that she’d collected over the months, glass jars of seashells serving as the reminders of their weekends at the beach. He was not foolish; he did not believe that he could ever be her parents, nor Donald–he saw it in the times when she would pause and think, when her gaze would go distant, but he liked to think that sometimes, he may have been enough.

She’d never talked about it, and in truth, he’d never asked. He’d only hoped that she knew that if she wanted to, he would be there to hear it. 

“I’ve been doing the math,” Claire’s voice broke him from his thoughts, bounding out onto the porch with one graceful leap, the tone of her voice very matter-of-fact; he half-turned to her with eyebrows raised quizzically, a silent invitation for her to continue. 

“For your birthday,” she went on. 

Oh. 

Six didn’t know the last time that he’d thought about his birthday, let alone celebrated it. Court Gentry was dead, Sierra Six obsolete, and Six too new a person on his own to think about luxuries he’d stopped being able to afford. He still didn’t know who he was meant to be in the long run. Six. Just Six was fine with him. 

“It’s almost your birthday,” he corrected her, then admitted more sheepishly, shrugging, eyes flicking between her and a spot on one of the lower steps. “I haven’t had a lot of luck figuring out a gift, but I’m working on it.” 

“No pressure,” she said nonchalantly, completely unfazed by his awkward fidgeting. She strode toward him, leaning against one of the porch posts. Her arms crossed, shrugging one shoulder in a gentle mockery of his earlier gesture. “It’s only a matter of life or death,” she snickered, then quickly added before he had time to consider the implications, or more importantly, completely fell for it: “Kidding. I’m kidding.”

Six let out a low chuckle, a sound that felt warm and alien to him. Claire always had this remarkable ability to diffuse tension and replace it with something else, however momentary it ended up being. That was her gift. She was a pin to a docile bomb, one pull from exploding his very fragile existence. The thought of losing that filled him with an urgency that he struggled to articulate. Regardless, that was enough of a gift to him–the only one he needed.

“Life or death, huh?” He mused, feigning a serious tone. He turned to her, allowing some semblance of a smile to break through. “Last time I checked, I was doing just fine without a cake or a party.”

“Sure,” she agreed without really agreeing. “I’m thinking streamers, balloons, and of course, an embarrassing amount of party hats.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “The point, Six, is to celebrate you, whether you want it or not. Everyone deserves that.”

Just over his shoulder, the waves curled and crashed, sparkling under the last shafts of sunlight. It was easy to dismiss the notion of celebration when he had long buried his past along with the expectations tied to it. “I think I might be the exception to the rule, Kid.”

Just outside of his peripherals, Claire had leaned closer, a conspiratorial tilt to her posture. “Okay, well Mr. Exception is someone worth celebrating. There’s a whole world that loves you. Like it or not, I am the unofficial representative of that world, and I say we’re having a party. A two-person party.” She waved a hand around, gesturing at nothing in particular. “It’s not just about a birthday cake, it’s a celebration of you being here. You know, living. You’re here–present and accounted for–and that’s a big deal.”

“Present and accounted for,” he repeated, distant, testing the words on his tongue. 

“Exactly,” Claire said, her enthusiasm unfazed. “And maybe next year, there’ll be more people around.” She suggested. “Maybe after I finally start school, and you get an actual job. A normal job that doesn’t, you know, involve killing people.” That last bit was a gentle prod, the amusement rippling along her tone until she released a low huff of a laugh. 

Six turned and studied her face, noting the innocent conviction in her expression while her words suggested the complete opposite. 

“And what about your birthday?” He asked.

“We’ll celebrate it together, that way I don’t have to decorate for both,” she decided immediately, hardly missing a beat in-between. She clapped her hands together. “I was already thinking about how we can decorate. I mean, if we suffice just with streamers and balloons We can make it a whole day thing.”

She must have seen a caution in his expression, from the slight arch in his brows. Her artistic habits had turned the entire house into a big art project. 

“You sure about diving into that rabbit hole?” He teased. 

“Art is messy!” Claire laughed again, her bright eyes alight with mischief and fervor. “Besides, I’ll need your help deciding which colors clash the least.” She seemed to consider that, and then, as though deciding he’d be no help with that particular subject, she backtracked. “Or at least agree with me when they don’t.”

As she continued to prattle about colors and possible themes, Six found himself settling into the comfort of their banter, the stress lines of uncertainty easing away. Amidst the chaos of his past, the potential of tomorrow brightened for the first time in a long while. It was too easy where she was concerned, and yet he was still coming to terms with the surprise every time it hit him. For Sierra Six, the man who’d spent so much of his life unseen—this small moment, filled with laughter and warmth, felt like a promise. A promise that he could be more than just a shadow of his former self. That he could embrace the life he had carved out with Claire.

With that thought nestled in his heart, he leaned into Claire’s playful banter, embracing her joy and the idea of celebrating just being here—present and alive, no longer hidden in the gray.

Eventually, he did have to go back to work, and unfortunately, he was proven right very quickly that he did not possess the needed skills for civilian occupations–retail work, maintenance, construction, odd jobs; it was not his lack of basic life skills, rather his ability to deal with people in a way that was constructive. Every single job yielded minimal profit, and every job was finished with the expectation that he would not come back. 

The jobs that he’d taken–the radiant skin of a surfboard shop employee, a fleeting moment as a barista at a local cafe–had all but proven futile. He didn’t belong behind counters or working with delicate machines. His purpose had once been shrouded in shadows and calculated risks, not pleasantries and small talk. He’d attempted to find his footing in the civilian world since Prague, yet every interaction with others grated against his instincts. 

The smiles exchanged between customers, the chipper greetings of coworkers felt like an old suit, ill-fitting and poised to fall apart at the seams. After weeks of enduring patronizing conversations with people who couldn’t grasp the complexity of reality, he retreated. Each attempt further crumbled his confidence, the realization brewing within that this wasn’t the life he could mold. 

Claire insisted that he could do better, spending time with her in the evenings crafting and planning for their upcoming ‘party’, but the funds were running out, the cost of maintaining a beach house and supporting Claire emptying his private accounts faster than he’d anticipated. 

The crux of the issue was simple: Claire needed him. The precarious financial situation demanded he reconsider. Their beach house, an oasis by day, could quickly turn into a cage of desperation if he couldn’t find a way to safeguard their future. Everything he had fought to protect could slip away. Just like that. 

It was in the small hours of that evening, his heart heavy, fingertips pressing against his brushing thoughts, that the itch to return to what he knew best surfaced. He didn’t seek thrill or adulation—he sought provision.

Six knew private contracting had long been a lifeline for those who operated on the fringes of society, a milieu he was intimately familiar with. Discreet and often lucrative, it promised a way back into a world that thrived on shadows, cloaked in secrecy, and ruled by whispered alliances. He wasn’t interested in working for dubious governments or shadowy cabals; he envisioned something different, a balance he could strike. Perhaps taking smaller jobs, ensuring he kept his skills sharp while allowing him to determine the terms of his engagements.

The familiar rhythm of anticipation pulsed in his blood. Just like in the field, there was a thrill in control, a seductive rush in orchestrating the plates of risks and rewards. He could choose who he wanted to engage with, what missions to accept or decline, and he could ensure Claire would never have to know the full extent of what he had to do.

At first, he’d mustered enough self-control to dismiss the idea, knowing that every step back into that life gave the potential of putting him back under someone’s radar, and by connection, Claire. The CIA, as soon as they found any hint of his whereabouts would be on him in a second, better prepared, and forcing his hand to lift more than a finger to see his way out again. 

He dismissed the idea until a letter arrived, addressed to him without a return address, ambiguous with only a short, neatly printed letter inside the address to an even more ambiguous meeting place:

I have reason to believe your name has surfaced. 

I want to discuss a job. Meet at this address in two days. 

Tell no one.

-DM

Sierra Six stared at the letter, the neat script bleeding into a smudge of ink as the words blurred together. He felt an old instinct kick in, the first stirrings of adrenaline that had lain dormant for months, along with the implied threat of being compromised.

And with that singular thought, he resolved to confront whatever awaited him with the same resolve he had embraced as Sierra Six—a man who now fought not only for survival but for the gift of a quiet life filled with laughter, color, and Claire. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The office was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the world outside. Shadows pooled in the corners, and Six leaned against a steel desk, arms crossed, his posture revealing a practiced stillness as he surveyed the surroundings. This world felt familiar yet foreign—a jagged edge of nostalgia reminding him of the insidious nature of his former life.

Across from him, Dani Miranda lounged on the other side of the desk, shuffling some papers in a manila folder. She looked around warily, eyeing every entrance and exit as though she expected someone to barge in at a moment’s notice–nobody was physically in the building, not so late at night, but that didn’t mean that potential enemies weren’t watching, his earlier anticipation of the CIA washing ashore scratching at the back of his mind. 

“This is her,” she said, sliding the folder across the desk toward him.

Six opened the folder cautiously. Inside were photographs of a woman in various settings: intervals of laughter caught on a theater stage, intimate gatherings, and a few more contentious images that looked to be taken through a far-off lens. But what caught him was not the semblance of darkness surrounding her but the twinkle of joy in the actress's eyes. She looked alive, vibrant under the spotlight, a brilliant illusion of life echoing through every frame.

“Who is she?” He asked, keeping his voice steady, the wooden timbre laced with a cautious edge.

“Theater actress. They say she has connections—wealthy patrons, influential circles. Apparently, she’s been overheard chatting about some of the more unsavory deals happening behind the scenes. You know how it goes: whispers of corruption, illegal backing, all the stuff that gets agencies like ours suddenly motivated,” Dani said, finally leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms as if to solidify her stance. 

True enough, Six knew the ins and outs of how intelligence worked, how information flowed through the elite, twisting light into shadow. But there was something about the way Dani spoke about the woman that sat wrong with him: a woman shifting the currents of high society, a stage actress possibly exposing secrets. Six could see how she could be a danger—not just because of what she might reveal, but for his own delicate balance of existence. 

“You’re sure?”

Dani leaned forward, fixing him a droll stare. “She’s already on the radar, and if someone moves on her first… She becomes a liability for everything she knows, including you.” She leaned back, the steady weight of her posture dissipating the tension that had coiled in the air. “I’m just saying that her visibility attracts the kind of attention we don’t want—both from shady players and the agency. If we let this go, it’ll draw eyes, and you know the CIA thrives on information. They’ll soon find ways to connect dots that aren’t meant to be connected.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, the fatigue settling like a heavy cloak over his shoulders. “And what do you want from me?”

“Simple,” Dani said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Find out where she goes, who she meets, and if she really is spilling secrets—or if it’s just rumor and conjecture. If it turns out she’s dangerous to us, we handle it. If not, I can advocate for her quietly. Nobody needs to know you were involved.”

“Advocate?” He echoed. “For someone you barely know?”

“We’ve both seen enough collateral damage in this business.” She leaned forward again, her expression earnest. “Innocent people get trampled if they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t want it to be another one just because they heard a name or two they shouldn’t have. I think it’s worth the risk if we can gather the right intel, especially if I’m getting outside help.”

He considered her words, the weight of them settling in. Six’s instinctual distrust warred with a growing sense of obligation. Dani wasn’t wrong; his own situation involving Lloyd Hansen and Carmichael enough of an example, all of the things they’d tried to cover up; never mind how much of the shit they tried to put on him.

“If I’m doing this,” he relented, “I don’t want any traces leading back to me or Claire. No names, no fingerprints, no trails—deal?”

She nodded, a wry smile creeping across her lips. “Absolutely. You know I’ll make sure of that.”

“And if I find something?”

“Then make it your mission to only gather information,” Dani said, her tone firm yet laden with understanding. “I’ll send you the details later tonight. The usual protocols, waypoints, and routes. If you need backup or more intel on her, I can arrange that too, but you’ll have to keep this to yourself. I’m not drawing any more eyes on this than necessary.”

Six’s eyes flicked back to the photographs. The woman in each reminded him so much of Claire—alive, radiant, brimming with potential, yet obscured by the knowledge that they could both vanish into the background if someone decided it warranted action.

“Okay,” he said, determination settling like a stone in his stomach. “I’ll start tonight.”

“Good.” Dani sat back, her demeanor shifting from serious operative to a more relaxed version of herself. “Once you’ve got something, we’ll evaluate how best to proceed—maybe put a little pressure on the right people.”

Six stood up to leave, placing the folder down as though it carried a weight far beyond the paper it was printed on. With each step toward the door, the gravity of his decision settled onto his shoulders like armor. It wouldn’t be long before the lines blurred between protection and danger. He stepped out of the dim office into the cool night, the air thick with the scent of salt and uncertainty.

In the quiet darkness, he allowed himself a moment to focus; thoughts of Claire filled his mind—a world of dreams and innocence painted against the backdrop of his latest mission. She didn’t deserve the chaos that trailed him, a truth that shot through him with every step he took away from the office. Yet this was the paradox he faced: to genuinely protect her, he needed to immerse himself back into the gray.

The hunt was on.

[da2supremacy]

i understand that this is me and my limited scope but me and my friends say "i'm romancing [so-and-so]" all the time, and after some discussion after seeing your post, none of us view that literally and i'd wager a lot of people are the same way. when i say i'm romancing a character there's an unspoken second half to that sentence, like "i'm romancing lucanis (as my rook)". that doesn't mean that we don't and can't find the pixels attractive or whatever, but it's not a literal "ME romancing" thing.

God I wish I were you.

So I understand fully what you're getting at here because I, too, use that sort of language. I use first person while I play tabletops even when I make a clear distinction between myself and the character at play. But just as there are A LOT of people playing table tops who are just playing themselves in that tabletop there is a non-zero amount of people who engage with any and all roleplaying games as if they, personally, are the avatar. That's part of why all these inclusive character creation options are such a big deal. A lot of people out there are literally making themselves in the character creators.

I KNOW that a non zero amount of those people are also engaging in their chosen videogame romantic interests in the same way they would engage with romantic prospects themselves. It's just very clear in the content of some of these complaints.

The entire thing that spawned that post was the personal observation that people would rather re-write Lucanis' personality and romance completely when the exact characterization they want to give Lucanis is easily plausible with Emmrich or Davrin (Or Neve but this particular brand of rookanis shipper has an esp hard hate boner for Neve). When the game first came out the official Bioware discord had a BUNCH of people who were lamenting that Emmrich's romance was so good because he was old so they didn't want to do it. They don't actually like Lucanis. They just find him physically attractive and they felt personally targeted when he didn't deliver on what they wanted because he was the only white man they found attractive in the cast. If they were just going for what kind of media they enjoyed they wouldn't have felt betrayed that Emmrich's romance was more to their taste and they did not find him physically attractive bc the narrative was more to their taste. The Solas girlies that are thirsting after him MEAN it. I have seen a 5k customized sex doll with Solas' head on it. It's not about how many times you can tell the same lie before it becomes true for them. They literally want to fuck that man.

And like, for the record, I don't think there's anything wrong with any of that. I think fandom is a little over saturated by this particular brand of fan but I don't think it's bad that they do what they do, ya know? I just think that the people who actually felt jilted bc of the pacing issues in Lucanis' storyline might actually enjoy the game more if they forgot about how physically attractive they find Lucanis and went for Davrin, who seems to be everything they actually want. Or just, you know, paid attention to the narrative they enjoyed more than the type of face they liked looking at.

[therealvinelle]

Carlisle wouldn’t want to be human

This really goes for most of the Cullens, Rosalie excepted (I think Edward would last one day without his telepathy and superpowers before this happened (well honestly I think his denial would keep him from ever admitting this but this isn’t an Edward post so we’re cutting this thought short right now before it spirals)), but I see both Edward and general fandom just sort of take it for granted that if anyone offered Carlisle a miraculous human again pill (and I’m just picturing that as some hokey pill being sold on ad TV) he’d praise Jesus and swallow that down immediately, and I’ve to see anybody argue with that so here I go.

First of, if Carlisle were to suddenly find himself human again I have every belief that Aro would materialize and go, “My dear Carlisle has been made a human? How tragic! Never fear, old friend, I’ll fix that for you. Om nom nom.” and then Carlisle would not be human. And I’m only half joking when I say that, because Carlisle has a lot of friends, and while his animal diet is all well and good, if he were to actually do something like this they’d be very sad his human obsession has gone too far and stage an intervention. “We’re doing this because we love you, Carlisle. Now please try not to be too delicious. Om nom nom.” And then we’re back to Carlisle being a vampire again, though with slightly longer hair this time.

More seriously, if Carlisle was offered this miracle pill, then as a doctor he’d probably be less than enthused about it. He was there to see what happened to the Native Americans when the Europeans came carrying brand new disease, and after viruses and bacteria have had 350 years and a globalized planet to evolve, our seventeenth century priest is going to be in trouble. He’s unvaccinated to boot. He also has a completely different intestinal bacterial flora than modern humans do, which I imagine would not be fun for his digestion. This guy would be a sickly, constipated mess.

As for the main reason - why would Carlisle ever want to be human?

Before he’d mastered his thirst, then he’d probably feel obligated to. For as long as he hadn’t mastered it there was always the risk of him losing control and killing somebody. In his early days he certainly would have jumped on the chance. But none of this is a problem anymore.

So, to take the reasons why he wouldn’t say yes in the present day - first of, why would he not want to be a vampire? He is past worrying about his thirst. His vampirism is at this point purely an asset to him. It makes him great at his job. All his friends and family are vampires. If he were to become human again, he’d not just suddenly suck at his job (as I imagine he has incorporated his super senses into his work to the point where he would pretty much have to learn everything anew if he still wanted to be a doctor), his brain would be slow and limited, and he could never see his cherished friends, people he has known for centuries, again. He’d have to start over with another fake identity in a new place, and sure, this time he could stay until he died of old age, but he’d still be lying to everybody he met about his identity. Carlisle is very much a social butterfly, and he’d be unable to form meaningful friendships when he could never get truly personal with anybody.

In other words, Carlisle would be signing himself up for a lonely life of being average if not bad at his work. And his work is incredibly important to him.

Then there’s the fact that as a doctor, modern viruses aside, when it comes to health problems Carlisle has seen it all. He would know better than everybody that even if the modern viruses don’t make him a sickly mess, even if he doesn’t join the statistics of people who die in tragic accidents, he could still get a brain aneurism at the age of 24 and his human LARP is over. And who knows, maybe he had some nasty disease lurking in his DNA just waiting to ruin his life had he lived long enough, such as ALS. But assuming that Carlisle says “I’LL RISK IT��, even if he makes it to an older age, aging is no joke. Dementia, gout, incontinence, the general and inevitable decline of his body - this is the looming shadow hanging over all our heads. For an immortal who has seen countless humans succumb to it, why choose this?

And for what?

So he could have kids of his own, presumably with Esme?

He has a whole family. Rosalie and Edward especially are his children. Just, this guy loves his whole family so much, I can’t imagine he’d throw them aside in favor of some faceless toddler concept. I also don’t think he’d even want kids of his own, but I think that’s for another post. And also mostly a vibe.

So he could grow old with Esme?

Again - why? She’d be just as much an outcast as he, and face all the same health risks (except I suppose for the modern viruses, she hasn’t been dead for that long). I can’t imagine he’d want to sit idly by and watch her either die ahead of schedule, or live long enough to become unable to care for herself.

Then there’s the fact that at most he’d have six or seven decades. To him, that’s just the blink of an eye. And, again, a very unpleasant blink where he loses everything, is less intelligent, and slowly dies.

Lastly there’s the fact that the human he was is dead, his time has passed. Carlisle doesn’t belong in the human world any longer. He interacts with it because helping humans gives him joy and meaning in life, but he’s a man out of his time and this brave new world is not the one he once lived in. He would not in any way belong, and I think he knows that quite well.

Just, the whole idea that Carlisle would want this is founded on Carlisle having some sort of innate worship of humans where being human is inherently better. I’m sorry, but that’s Edward. If Carlisle felt this way, he wouldn’t be turning others into vampires, and he wouldn’t have vampire friends all over the globe. To him, thirst isn’t a problem, and his vampirism means he can save more humans than he otherwise would. The remaining concern would be God, but Carlisle’s life philosophy is that being a vampire is not by itself a sin, so he’s fine in that regard too.

In summation, I think Carlisle is quite happy being a vampire, and wouldn’t have it any other way.

[piccolina-mina]

The entire One Chicago franchise is a mess when it comes to the romantic components of the series. But Chicago PD continues to be the most uninspired, boring, and redundant mess when it comes to their romantic ships and how they display them.

It's as if someone holds a gun to their head and says "let's choose the most basic, young, white heteronormative relationships and smack a cutesy name on them. Fandom will eat it up!" And without fail, fandom always does.

It's bad enough that half the Intelligence Unit thinks they can only date or sleep with each other. It's also bad enough that it further contributes to Chicago PD's ongoing issue with rarely knowing what to do with its female characters beyond specific plots I've come to call the "traditionally feminine womanly plots" and tying them in with a male character where everything about them hinges on their connection to a male. And also that "there can only be one" issue where only one of the female characters can serve as the primary one while the others duke it out for screentime, plot, and relevancy (congrats on always winning Lindsay and Hailey).

But they recycle the same things ad nauseum. For eight seasons, they would rather devote all of their time cooking up romantic subplots that exclusively feature a constant rotation of Ruzek and Halstead. I get it, they're attractive, hell, I'm no stranger to thirsting over Ruz myself, but they're the lotharios of the unit as if only they can be desirable, and it's gotten so old. My God.

They would rather give us these two involved with mostly young and white women, especially their squad mates, then devote screentime to literally any alternative couple.

I mean they have SHARED a love interest. Why? The only ships they have ever devoted significant screentime or development to: Halstead and Erin, Halstead and Upton, Ruzek and Burgess, Ruzek and Upton, Burgess and Roman. Qwhite shocking, I know.

Trudy and Mouch have one of the sweetest crossover romances from the franchise, and it's so refreshing to see a middle-aged couple find love, and yet, they've all but cooled off showing them, rarely give that ship screentime, and it tends to stay in the peripheral compared to the big ships.

Dawson had a romance with Brett from Chicago Fire (another character who gets passed around to the point of absurdity), but they did very little with it, and most of THAT even took place on CF.

They gave Dawson something troubling with another law enforcement officer or whatever for like a single episode, but hell, they still devoted more time and actual arcs to the two or three times where they put Halsted in similar relationships because of course they did.

Never forget that the first relationship that dates pre-series was Chicago Fire's Gabby with *spins wheel* you guessed it, Jay Halstead.

And of course there was Erin and Severide. So pretty. So ... basic.

Yet they never attempted to give us more of Dawson and his wife or Olinsky and his. The women were barely characters on the series. It would've been something.

I don't mind Burzek. Out of all the ships, I enjoy them most more often than not, but it has been eight seasons of will they/won't they bullcrap that they've drawn out. All of these ups and downs. The one non-cop related romance Burgess had lasted all of a second and ended in tragedy because heaven forbid they DON'T put that woman through endless pain.

But they've always remained the second place ship of the series, and it's just... enough. Meanwhile, we started the series with Erin and Halstead monopolizing screentime with their romantic situationship drama, and instead of giving it a rest and changing things up when she left, they switched it out with the Halstead and Hailey will they/won't they. Why?

Heaven forbid Halstead or Ruzek don't have a piece of ass.

Ruzek was even Trudy's choice for a relationship ruse to dupe her father.

In the meantime, one of the most outlandish and unrealistic parts of this series is that Kevin Atwater-- young, smart, just as hot as Chicago PD's golden, pretty, white boys hasn't had a real, significant romantic storyline in the eight years this series has been on air.

In what universe does that make sense? Single, eligible, employed, decent black man? Da faq?

Pardon my bluntness but Kevin Atwater should be seeing more ass than a toilet seat. The fact that he isn't batting folks off with a stick is ludicrous.

He had ONE fkd up romantic storyline in his one "very special black Kevin" episode in season SIX and that's it. Pardon me? Do you know how many of those Jay has had? Twice or more than Kevin.

On a series that pairs up colleagues like it's their mission, they never once even considered taking the Burgess and Atwater relationship in any other direction beyond platonic (and even that is underused these days). I'm not even saying I would've wanted that. I'm just pointing out that it made no sense given their track record to not even tease it. But Kevin is only good for platonic purposes, I suppose.

The fact that they put all their eggs in a potential Atwater and Rojas ship, that never even came to fruition, in season SEVEN of a series Atwater has been in since the beginning when characters like Adam and Jay have already had two relationships or more under their belts by then is ridiculous.

And then there's Voight. He's the lead character and never once had a romantic storyline. If he were younger, you already know they would've went there a few times over.

Yet the closest Hank has come to one is an ambiguous scene with him talking to a sex worker in a hotel room back in, like, season two. Are we to believe that he has never once developed feelings for or even had sex with anyone else since his wife died? He's never moved on after that?

They could easily allude to him being on an ace or demi spectrum if they want, even if I would side eye them for choosing the older character to do it, but if that's the case, they should do something with that.

Even a storyline with a widowed, middle- aged hardass finding love or getting some would be infinitely more interesting and at the very least something different than the same old same old Ruzek & Halstead merry-go-round. Damn, the 50 and over crowd need love too.

And yet Chicago PD keeps feeding us the same bland diet repackaged.

Fine. Burzek has been a thing from the beginning. But after Jay and Erin WHY did they need Hailey and Jay? And if they were going to do Jay and Hailey, why in the mother loving fk did we need Hailey and Adam?

The good sis bagged not one but both of the coveted white boys.

I mean, just for variety, Dawson was right there. Kevin was right there. I wouldn't have been a fan, but hell, it would at least be something different. Much better than acting as if Halstead and Ruzek are the only viable romantic options.

Why subject her to that?

Isn't it bad enough that she's more often than not reduced to being Lindsay Lite anyway? They struggle to give her a presence that deviates and distinguishes her from Erin as is. From her troubled past, and her stage of being mini- Voight and challenging his authority, to this thing with Jay.

Hell, they even repeated a whole job offer thing.

Mind you, don't get me started on how they missed what should've been the obvious chance to make Hailey queer. If I'm stepping on toes, my bad, but everything about Hailey screamed bi or lesbian. She radiated queer energy, but INSTEAD they chose to pair her with not one but both of CPD's romantic male leads.

Why beat this well-tread path yet again?

Of all the possibilities, and all the different avenues they can explore, they just keep dipping into that same well, and it's so tiresome. It's so unoriginal and uninspired. Yes, it's just so basic. I'm talking 20th century shipping... CPD is so outdated with this and it makes it hard to invest or care about any of them, especially if you already aren't inclined to ship within the series as is.

Shock me. Thrill me. Intrigue me. Bloody hell.

[johaerys-writes]

Where Blood Roses Bloom

Fandom: Castlevania  Pairing: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades

Summary:

After Trevor gets grievously injured by a night creature, he and Sypha return to Dracula's castle to seek Alucard's help. The man they find there, however, is but a shadow of the friend they left behind.

Meanwhile, in far Styria, Hector does his best to survive in the vampires' court, a lamb amidst wolves. Little do the wolves know, the lamb has fangs of its own.

Chapter 6: Wolf, is up! Where Alucard is SAD, and Trevor and Sypha are just trying to be good friends.

Read on AO3! Or read the story from the beginning

As soon as the door of his study closes firmly behind him, Adrian lets out a slow, shaky breath. The knuckles of the hand that is clutching his coat closed have gone white, and he forces himself to release it.

Belmont’s eyes on him. The horror that dawned on his face, when his gaze fell on the scars on Adrian’s skin. The worry.

The image keeps playing in his mind in a loop, and it makes Adrian’s stomach turn. Whatever satisfaction he gained from winning their duel now tastes like ash in his mouth. His eyes burn, his throat clenches with something that he can’t put to words. It is shame, and anger, and pain all wrapped into one; it is deep and visceral, woven in his bones. He detests that he feels so helpless and lost in its wake. He loathes that his scars are out there for everyone to see, branded on his skin. But most of all, he absolutely bloody hates the look of sympathy and care that flashed in Belmont’s eyes when he saw them.

He didn’t mean for Belmont to see… that. He didn’t even intend to see him, to speak with him, let alone spar with him. He tried to get away from him, but the man’s persistence is legendary. There’s something about him, something… that makes Adrian feel subjected to his will. Like there’s something drawing him. That makes him want to be around him.

It makes no sense. None, considering that it’s Belmont he’s thinking about, who never wastes an opportunity to get under his skin. That always teases and nettles and insults him, even when he’s trying to thank him for saving his life.

But the look in his eyes, when he saw the scars…

Adrian clenches his jaw and rubs his eyes, just to brush the memories away, those that seem to be burnt behind his eyelids. There’s no use thinking about them, not anymore. He wearily pushes off the door and makes his way to the window. The room is exactly as he left it, the book he was reading left open on the table, and the embers still crackling in the hearth, but there’s nothing comforting about it now. Even this space, the only place in the entire castle that he has managed to make his own, feels foreign to him now, like it’s slipping out of his grasp.

Like everything else, he thinks before he can stop himself, and the thought stings.

He takes his coat off and tosses it over the back of the sofa. As he does that, his wrists are exposed, and the scars on them, and Adrian jerkily pushes the fabric down. He reaches for the bottle of rich brandy on the table and pours himself a drink to calm his nerves. It burns as it glides down his throat, but Adrian welcomes the burn. His heart that stops banging against his chest as if it wants to claw out of it is a welcome change. He leans back on the sofa, and stares at the ceiling.

So what if Belmont saw, what if he knows, what if he cares? It matters not. Nothing does. His past is a burden that only he is meant to carry.

~

The sun is dipping lazily towards the west, painting the frozen winter sky golden and pink. Fluffy white snowflakes are falling languidly, swirling with the wind beyond Adrian’s window. The winter is almost over, yet the last of the storms have not died out just yet.

The crackling of the fire and the soft whisper of the charcoal on the paper are the only sounds in the room as Adrian is drawing in his sketchbook, perched on the windowsill. Drawing has always been a way for him to pass the time, something to take his mind off anything that troubled him. The glass of the window is cool against his skin. He presses himself closer against it, and lets out a slow exhale.

No matter how hard he tries, no matter how many hours he spends sketching, that deep, uneasy feeling refuses to go away.

Ever since walking away from that training room, leaving Belmont behind, his stomach has been twisted in a knot. Every second of their duel keeps playing in his mind, over and over, even when he tries to stop it. It’s like a thorn, sharp and insistent, burrowing deeper the more he tries to pluck it out. The deeper it sinks... the more persistent other thoughts become.

Belmont, teasing him, sneering at him. Following him around like an annoying, buzzing fly.

Belmont, laughing as he slashes at him with his sword, his dark bangs falling over his eyes. The fluidity of his movements, the power. A man this big should not be so agile, god damn him.

Belmont, hovering over him. His body, so close to his. The weight of him, holding him down. His fingers, firmly gripping his wrist. The scent of him, that deep musky scent, filling Adrian’s nostrils. The thrum of his pulse right under his skin, so warm, so near that he could almost smell it, taste it.

His lips, on his own.

“God," he whispers, wincing, "what was I thinking." He lets out a groan and lets his head fall back against the stone wall behind him.

In truth, he isn’t sure he was thinking. There are a million different ways he could have escaped Belmont’s grip, a million excuses he can conjure to justify doing what he did, but none of them seem good enough.

He could have pushed him off him by force. Belmont wasn’t even holding him that tightly. He could have used his free hand to punch him back, and in his condition, Belmont would have been lifted easily.

But what if Adrian hurt him, made his injury worse?

He could have teleported, then, as he threatened he would do. He could have disappeared and reappeared behind him, pressed his blade against his vulnerable throat and win the match in the blink of an eye.

But wouldn’t that have meant cheating, as Belmont said? If there’s one thing Adrian would never do, is lower himself to Belmont’s level. In battle, everything’s allowed, but certain things he still refuses to do. The simple distraction he used is far better than attempting to stab someone in the back, even if it's a friendly bout.

So, really, that was his only option. Wasn’t it?

Adrian closes his eyes with a sigh. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He doesn’t want to think about Belmont’s lips. He doesn’t want to think about how soft they were against his own, just a little chapped. He doesn’t want to think that, for a moment, for a breath, even though he did it purely to distract him, it felt good. The danger of the blade against his heart only made it better.

And if that isn’t a clear indication that he has finally lost his mind, then Adrian doesn’t know what is.

He lets out an exasperated groan when he looks down at his sketchbook, and realises that the abstract shape that he has been doodling on the page is starting to sport familiar dark bangs, a chiseled jaw and a strong chin, and that same infuriating, obnoxious smirk that he last saw only a few hours before.

Adrian clicks his tongue and snaps the sketchbook shut, leaving it beside him on the windowsill. There won’t be anymore drawing for him that day, that much is certain.

He pushes himself to his feet, and for a long moment, gazes at the wide room that has become his study, his bedroom, and his workspace, all wrapped into one. It is bare save for the many bookcases that line the walls, and for his mother’s portrait. Her warm and gentle eyes meet his own, and, not for the first time, Adrian feels thoroughly, devastatingly alone.

A pile of her old journals is waiting for him by her old desk. He walks to it with slow and heavy strides, brushes his fingers over their leather covers. Some of the notebooks he has placed on the bookshelf have toppled over, and he reaches out to tenderly set them upright again.

This, perhaps, might be enough to take his mind off… everything.

Adrian pushes his sleeves up, and gets to work. ~

He doesn't leave his study for two days.

He hasn’t even gone to the kitchen to cook, for fear of seeing Belmont and Sypha. He’s not sure if he can face either of them again, but another day is slowly waning, the sun tilting towards the west, and Adrian knows that he can’t hide in his study forever. The pitcher of water he brought in a couple days before, and the sweet and chewy fruit cake he made are long gone now. It is hunger, and thirst, more than anything, that finally pushes him to put on his coat, and venture out into the cold and damp corridors of the castle.

The castle is thoroughly quiet at this time of day; then again, it always is. He walks down the stairs, half-dreading, half-hoping that he will hear Sypha and Belmont’s footsteps, turning the corner. Yet, even as he crosses the long corridor, even as he passes by the section of the castle where their room is, Adrian sees no one, hears no one.

Perhaps they have really gone away.

He pushes away the sinking feeling in his gut, and takes a deep breath to steel himself as he walks to the kitchen. He wonders if they ever even noticed that he has been cooking for them, and not just making extra servings for himself. Yet, judging by the fact that someone has been washing the dishes and cooking utensils after Adrian is done using them, leaves no doubt as to whether they understood his intention.

The truth is, he isn’t exactly sure why he started cooking for them. It makes no sense, even to him. When he started doing it, he had justified it to himself by thinking that, the more food and medicine he provided, the sooner Belmont’s injury would heal, and the sooner they would both leave. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a perfectly reasonable one. Now, he wonders at how good he has become at lying to himself.

The smell of fresh, cooking food reaches him before he opens the kitchen door.

“What am I even supposed to do with that?” he hears Belmont saying amidst sounds of boiling water, and the rhythmic sound of something being chopped upon a wooden board, followed by Sypha’s exasperated sigh.

“Just slice it in the middle, like I showed you. See? If you do that, then you’ll be able to get the peas out more easily. No, I said the middle, the middle— ”

“This is the middle.”

“I meant lengthwise. This is— oh, just leave it to me.”

Belmont laughs. “What are you going to do? Burn it into submission? It looks rather intimidated to me already.”

“Never you mind what I’ll do with it. Stir the pot, please, I think the stew’s just about ready.”

“On it, chief,” Belmont says, and his words are followed by another one of Sypha's exasperated sighs.

Adrian should leave. He should simply turn around and walk away, the way he came. Go back to his study, and remain there until nightfall.

He somehow cannot bring himself to do that. Besides, his growling stomach doesn’t make things any easier, either.

“Alucard!” Sypha’s eyes light up as soon as she sees him crossing the threshold. There are several pots bubbling merrily on the stove, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat. She pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and wipes her hand on a napkin before walking up to him. “Come. Sit. You’re right on time.” She takes his hands in hers and drags him into the room without preamble.

Adrian blinks at her, then at Belmont, who is standing by the stove, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot. He inclines his head to him in greeting, but Adrian is simply far too surprised to respond— or to do anything else other than let Sypha guide him to a chair by the table, for that matter. She smiles brightly at him when he sits down and glances up at her in confusion.

“I hope you like rabbit stew. Trevor and I went out hunting today. There really wasn’t much game, so it’s more like a vegetable stew with a bit of rabbit, but I think it’ll do. Oh, and wine! I went to your wine cellar yesterday and managed to fish out a couple bottles— or, well, Trevor did. He picked them, and I think they’re quite nice. Would you like a glass? I’ll pour you a glass.”

Adrian can only gape at the torrent of words leaves her mouth. She opens a cupboard without error and picks out a glass, as if she’s in her own kitchen and he is just a guest. The wine they have chosen is a deep, vibrant red, and it is strong and aromatic, the scent of berries and honeysuckle filling the room as soon as she pours it in the glass.

“Try it,” she says, and beams when Adrian carefully plucks the glass from her fingers. “I think you’ll like it.”

“You’d better,” Belmont says wryly. “Finding a bottle intact in that mess was a feat in and of itself. Half the bottles were broken, and the rest were something close to two centuries old.” He turns to face them, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his broad chest. There is a hint of a smile curling the edges of his lips, but he is still watching Adrian carefully. A sharp spike of... something rushes through him when those keen, inquisitive eyes stay on him. Adrian looks away.

“The general consensus seems to be that the older the wine, the better it is,” Adrian muses with feigned disinterest, in an attempt to mask his unease. He turns away from Belmont as he tips the glass over his lips and takes a small sip. It is, indeed, very good. He would have thought that Belmont can’t tell the difference between good wine and stale piss, but it seems the man has a keen nose for alcoholic beverages after all.

“That’s true, generally speaking. It still doesn’t change the fact that drinking wine which was bottled before my grandfather was born is… not exactly my cup of tea,” Belmont says with a smirk. “Now. Anyone else bloody starving, or is it just me?”

“Yes,” Sypha says, pushing up her sleeves and walking to the stove, “I’ll serve the stew, you put some butter in the beans. You’ll have stew, won’t you, Alucard?”

Adrian finds himself nodding slowly, before he can stop himself. He watches them both move about in his kitchen, his pantry, his space, with so much ease as if they have been doing it for years. The worst thing about it is… they don’t seem unnatural or awkward in that space. It’s as if… as if they fit right in.

A steaming bowl of stew is placed before him. It is only after they have both sat down, and Belmont tops up his glass again that Adrian works up the courage to ask, “What is all this about, exactly?”

His question, he realises belatedly, is slightly more abrupt than he would have liked. Frankly, he is far too taken aback by it all to mind his manners.

“Dinner,” Belmont replies, gesturing at the table. “What does it look like?”

“Yes, I can see that, Belmont. I possess eyes. But…” Adrian hesitates for a moment, and Sypha cocks her head to the side in question. “Why are you doing this?”

“We wanted to do something for you,” she says readily. “To repay you for your help. Your hospitality. You’ve been cooking for us ever since we came here, and we haven’t had the chance to thank you properly… or even see you, for that matter.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble. I am not expecting any form of repayment.”

“I know. Yet, we’re still grateful, and we wanted to do this for you.” She gives him a small, warm smile. “It isn’t much but… I hope it is a start.”

“A start?” Adrian asks, and his throat feels somewhat dry.

“Yes. A start. A chance for us to catch up. We’ve been away for so long, and…” She reaches out tentatively, and places her hand on Adrian’s. Her touch is soft and gentle, her skin warm against his own. “We missed you.”

Adrian’s breath catches. Something warm and hopeful rises up within him, swelling in his lungs as he glances first at her, then at Belmont. Belmont is watching him too, and there’s no mockery in his gaze. A moment passes, then another, and no scathing remark leaves his lips, nor does he make an attempt to contradict Sypha’s words, and that alone makes Adrian think that perhaps they were spoken in earnest.

“You… you did?” he asks quietly.

“Of course, we did.” Sypha doesn’t take her hand away. She holds his gaze, the trembling light of the candles they have lit reflecting in her eyes. “You’re our friend, Alucard.”

Adrian can do nothing but stare. He tries for words, but words don’t come.

Friends. God. The very term has been twisted so much inside him, that he doesn’t know where it ends now, where it begins. Part of him wants to disregard it like an empty string of sounds, nothing to be taken seriously. He has been burned too many times before, far too many to still believe that there is any hope, any room for anyone else other than himself in his life. He almost brushes the statement away as inconsequential, when another lonely, desperate, broken part of him stretches for it, tries to hold it even as it disperses before his fingers, like mist.

Friends. Could it be that he still has them?

“I… thank you,” he forces himself to say. The bright and hopeful feeling that had spread through him before is squeezing his stomach hard, making it impossible to speak, to breathe. He turns away from Sypha’s bright, warm, welcoming gaze, and stares down at his food. “Let’s eat before this gets cold.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

[solynaceawrites]

IDLE HANDS

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, fem!Reader Rating: Explicit A/N: This is my first foray in writing reader inserts in a long time, and it was fun to come back to this style! I want to give a huge thank you to @maybeishouldwait​ for encouraging me and helping me finish this one-shot, and I hope you enjoy reading it!

»»————-　⚜　————-««

You’re not quite sure how you’ve wound up here. Logically, of course, there’s a chain of events you can follow that starts with answering an advert in a newspaper to being at your physical location—the Devil May Cry, housed in a historic heritage building—but how that had led to your current predicament of having your boss’ hands fumbling with your skirt while your own try to untangle the layers of leather separating his skin from yours you couldn’t say. Not that you’re complaining; Dante Sparda is, perhaps, the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and the greedy way he nips and tugs at your neck lets you know you’re in for a really good lay. If someone had ever told you that taking a job as a secretary-maid-bookkeeper for a handy-man shop would lead to this, you’d have laughed them off as reading too many raunchy paperbacks.

Or watching too many cheesy pornos.

Dante lifts his head, his piercing blue gaze like a physical touch on your face. There’s frustration within it, and his voice, but he’s grinning as he gripes, “Yer clothes are way too complicated, darlin’.”

You don’t think they are. Nothing you’re wearing is out of your usual limits: a simple button-down blouse, a black A-line skirt, tights, pumps with little kitten heels. Laughing softly, you reach to cover his hands with yours, guiding them to your hip, where a hidden zipper rests. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Uh-huh.” He tugs it down, and you shimmy the fabric over your thighs and kick it to the side. “Maybe I’ll make a new rule about ya workin’ here.”

“Oh?” Deciding to take mercy on him, you’re already halfway through the buttons of your shirt, and you pause to tilt your head, studying him curiously. 

“No clothes.”

You roll your eyes with a smile. “I can’t work naked, Dante.”

“Sure you could.”

“If you want every potential customer who comes through to see my ass.”

He considers that, and you watch the gears churning behind his narrowed eyes and smother another chuckle, letting your shirt join the pile on the floor. “No underwear,” he counters, after a moment.

“Or,” you argue playfully, “you could learn to be patient. Besides, when you’re wearing something like that,” and you nod to the coat and chaps and spurs that you’ve spent twenty minutes fighting with, “you don’t get to say my clothes are complicated.”

“Fair enough,” he muses. 

To your surprise and dismay, he steps back, but your protest dies when he shrugs the jacket from his shoulders. You watch with a dry mouth as he unfastens the holsters and drops them—Ebony and Ivory still sitting on the desk is probably the only reason he’s so callous about it—before doing the same with his vest. Each layer of clothing he peels away only sends your already heightened senses into overdrive; it feels scandalous, somehow, seeing the broad expanse of his chest with the dusting of silver hair, or the trim line of his waist, probably because you’ve never seen him in anything less than sans coat. Dante pauses to gauge your reaction as he unhooks the chaps from his belt, and you nod to let him know you’re still onboard with where this is going. The way he smiles then is bright and soft enough to soothe the worst part of your nerves, and you giggle when he hops from foot to foot while trying to take off his chaps, boots, and spurs in one go.

He straightens with a grin and his hands on his hips. “There,” he proclaims. “Better?”

“Much,” you agree. Then it’s a race to see who can get the rest of their clothes off first, and the only reason he wins, you think, is because he’s got less to worry about, particularly as he’s going commando, a fact that makes your mouth water. You do your best not to get distracted as you let your bra, panties, and tights add to the ever-growing pile of discarded clothing, but, Jesus Christ, his thighs are like tree trunks and the cock dangling between them is the largest you’ve ever seen. Is that even going to fit? 

Dante moves closer, caging you between his bulk and the wall, and you let out a little gasp when his hands cup your chest. Then his mouth is on yours, and you part your lips for him as he kisses you greedily, drinking from your mouth like a man dying of thirst. Your fingers twist through his hair while his own squeeze your flesh, thumbs rolling over your nipples until they’re hard and you’re arching against him, craving more; he grunts when you give a particularly harsh tug to his locks before releasing your breasts to grab your waist. You lock your legs around his hips as he carries you to his desk, and you wince when he swipes his arm to clear a spot to set you down, sending a day old box of pizza and a magazine to the ground. “You sure about this?” he asks against your throat.

You swallow thickly, fighting through your nerves. Sleeping with your boss is probably not the best idea you’ve ever had, but there’s an air of reverence to Dante when it comes to you that makes you feel safe. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His mouth trails over your neck, pausing to lavish the skin of your collar until a mark blooms there, and the scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin has you panting already. Dante gives each of your breasts a kiss before continuing down until he’s kneeling between your legs, and your thought of scolding him disappears with the first press of his lips to the top of your mound. 

If there’s one talent you always suspected Dante had, it was oral. You’d never had a basis for this suspicion, other than the fact that he was always mouthing off to, well, everyone, but the moment he parts your folds with his thumbs to kiss your weeping sex, you know that you were right. He is relentless, alternating between tracing patterns over your clit with the tip of his tongue and moving lower to thrust it within you, and the groan he lets out as he tastes your body sends a blush from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes. 

Reaching for his hair, you hold on tight as he works. It's been five years since you've had a mouth between your legs, too fixated on your boss to even try dating, but this is an entirely different level. He practically drinks from your body, humming against you encouragingly as you start to grind against him. Dante fixates where you guide him, and in the last thought before he sends you over the edge, you wonder if you've ever came so fast.

You pant as he eases up, slowly licking along your labia as he gently releases his grip on your thighs. Sagging on the desk, you press the back of your hand on your forehead and try to gain control of your racing heart. "You ready now, babe?" he asks.

"Ready for what?"

He grins at you, the expression equal parts eager and predatory and making your toes curl. "For me to fuck ya, obviously."

You blink, then let out a laugh as you wrap your still trembling legs around his waist. "I'd be upset if you didn't."

Dante nods, bracing one hand next to your head as the other works between your bodies; from how his knuckles graze your folds, you assume that he's stroking himself, and butterflies set to swirling in your stomach. Part of it is that he's your boss, sure, but the rest is the pre-sex jitters you always get with a new partner: will they enjoy it, will you enjoy it, is there going to be awkwardness between the two of you after or will the relationship continue on as it was? You reach up to drape an arm over his broad shoulders and pull him closer, pressing your lips to his cheek.

He turns his face to find your lips, brushing against them as you feel him press against your opening. Your mouth opens in a gasp as the head pushes inside. He is thick and hard as a rock, and as he works to fill you up it just keeps going. Your limbs shake as Dante pumps his hips slowly, the arm around him tensing as you dig your fingers into his shoulder

His cock hits a spot inside of you that sends a shock of pleasure through your body. As you throw your head back, his mouth moves to your neck, grazing your pulse. But he doesn't stop, just teases you with teeth and tongue as he stretches your body. 

"You okay?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, it's just . . ." Your voice melts into a moan as he thrusts his hips and smacks against the back of your thighs.

"Okay," Dante pants, his mouth moving lower as he waits for you to adjust.

You're half-convinced that you're going to come the second he moves. You've never felt so full in your life, and every inch of him rubs snugly against your walls in a way that has your head spinning, and he hasn't even really gotten started yet. "Holy fuck," you whisper, staring over his shoulder at the ceiling. What have I gotten myself into?

"Mm," he groans, in agreement you think. "Remind me, why didn't we do this sooner?"

"You weren't wearing chaps," you mumble.

Dante laughs as he kisses the inside curve of your breast. "I'm wearing them every day, then."

He plants his palms face down on the desk and starts to pump his hips in a quick, shallow rhythm. It keeps his cock deep inside you, and for the next several minutes, the only sound is his panting and your quick, needy cries. Your fingers trace his chest and his arms until you can feel the next orgasm building. Dante thrusts hard into you, grinding his hips, and the friction of his body against your clit has you groaning his name.

He curses when you put your hands over your head, weak from the pleasure. "Fuck, fuck, you look so hot like this," he gasps, and that gives you an idea.

Keeping one hand curled over the edge of the desk, you quickly snake the other down to brush your fingers over your clit. He pauses, his eyes narrowed as he watches you draw little circles over the bud, and you wonder if you've somehow made a mistake before he growls. Dante grabs your thighs, pressing them up towards your chest, and the first thrust of his hips at this new angle draws a cry from your throat. "That's it," he rumbles. "You gonna come for me, darlin'?"

"Yes . . ." you moan. "Watch me."

His brows draw together as you do your best to put on a little show: it's difficult with his cock driving in and out of your body to stay focused on him, but as you start to stroke your clit with one hand and tease a nipple with the other, you can tell it's working because Dante gives a low groan. "Shit, come for me, I can't hold on . . ."

You close your eyes; it's a pity to lose the sight of his pleasure-screwed expression, but now you can focus on the press of his body and your own playful touch. Because you can't see him, you jolt when he mouths at your breast, panting hotly against your skin. Then he seals his lips around your nipple, sucking it with quick, sharp tugs, and your voice locks in your throat as your orgasm crashes over you.

Dante hisses your name through the haze of bliss. Moments later you feel him come, thick gushes of seed filling you as your release rocks through your body. You swear you can feel every pulse, almost as if his cock is rippling inside you. Your head is spinning from the intensity, but he doesn't stop. You reach up to grab his hair, shoulder, something . . . and gasp when his skin feels like heated metal and his fingers on your thighs go momentarily sharp, digging into you like claws.

It only lasts for a second, and his skin is soft and smooth and covered with stubble when you brush your fingers over his cheek. His hips slowly still, his lips whispering along her shoulder, until the two of you are simply locked together with his body a comfortable cage around your own. The way he nuzzles you is soothing and, on the heels of such an intense orgasm, makes you more than a little sleepy. But the question of what just happened pricks at you. 

"Dante?" 

"Hm?"

"Did you . . . transform? Just now?"

He clears his throat, a noise you know means he's flustered. "Almost." You nudge him with your knee to prompt him, and he groans and presses his face to your neck. "Part of being half-devil. Sometimes, if I get too wound up, I'll, uh . . . trigger."

"Oh." You consider that. "Okay."

"Does it scare you?"

If you weren't riding a post-coital high, the words you say next would have never left your mouth. "No. It's pretty hot, actually."

"Oh yeah?" His mouth captures yours for a slow, sloppy kiss, and when he pulls away he slides his cock out of you, leaving you sensitive as you stretch on the desk. "You ready for round two yet?" Dante grins.

You make a show of thinking, leaving your arms above your head and rubbing your thighs together, and you don't miss how his eyes darken as his gaze zeroes in on your chest. "Do you think you can handle it?"

"Me?!" Dante shouts, and you laugh as he lifts you and swings you over his shoulder. He carries you easily up the steps, giving your backside a smack as he teases, "Let's see who outlasts who."

[symphonyofthewrite]

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch4)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary: “He’s gone mad. And from that, there is no recovering him…It’s a tragedy…He could’ve changed the world. I think he might have, if Mother hadn’t died. “She’d sent him out into the world. That’s why he wasn’t there when the bishops took her…She sent him to travel… “Imagine if…the religious inquisition hadn’t proved true all of his worst instincts about humans.” “And now he’s going to use her death as an excuse to destroy the world.” “Oh, the world will still be here…But you will not be here…None of you…There will only be Dracula and his war council, and the hordes of the night… “Imagine it. A world without humans, under endless invented night. And Dracula in his castle, his revenge so horribly complete that there is nothing left to do but look out over a world without art or memory or laughter and know that he did his work well. That he did it all for love.”

Notes: I decided to capitalize "Castle" and "Room" from now on (and I will go back and capitalize them in early chapters at some point), because that was an easy way to make things clear for later chapters.

Also, I don't usually like to step out from behind the curtain and ruin the magic, but I wanted to make things clear here, since I thought maybe they started to get confusing...the Castle and Room aren't actually talking, and they don't have some human form somewhere...I just wanted to describe them more human-like the more the fic goes on, the more human they're becoming, in a way.

Comments and reblogs are greatly apprecated!! Thank you for the support!!

Chapter 4: “Empty”

The Castle doesn’t like the idea of its master going away.

They have been inseparable for such a long time now; the Castle has bent and broken and been Dracula’s castle for centuries. Its master leaves every once and a while, and he visits the woman’s home. But weeks, to months, to years without him is too long for a mirror to be apart from the thing it reflects. This is a vampire’s castle and Dracula is that vampire; he must stay inside its walls, in the cold and the dark, lest he burn. This is Dracula’s castle, and Dracula must stay within its halls. If he doesn’t…what is Castlevania after all? Just an empty tomb. A shell of something that was once living. A broken toy on the playroom floor, left there to start its dust collection after the child grew up.

Dracula never has to leave, for the Castle can take him wherever he wants to go in a flash of lightning and a rumble of dust and thunder. The idea that Vlad would travel the world like a man, all alone in the light, without his Castle, his shroud of darkness, isn’t right, to both of them, at first.

Hasn’t Castlevania done enough for its master? He is not like the boy, who needs to walk in the day. All he needs are these walls, the blood, and the night.

The woman has a way with persuasion. This was part of the trade, after all, Castlevania remembers. Dracula gave Lisa undying knowledge, and she took the immortal beakers and books—a part of Castlevania—out into the world to ‘do some good.’ (The Castle wasn’t sure quite how that worked, but she did have a knack for making good out of the patchwork pieces of evil.) It is Vlad’s turn to be given a piece of her mortality to take inside.

Lisa assures them that, just as Adrian came back more alive than ever, this will be a better form of life for Vlad too. He will have to be more careful; to stay out of the sun, to ask to be invited, to wear traveling cloaks, not royal robes, to temper his thirst, and be patient with humanity—(just as she has been with him)—but in the end he will come back clothed in gold, and it will all be worth it.

Castlevania wishes it had human hands to hold onto him, but all it has are cold stones, and mechanical bones; it cannot keep him within its walls forever, without collapsing.

Dracula kisses them goodbye with hope in one hand, promises in the other, two rays of sunlight ever in his heart, saying he’ll be back.

And he doesn’t come back that night. That morning. The next.

When Adrian left, the Room understood the meaning of the words ‘I miss you.’ It realized what it was to be empty—that is, in that it was once once full, and was missing something. After all those years, Castlevania too finally understands the true meaning of all those words once used to describe it: ‘lonely,’ ‘dark,’ ‘cold,’ and ‘empty.’ It was those things, it never felt those things itself before.

Dracula may have been cold and dark and undead, but he brought life of a sort to the Castle. He made it breathe, its heart beat. Just his footsteps in the halls was a comfort, a kind of music—be it mechanical and half-dead. And finally he talked to the walls. ‘Emptiness’ for it is was an adjective, not a noun; it was an outfit it wore, not a feeling etched deep within the walls in a place no one could ever really touch.

It didn’t know what it was like to lose your purpose, what a hopeless existence it is for a mirror to be without a reflection.

The Castle doesn’t know if it ever breathed, but it thinks it understands the breathlessness the Room must have felt without Adrian. It is big, and rich, and intricate…and hollow. It’s like there’s a hole somewhere deep inside it that cries to be filled, and can never be as long as its master is away.

But we are not alone, says the Room.

It looks up and remembers this is true; Adrian remains. Their boy. The boy who belongs to its master, the woman, and the Room together. And Castlevania likes to think he belongs to it too, in some way. The boy for whom that death-defying Room exists. The boy who stole patches of sunlight when his father wasn’t looking, who cried when when no one was listening, who brought books, toys, and drawings, lonely vampire kings, and old decrepit castles to life.

It feels cold and dark, dead and empty…until Alucard opens the windows.

The Castle is thrown into a pool of gold, and the sensation is jarring; the switching of states, temperatures so fast. Such a drastic change so quickly isn’t all right with Castlevania, especially when it is so different from how its master always dressed it. It is Dracula’s castle, that piercing, dripping stain that no light enters. It shouldn’t go out in colorful garb, it just isn’t fitting. Though perhaps the jarring change is ultimately less painful than dipping each room in slowly.

It’s that same tail-pulling sensation from when he was a boy. Except this is much worse, because it’s the whole Castle—its entire form—and he never closes them. Before it was just the Room, and the Room is a part of the Castle, so the Castle could feel its burn, but it was dulled there. When he opened the door to the Room, the light slithered out, its scales doused in poison, leaving a stinging trail as it went. But its cage was always in the Room; its venom didn’t remain in the Castle’s veins forever. Now there is no barrier between the Castle and the light, no home for the sun to crawl back to. It has been let loose, and the stones are soaked in venom, like needles all over the Castle’s body.

Its existence is now drenched in sunlight. Before long it becomes like how they painted the Room so long ago, it is a fact of life—at least while Alucard reigns, and the Castle looks completely different dressed in morning sunrise.

The sting begins to fade; the Castle becoming immune to the poison. And, after the pain ebbs, the Castle can look at itself objectively, and thinks somewhere deep beneath its walls, in a place it would never share, that maybe this change is not a bad thing.

The Room breathes deeper than ever before, enough to laugh. Grinning it turns to the Castle, as if saying Feels good doesn’t it?

Castlevania looks away.

There was so much it didn’t notice about itself before. The gold on the carpets shimmers, it knows now that mirrors glitter, and how much dust was on the bookshelves—(Adrian is sure to brush it off)—it knows now why others put pictures on the walls; because the stones are so bare and uninteresting in the light, and the fires are such a aggressive light and heat compared to the soft blanket of warmth over the world, like snowfall transforming all.

It knows now why humans like to go out during the day.

It is a different kind of life. It isn’t like the science Vlad used to make it breathe and beat. This is softer, quieter, warmer. Less mechanical more…real. It doesn’t mean Vlad’s method of bringing it to life was bad or wrong, nor that Alucard’s is good, or right, it’s just different. And maybe different is okay for now.

The boy looks different too.

Adrian’s features are illuminated, his expressions dance in ray and shadow, his hair is like liquid gold draining across his shoulders, his eyes flicker and dance like candlelight.

And he doesn’t burn.

Adrian reads books in the sun, and he practices magic and sword in the sun, he drinks tea and wine—not blood—in the softly lit kitchen, polishes the shelves, makes sure everything works properly, and sits on the balconies and lets the wind brush through his hair, all in the sun, in the sun. Sometimes he leaves to go outside, into towns, to get rid of a monster or two, but mostly he leaves to visit his mother. Even when he does, the world is left in a satisfied glow.

His golden hair and eyes are no longer a bright spot on a dark canvas, but a reflection of his universe. His parents may have built his universe long ago, but he has spread his Room throughout Castlevania, conquered the multiverses around him, claiming them for his own, until the Castle doesn’t know which of them is which anymore.

The gold dripping through the halls reminds the Castle of that word from long ago, the one used to describe the baby in the painting: “happy.” It may be a pale echo of the world back then, when all three of them there, but the Castle is well versed in the world of reflections, and knows there is a world in which they don’t exist, and an echo may not be the real thing, but it will satisfy as a substitute.

Those times are quiet, with fewer raids, fewer pitchforks, shoutings and fires, because people like Alucard. They didn’t like Dracula, but Alucard is not Dracula. And Castlevania could enjoy the excitement…but the quiet is nice for a while.

Even so, the quiet does remind it of what, who, is absent. The Castle misses its master. The boy, the sun, the change, may help, but that fact will always remain at the back of its consciousness. There will always be some emptinesses that cannot be filled with substitutes. It misses its master, wants him to come back. Even so, it thinks it may be able to last a few months longer in the sun. Until Vlad returns, at least.

And he does.

Dracula does return. And when he does, he is not the same. But not in the way they were expecting; he does not arrive full of life, spreading his newfound spirit throughout the halls—as Alucard’s glowing return made them anticipate. He doesn’t come with a new name and tales of how he defeated monsters and made friends, he doesn’t return with a new perspective, and a handful of smiles. He returns, but it’s almost as if he still hasn’t. He is more dead than Castlevania has ever seen him. As if the sun burned him after all. But it burned something deep beneath his skin.

There is no joyful banquet of welcome. He does not kiss their cheeks, hug them and whisper into their ears I missed you so, my Castle, my Sunlight. He does not come bearing gifts for his son, nor decorations for his Castle, from afar. He does not sigh and say it’s good to be home and remember his purpose.

Castlevania may not have ever breathed, but there was something like it when Vlad was here. He brought it to life somehow. Castle’s cannot speak but it felt they had a way of communicating somehow. Mirrors cannot speak either, but we hear their words all the same. But Dracula doesn’t talk to the walls anymore. And he cannot hear his Castle’s reply.

He marches in all too quickly, a purpose in his stride. But it’s not a fulfilling purpose, like that of the Room, nor a reflective purpose, like that of the Castle, rather it’s the emptiness before. Emptiness, yes… but not like before. Not the adjective, the outfit from his previous reign, not the noun, the feeling from when he was gone, instead it is a verb; it is something active. It’s more than just a lack of something; something grew, came alive in and of the lack. It’s a hungry emptiness, like the humans’ fire set to swallow everything deemed unworthy. The Castle has worn emptiness before, but this is different…or maybe it is different now.

Vlad left as a man, walking on his own feet, taking the slower path, but he comes back as a vampire, teleporting in a flash of flame, forgetting that he has legs that would like to carry him to distant lands, and hands that would like to touch the world, and eyes that would like to see the scenery.

The once light-laced windows shutter at his arrival, the curtains slam shut, as if the Castle got a chill at his footsteps. As if they were doing something wrong, and had to shut it down as fast as possible. Every single one of them shivers, closes, dares not refuse their master.

All except the those in the Room. Those in the Room do not shudder or shut down. Dracula is not their master. They will not obey. They cannot do much to protest the night, but they will do what they can; they will stand open and unafraid of the dark.

Castle’s can’t get slapped in the face, but if they could, this is what it probably would feel like.

Coming home without the home in his heart…like Castlevania isn’t home for him anymore.

They were learning how to change together; its master was supposed to return full of life. Together they were meant to feel the light’s sting, together they were meant to learn to live in it. To see the true state of their world, without the darkness to cover it up. Instead he came back empty, all that life he gained while Lisa and Adrian were here used up, stolen away from him by a cruel world. The Castle wasn’t worried about the humans ransacking what little light existed in Dracula, as they feared with Alucard—surely Vlad could only gain, he did not have enough in him to lose.

Castlevania understands now what it should have done; it should have collapsed all its walls to keep him inside.

It is far worse to know the light, and have it snatched away, than to only know the dark.

The Castle would be happy to at least have its master back, regardless if the experiment succeeded…But it isn’t sure it does.

Dracula has been angry before, but anger was a thing to take outside and deal with, not bring inside. The Castle is, for the most part, a quiet, soft place for him to spend his time, to contemplate, and learn, to experiment in, not to brood in rage. Rage was for the outside world. Inside may have been cold, dark and empty but it was serenity.

The darkness and the cold and the death this Castle once transmitted are no longer a radio station to be changed with the flick of a dial. These qualities have infected Dracula’s very being, it seeps out of him with every waxing and waning footstep, it oozes out of him as he sits in his study—no longer in quiet contemplation, but an unrest that is so loud it resonates perfectly with everything Castlevania is made of. It resonates so perfectly it reminds Castlevania of everything it once was when the vampire king ruled, tuning, turning it back into something that cares not for the color gold, and the discrepancies between its existence then and now melt away into before. It resonates perfectly with everything Castlevania is made of…and it thinks it just might shatter.

—(And maybe that would be a good thing, because it would let the light in. Maybe that’s the only way to let the light in now)—

The emptiness the Castle was before, the emptiness the Castle felt when Dracula first left has swallowed its master, and Dracula is now not a thing to reflect, but a negative space on the pages, a black hole that takes in all light and life and devours it. He walks in, not as its master who brought it to life, returning that life to the emptiness, filling those places the light still couldn’t reach, those places ever missing him… but as an empty shell that cannot fill anything, and only makes them all emptier they longer they look at him.

Dracula has been undead before. But that was undead; not quite alive, not quite dead either—and he could swing to either side. This is different.

With one swipe he rips off all the gold the Castle wore just yesterday like thieves in the night, leaving it broke and naked on the highway, and such a drastic change so quickly sends it lying on the floor in shock, one question dying on open lips, tears draining down its cheeks:

Why?!

When he left so full, what could have taken all that away? What could have taken away even what little life he had before it all? Did the world chip away at him slowly, or was it one event that kidnapped his life? What, who did they need to destroy?

Then, as Dracula marches into the library with the big broken mirror, and talks to a crowd of humans with tongues of a fire, it learns:

It is the woman. The woman who knocked on the Castle door all those years ago with the pommel of her knife. The woman with the soft hands and the defiant heart. The only human who was sweet in more than taste. Lisa, who brought sunlight into the darkest reaches of the Castle.

Vlad’s wife has been taken from him.

Dracula’s life has been taken from him.

The sanguine nature of humanity. Their penchant for setting things on fire. The ravenous nature of those flames. Vampires are known for being bloodthirsty, but the Castle always knew their thirst never compared to that of humanity. Vampires are known for catching on fire but she was never turned, and did she need to burn?

The world has taken the woman, and, worse, its master’s life away, and the Castle is more than willing to go to war for it. It agrees humanity must die for such a crime.

Hating and blaming the world, the humans who once scratched at the doors and howled at the moon is better than facing the thing deep inside Castlevania that tells it it’s all its fault. All its fault for letting her take pieces of it outside.

After all, it was the parts of Castlevania—the beakers and books—which she took outside to help people, to ‘do some good,’ which got her killed. So maybe its master is right that they can’t be helped. Maybe there isn’t any good in the world after all.

But something is still here. The Room says, once again. Someone.

Yes, she brought life into this place, and much of that life would leave with her. But have you forgotten that there is a life that cannot be taken away with her? That they created life within your miserable walls and that life, well, lives? Remember that a piece of her is still here, and you don’t have to pretend death is all that’s left.

The Room sees that the boy’s father is cold, and dark, empty, and dead. But unlike the Castle as a whole, for which these words are outfits to wear, facts of life, the Room has learned these are problems, and there are solutions to them. Solutions which the boy can enact.

He is dark. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dark things.

So open a window, it tells Adrian. Let the sunlight in.

The Room’s window has always been open, and it does not know the flammable nature of full-blooded vampires. But starlight is a kind of light too.

He is cold. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with cold things.

So hold him. It tells his son. Like he did for you, all those years ago, when you were a tiny, bawling thing.

He is dead. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dead things. The Room sits and thinks and begins to despair, for it does not know how to bring the dead to life.

The Castle takes a deep breath, and finally speaks up;

You opened the windows and cast the darkness away. It tells Alucard. You let the sun in and warmed my halls.

So take that gold, form it into a cloak, and dress him in it. Teach him what your universe looks like, what I looked like, when you were here.

Take him by the arm, and walk with him out into the stars, call them by name, like he, you and your mother did, long ago.

Go to him. Hold him. And don’t let go.

Lisa brought life to this place. You are the life they created. You are their legacy. You are the one life her death cannot take away.

If you can do that for me, if you can bring this old, wretched castle to life, you can reanimate your father too. All you need to do is remind him that you are here.

The Castle hopes, somewhere in the back of its mind it dreams, he can still come back to life. It is his reflection, after all; surely what worked for the Castle can work for Dracula.

But…it is his reflection, after all. And as Alucard marches through the halls, and while the Room continues to urge the boy to go to his father, the Castle digs its nails into its palm until it bleeds, biting back against the anger bubbling inside it even so, knowing that war cries cannot be rewound so easily.

The boy answers their call, though maybe not in the way they expect. No…it is better than some loving display.

He does not open the windows, but he does open a door, and when he walks in, his face is barely visible, not because it’s dark, but because he is draped, surrounded in light, like the sun itself is behind his decree. The light has followed him from his room, slithered along the halls, and formed itself into wings on his back. His tone is firm and defiant, and as he confronts him, Lisa’s voice rings through the halls.

And the Castle understands now that light, warmth, and life, no matter how much they seem so, are not soft, not weak. They are violent, and they burn.

Alucard opposes all the war, the blood, the revenge, proving once and for all that the Room has reached him, fulfilled its purpose. And his words—while Dracula’s drip with rage, like the blood down his fingers—are filled with the same I-know-what’s-good-and-I’m-not-leaving-till-it-comes-out his mother’s words were once laced with. Echoing behind every sunstruck syllable is his mother’s I want to save people.

And they understand at last that rooms aren’t the only things with purposes.

Dracula has been undead before, but this death is different; this is more than a living death, death is a living thing in him.

Death has its strings wrapped around the vampire king’s wrists, plugged into his chest. This war, the cold, the death, and the emptiness, are all he wants, all he is now.

The Castle’s consciousness thrashes between the two sides; between Dracula’s black anger and Alucard’s golden hope.

And anger wins.

The Castle is used to being spattered with blood, but when the boy’s—

—Adrian, who laughed, who played pretend, and showed them what ‘happy’ was, Alucard, the reverse of Dracula, who let the light in—

—blood is spilled by its master, the boy’s father, the one who created him and his light-strewn world, who laughed, and played with him, and painted the walls, and walked amongst the stars, who should know more than anyone he is worth listening to—

Castlevania thinks it might not like the cold, the dark, the empty, or the blood at all anymore.

The red stain is an unbearable itch it’s hopeless to scratch. The blood burns like acid on its floors, a brand of this war, this death, this emptiness burned upon its flank, as if making it remember its original purpose and habit, and who it is meant to obey. It wants to collapse on the floor, to writhe and scream and clutch at the place where it hurts.

But castles do not cry. They do not scream. They do not ache.

It can only be a reflection, can only do what its master wants; be an instrument of war. That is all. It can only obey, and try to remember what it liked about the color black.

Alucard—still alive, thank whatever gods might be out there—cannot stay in these blackened halls anymore, and neither can the sunlight. When he leaves, he takes with him all the things he brought inside.

Dracula shuts the door to the Room; he hides the walls he painted, the toys she stitched, the stars they gazed at, the books they fell asleep to together, and the window where the boy danced in the light, like he’s playing peekaboo; if he covers his eyes, the outside world will stop existing…or in this case, the inside one. As if it lying dormant will allow the emptiness to swallow it, and it to become a part of the Castle again. As if he’s trying to forget the very life he’s going to war for. Like he can silence his own heart, tell it that it doesn’t, doesn’t, doesn’t beat anymore. He hides the only pocket of heaven that ever existed in his finely crafted hell, and tries to pretend that there was never any laughter, any light here, and they can all forget what it was to be happy.

The Castle wonders if this is what it feels like when people try to lock away the best parts of themselves because they ache.

But the Room has become something more now. It has always been different, separate. It was never just not-cold, not-dark, not-empty, not-dead. It was not a negative. It was warm, light, full, and alive. And that doesn’t just go away. Its very existence defies being swallowed. It has always protected the thing inside it against the blood and the dark and the death, and it cannot, will not, accept them now. It enjoyed playing make-believe with the boy, but this isn’t pretend, imagination, the Room knows what is real, and this is a lie, and the Room will not stand for it, will not accept the thought that it never existed, never held any sunlight, that there was never any laughter here. It is alive, and it can only sleep, not retreat back into a state of nonexistence. It is not dead, and will not just sit still; it shivers in the cold and the dark. It may be lonely without the boy, but it will not just sit there in silence, or else get down on itself, quietly mourning the boy’s departure, thinking there is nothing it can do. It knows Alucard is coming back. The Room has grown up, and it doesn’t fear its master is gone forever when he leaves for a while. Its master will return, and when he does, he will fight. He will oppose the cold, the dark, and the death again, this time stronger. So no, it is not empty, just uninhabited.

And Dracula knows this. Dracula knows he cannot let the Room have a single second to breathe, because if it does, hope might just come back. So he wraps his claw around the Room’s throat and squeezes.

And it hurts. Far more than the sting of sunlight, Castlevania knows how much the Room hurts. Because, though they are separate, the Room will always be a part of the Castle. The light’s sting may have hurt, but it was passive, the side effect of medicine. This is an active, hateful, and sick. The Castle may have winced at the light’s bite. But the Room squirms within, and grapples at his grasp, fight alight, life and rage blazing in its eyes, locked on Dracula.

The books cough until their lungs bleed, the toys whine until their voices break, the drawings beat against the walls they’re upon until their skin rips open, the stars twinkle until they can’t open their eyes, and the the painting of that child in the arms of his mother and father, ‘happy,’ hangs limp on the wall with its tongue cut out. The Room burns in the middle of the Castle.

I won’t forget. Castlevania says fervently, shaking its head. I won’t forget Lisa. I won’t forget Alucard. I won’t who they were when they were together. I won’t forget what it was to be happy. I won’t forget who I was in the light. I won’t—

But Dracula rips them apart, the door shuts, and their connection dulls. The Castle’s own heartbeat begins fading.

The Castle gets frostbite, goes numb in the cold. It starts to go blind in the dark. The emptiness starts to rot its chest. Something in it dies.

Castles do not have hearts, but Castlevania wonders if this is what it feels like when one breaks.

And the Room suffocates.

[curriebelle]

furtively tries to express my appreciation for BTS’s insane showmanship without gaining the reputation of Being a Kpop Blog

Actually leTS TALK ABOUT THE REPUTATION OF THE KPOP BLOG 👩‍🏫

So to a certain extent I understand why “friend’s blog became a Kpop blog” is a meme. From the outside, a lot of the Kpop fan activity seems quite vapid. The impression I got in previous years was that it’s mostly about gushing over handsome boys and a/b/o rpf. And that’s not........entirely wrong, but we’ll get into that more in a sec.

Another factor is that Kpop fandom is hard to follow. The barrier to entry is higher than with other fandoms. In posts, individual Kpop stars are referred to by name, stage name, or nickname, and the band they belong to isn’t always obvious, so it’s quite easy to lump it all into “Kpop”; it takes work for a new fan to differentiate the groups if you don’t know them ahead of time. Kpop fandom has its own lingo that differs from other fan language (other media fans don’t use “bias” or “delulu” — and there’s a linguistics dissertation for you). And let’s not discount the other language barrier — Korean isn’t exactly a common first language, so it does take a bit of extra work to find subtitles and translations.

This might be why the Suddenly A Kpop Blog Event supposedly triggers a different reaction in followers. I’m still following most of my friends from crit role season 1, even though a good chunk of them blog about other stuff now (what is this Chinese show? Boy with magic flute? Gay? Help). Fittingly, I’ve seen memes about how people are ride or die for their mutuals even when they move to different fandoms, but the jokes about Kpop blogs are always a bit different — about how turning into a Kpop blog is a bit cursed of u. It’s to the point where this is only “secretly a Kpop blog” because I don’t want the “Kpop blog” reputation.

And from my fandom lurking I can say that part of that reputation is not unearned. A lot of Kpop fans on tumblr engage in it in ways I’m either disinterested in or actively opposed to (the shipping wars are as terrifying as their reputation suggests. Some were arguing one ship was an rl canon true secret relationship because someone in BTS wrote the letter K on his drawing. Even though the letter K is in his name.) The reason I’ve been “secretly a Kpop blog” is that a lot of Kpop posts don’t inspire me into reblog frenzies the way crit role memes used to, and that’s not because Kpop Stans Suck — it’s more just a matter of taste. Then again, I do like gifs, but if I start reblogging BTS gifs, then I’m a Kpop Blog......and you don’t want to be a Kpop blog.

But isn’t there a whiff of “I’m not like other girls” about all that? Like, yeah, of course Kpop fans hoard gifs of the same people and overanalyze them. That’s what fans do! Pretending I didn’t overanalyze the shit out of Taliesin and Laura’s micro-expressions before Perc’ahlia was a thing would just be disingenuous. We’re all looking too closely — one of the best things about being a fan is diving into the excess of art and making things out of it. We all make mountains out of molehills because mountains are more scenic. And, on a baser level, we are all thirsty bastards. I have SEEN you all reblogging the gifs of Chris Evans ripping the log in half, okay, and you were not doing it bc of the camera angle, just own the thirst. Even the problems the Kpop fandoms have aren’t problems unique to Kpop — aggressive shippers and “””””problematic””” fans are everywhere.

I also wonder if the reason why we don’t see as much Kpop analysis on tumblr is because we’ve created kind of a hostile environment for it. Whether you are a Kpop fan or not, we’ve all decided to treat Kpop as kind of silly — the fans give it their all in the departments of cutesy photo sets and ridiculous fic prompts, and we laugh at memes of Gimli saying “never thought I’d die side by side with a Kpop fan” anyway Stan Jungkook. Just like thirst and over analyzing, that’s not necessarily a bad thing — I love that meme, and you should Stan Jungkook — but it does mean that if you want to start taking it a bit more seriously, or even a bit more casually, the assumption is that all your old tumblr friends will ditch you because “you’ve gone to the dark side”

And that’s a shame because uhhhhhh there is some baller stuff to analyze in BTS’s discography. The album before last was based on Jungian psychology (???). Their leader and primary writer is a huge fan of multilingual puns so in the latest album he makes a three-way pun on the phrase “I’m ill” — he’s sick, he’s cool, and he’s overworked (because “il” in Korean means “work”). So is he sick or is he simply made sick by like, society’s expectations of labour under capital???? Like, you know me. Societal critique by way of pun. That’s my shit. There’s also an essay or two in me about the way BTS are marketed for fan consumption and the way we handle multilingual lyrics and the way they’re handling the temporary departure of one of their members (he is an absolute cat of a man and I hope he gets well soon).

Also fuck can J-Hope ever dance.

EDIT: I should probably acknowledge that I can only make this justification for BTS, which is the only Kpop group I really like; I got no idea about the rest of them. I do know that Shinee can Also dance.

I might get the essays out but this probably won’t become “a Kpop blog” if you’re not into that. I think I’ve internalized too much of the stigma (omg V has a song called stigma it’s so good check it out find a good translation), but also, like I said, I don’t vibe with much of the other content and I kind of only follow one extremely successful group. The gifs, though. The gifs might be coming. They are pretty, those boys.

Anyway! People don’t like Kpop for nothing so like Maybe you would also like Kpop? Who knows. At the very least, think before u meme.

[albapuella]

believe in me who believes in you

AO3 Link! Fandom: Homestuck Pairing: Davekat Summary: Meat!Karkat meets Candy!Dave... he is not impressed. Tags: The Homestuck Epilogues, Homestuck 2: Beyond Canon, Earth C (Homestuck), Canonical Character Death, Dialogue Heavy, this is not a bashing fic, Character Study, Ableist Language, one instance of the r slur Author’s Note:  More Davekat Thirst Federation indulgence. I'm pretty happy, over all, with how this one came out (and the fine folks at DTF really enjoyed it!), so I've decided to share it with the rest of you. Enjoy! 

The figure on the floor is familiar. Too familiar. "Dave?"

No answer.

He creeps closer, as though making any noise at all will cause something terrible to happen. As though anything more terrible could happen. Karkat has seen enough death in his life to recognize it. Dave is too still. Much too still.

It's not until he's close enough to reach out an touch him that Karkat realizes how old Dave looks. Karkat has seen older humans, but it's different when it's Dave. Deep, unhappy lines are deeply etched into his face. Lines he'd never thought he'd ever see there. It looks... it looks wrong.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

No answer. But of course there wouldn't be.

Except there is.

"I got an upgrade."

Karkat's eyes jerk upwards, and he's looking into a metallic face. A horrible, silvery mimicry of Dave's face. He supposes, with an edge of giddy hysteria, that it only makes sense that a robot would have such a blank look, but it makes his insides twist painfully. It's been a long time since he's seen Dave make this particular non-expression. "What?"

"I got an upgrade," Dave? repeats blandly as though he were talking about nothing more interesting than the fact it would rain tomorrow. "Looks like you got an upgrade, too, Karkat. Nice work with the eye. I'd never know you'd lost it."

Karkat has no idea what Dave's talking about, but he sure feels like he's lost it. It being his sanity. "What the fuck?"

Dave only regards him coolly. "Look, I only came back because Aradia wanted to pick up Sollux, and I figured I'd see how corpse me was doing." He makes a bare movement of his fingers in the direction of said corpse. "Ugh. I forgot how uggo I was."

There is so much wrong with these statements, Karkat can't decide which thing to focus on. "Why... I don't understand. Sollux?" He shakes his head. Of course, his pan would latch onto the least important thing. "Why are you so fucking nonchalant about being a god damn corpse, Dave?"

"Because corpse me was a fucking sad sack?" For the first time in this exchange of words which could only laughably be called a conversation, Dave's tone changes to contain an ever so faint hint of disgust. "Obama came through for me one more time and showed me the light. The light being accepting the destiny of being the most me me to ever exist."

Karkat wonders if this Dave is physically capable of smiling. The part about Obama is bizarre considering that Obama died long before Earth C was created, but that isn't the most confusing thing Dave's said. "The most you you? What the fuck does that even mean, Dave?"

Somehow, the expressionless face appears smug. "Going Ultimate, my dude. Being all the me I can be. I am fucking Legion, Karkat. We're all in here. All the dead ones. All the ones who never existed. If you ever wondered to yourself, what makes Dave so Davey, I am it."

Going Ultimate? It sounds important, as though it'd be capitalized and everything; it also sounds like the biggest pile of hoof-beast shit that Karkat's ever heard. "Bullshit."

Robot Dave tilts his head. "That's all you've got to say? Man, Karkat, I've got to say, I'm disappointed. Here I am, anointed by fate, spitting truth, and you come across all uncouth in the face of the facts. There are no take backs. So what if I break hearts? You got the head start there. I've got the universe on a silver platter, so what does it matter what you think? I wasted so much time pinning and whining about what I couldn't have, and now I've got it all. So get on the fucking ball and roll, my troll, 'cause it's me for whom the bell fucking tolls." He makes a sweeping bow.

Karkat sifts through the prettied up bullshit to find the fart nugget of truth. "I broke your heart?"

"Fuck no," Robot Dave denies in the way Dave does when he doesn't want to admit that something hurts. "I was just being retarded." He steps closer to Karkat. "You're not that important."

It's been a long time since Karkat's heard that word from Dave—especially since Dave was the one who finally got Karkat to break that particular habit. The combination of reminding Karkat that he should be pretty sympathetic to people being looked down on just because of how they were born as well as reminding Karkat that, as much as he liked to hide it, he had a soft center that didn't actually like hurting people who didn't deserve it had been enough to get him to stop saying it.

The shock is enough to protect Karkat from the full effects of hearing he's ‘not that important’ coming from his boyfriend's mouth. "You sound like an asshole, and not the fun kind."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Robot Dave shoots back, scathing. He uncrosses his arms so he can gesture at Karkat. "You're the loudest fucking asshole there ever was. At least I can chill—you couldn't know chill if it locked you in a refrigerator."

Although Karkat is glad to hear more signs that Robot Dave is not a completely emotionless shell like Robot Aradia had been, it's hard to hear this anger and frustration directed at him. Also, the thing about the refrigerator is a low fucking blow. "Pretending you don't have feelings isn't the same as being chill, Dave," he grits out, trying extremely hard not to prove the robot right and completely lose his fucking shit. "You're not half as good an actor as you think you are. I don't know what the fuck happened here or why you're acting like this, but—"

Robot Dave's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You don't know why?"

Karkat doesn't back up even as his instincts scream at him to. Whatever has happened to make Dave like this, he knows that Dave would never physically hurt him. Honestly, he kind of wishes he would: it might be less painful than this. "How am I supposed to know? Last I knew, you were still human and safely on the—"

"You want to know what you did?" Before he can react, Robot Dave has grabbed his upper arms in a crushing grip, dragging him closer to Robot Dave's face. "YOU LEFT ME! YOU LEFT ME BEHIND! DID YOU EVER FUCKING CARE ABOUT ME?" By this point, Robot Dave is shaking Karkat with a surprising amount of violence. "OR DID YOU HONESTLY THINK I'D BE HAPPIER WITH JADE? BECAUSE I WASN'T! AT ALL! I FUCKING LOVED YOU AND YOU LEFT ME ALONE!"

"Wh-what are-are you talk-ing about?" Karkat knows his eyes are wide and frightened, but he doesn't care about facades right now. This is... This doesn't make any sense at all. And it'd probably be easier to think if his pan wasn't getting banged around the inside of his nugbone. "STOP SHAKING ME, DAMN IT!"

Robot Dave obliges so quickly Karkat almost stumbles as he's released. He steps back, narrowly avoiding Dave's corpse, dizzy. "Fuck me, Dave! What the fuck!" He rubs his arms, surprised they don’t hurt after the rough treatment he’s just received.

"I didn't mean any of that for serious," Robot Dave claims, his voice soft and even again. The tenseness of his shoulders as he recrosses his arms gives him away. "That was ironic anger. I'm not mad about any of that. Jade and me were perfectly happy. You'd know that if you'd come to the wedding."

"Wedding?" Karkat is completely lost now. He's been lost this whole time, but at least then he had some idea of what the major landmarks were. Now, he has no idea at all. His eyes are drawn down to the corpse, down to something shiny on his finger. He's seen enough human movies and attended enough weddings to understand what he's seeing. At least, he understands it's a wedding ring—he doesn't understand anything else.

Until he does. "You're not my Dave." He feels pretty stupid for not realizing this sooner. "This is an alternate timeline, isn't it?"

Robot Dave is silent for several long seconds. "Fuck yeah. Your timeline's all kinds of messed up. Don't know why I didn't notice before. Guess I was kind of distracted." This last is said with a sadness so subtle Karkat wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening for it.

"I noticed," Karkat returns, his temper mollified by the knowledge that this asshole who's been lashing out at him for shit that isn't his fault isn't the same asshole he loves. Except, that isn't quite true, is it? According to Dave, all Daves are Daves. So, Karkat can't help but love this one a little, too.

And, he supposes, if all Daves are Daves, all Karkats are Karkats. Which means he has some responsibility for whatever happened to this robotic mess of a man as well. He walks past Robot Dave, away from the corpse, and sits. He pats the floor beside him. "Sit down. Please."

For a moment, it looks like Robot Dave is going to ignore him. Then a soft sigh as he plunks himself down. "I don't have time for this," he says.

"That's a fucking lie, and we both know it." Karkat does his best to prepare himself—he knows better than anyone just how stupid his other selves can be. "Tell me what happened with your Karkat."

"Nothing."

Karkat waits for more. "Nothing?"

Robot Dave—Dave crosses his arms and turns his head away. "Exactly. Nothing happened. He fucked off when the fucking was good, and I get it: Jane was getting real fucking fascist all of a sudden, and the kismesissitude with Jade wasn't on at all, but he didn't..." he trails off.

Some of this sounds familiar. Things had been... uncomfortable with Jade before she got possessed (uncomfortable in a similar, yet different, way afterwards), and he'd run against Jane for a reason. As much as all that ended up mattering in the end. Still, there had to be more to it than that, right? "He didn't what?"

"He didn't let me come with," Dave says quickly, nearly interrupting Karkat a third time. "We were supposed to be in this shit together, and he fucking bailed on me." He takes a deep breath he definitely doesn't need. "Then it was just me and Jade, and I... I owed it to her, Karkat." A tiny sound that could be a laugh. "At least someone needed me."

Karkat wants to tell Dave he's being ridiculous, that of course he hadn't owed Jade anything except his friendship—never mind a fucking wedding—but he knows better. He honestly does. Jade is his friend, too, and there was a reason he never gave her a solid, unambiguous no to her advances... it's always been easier for Karkat to stand up for others than it ever has for him to stand up for himself. He'd never wanted to get physical with Jade (minus a brief infatuation when she'd let him have it over Trollian during the game), but he'd liked her enough to hate the idea of just turning her away cold.

And he knows that Dave is very much the same. Except he's got baggage, baggage Karkat has tried very hard to understand but still doesn't quite grasp, that would make the prospect even harder. Especially if... especially if Karkat left him to his own stupidly self-destructive devices.

As evidenced by the fact that this version of his best fucking friend in the universe is currently a god damn robot.

"Your me is a moron," he declares.

Dave is already shaking his head, the light catching on his burnished metal skin. "No way, man. Karkat's a fucking mastermind—the whole rebellion would have been totally quashed ages ago if not for him. Fuck, he started it!" As he speaks about his own Karkat, a literal light glows in his eyes, shining through the lenses of his glasses.

"He's practically a legend now," he continues, apparently heedless of the fondness in his voice. "He always talked a big game about how good a leader he'd be if he'd been given half a chance, and now he's out living the dream." When he speaks again, his tone is softer, bitter, and the light dims. "It's one of the things I low key, high key hate him for, you know? Somehow, he has it all together without me, but I'm a sad sack without him. A sad sack tying his star to the yifftrain because I don't know how to say 'on second thought no thank you' to one of my oldest friends." He straightens up slightly. "I mean, that's how it used to be. I could give less than a shit now that I've gone Ultimate."

The back tracking is so awkward and forced, Karkat wonders if Dave actually expects him to believe it. "Right." While Karkat's curious about this rebellion Dave's talking about, he finds it difficult to believe that this Dave's version of him is doing as well as Dave says. Of course, as much as Karkat loves Dave, one thing which cannot be said for him is that he's terribly observant when it comes to the feelings of the people around him.

Also, nothing Dave's said so far has convinced him that he was wrong about his original assessment of this version of himself. Any version of himself idiotic enough to still believe in his leadership prowess after the absolute clusterfuck that was the Game is a complete moron regardless of other factors. "And you never talked to him about this?"

"What was there to talk about?" Dave says stiffly. "He had his life, and I had mine. I mean, I didn't see him much after he left. Even after Jade and I joined the rebellion, we didn't see each other much. Certainly no one on one time in a room together." There's no mistaking the faint echo of regret in the words. "No point in even thinking about it. Which I was doing a great job of doing before I saw you here, making cry baby eyes at my corpse. Just so you know."

"And yet you're still here," Karkat presses.

"I guess I am," Dave agrees. "Fuck, I missed just getting to chill with you. I feel like, maybe, everything wouldn't have gone to absolute dog shit if you'd been around. I mean, you're not m—the Karkat from around here, but all Karkats are basically Karkat, so..." his words grind to a halt, leaving an embarrassed pause.

Despite himself, despite knowing this Dave is talking about a different Karkat, Karkat feels his face heat up. His own Dave has a tendency to put him up on an elevated statue support base; it shouldn't be surprising this Dave does, too. "I think you are wildly over-estimating both of our abilities."

"You think so?" Dave sounds unconvinced. It's amazing how much more, for lack of a better word, lively he's gotten just during the span of this conversation. A far cry from the douche bag Karkat started out talking to.

"I know so," Karkat returns more sharply than he means. "If your Karkat were here, he'd agree with me. We're nobody special without someone who believes in us, Dave." He crosses his arms, suddenly uncomfortable with the expressionless scrutiny. "Fuck, maybe he is a great leader now, I don't fucking know. But if he is, it's only because he has people who believe in him." He looks away. "Dave is the person who believes in me."

"Is that what I did wrong?" Dave asks after a moment. "I didn't believe in him enough?" He sounds incredulous. "I didn't realize this was Peter Fucking Pan, troll edition."

"Pupa Pan."

"What?"

"Peter Pan, troll edition," Karkat explains as he tries to organize his thoughts, "is called Pupa Pan."

"Of course it is." When Karkat turns to look, Dave is shaking his head. "You trolls have got troll versions of nearly fucking everything, don't you?" Not waiting for an answer, he continues, plaintively, "I used to ask myself all the time what I could have done differently, what I should have done. What should I have done that would have made him decide to stay with me. And I came up empty every fucking time."

Karkat wishes this was his Dave, a Dave he could comfort with a touch. Instead, he has to find the right words. He's been told he's fucking good with those. Mostly by Dave. "I don't have an answer for you, either. I don't know why he left like he did. Things must have felt pretty fucking bad for him to think that's what he had to do."

Dave made a hand gesture Karkat chose to interpret as "go on"

"I don't know what you could have done differently—I wasn't there. What I do know is this: however successful he is, he's miserable without you."

Dave tilts his head. "Really?" he asks, his tone full of disbelief and something like hope.

"Yes, really." Karkat sits up. "Just talk to him, Dave. He'll tell you." He reconsiders. "You'll have to drag it out of him by this point if he's gone this long without saying anything himself, but the point is he misses you. I know he does."

Silence stretches between them.

"It's too late." There's a cold finality to the words that sends an unpleasant shiver down Karkat's support column.

"Is he dead, too?" It hadn't occurred to him to consider this possibility, but considering he's currently sitting not too far away from Dave's corpse—

"Nah, he's alive. At least, last I knew, he was."

It's all Karkat can do not to face palm. "Then it's not too fucking late then, is it?"

"Yeah, it really is. I've already cut my ties to this place, to this whole planet, to this whole fucking universe. Divorced Jade common law style and let Karkat go like Elsa. Stick a fork in it and throw it away because it's so done, it's god damn charcoal." He stands in one smooth, mechanically precise motion. "Thanks for the sit and chit, but I'm gonna go see if Aradia's found her stupid boyfriend yet."

Shit. "Wait!" Karkat grabs for and catches Dave's hand. It's cool and there's no give beneath his fingers. "Don't leave like this."

"Like what?" Dave's voice is back to its original blandness, and Karkat feels his heart break a little. "Sometimes, Karkat, you just have to fly away into the sun like a feathery asshole."

"He loves you, fuckface!"

This stops Dave short. "What?"

"He loves you," Karkat repeats. "If he's anything like me, and he is because he literally is me, he's never stopped loving you." He tugs on Dave's hand, doing his best to ignore how wrong it feels in his grip. "Obviously, bad shit went down, and believe me, if I ever see your fucking Karkat, I'm going to punch him right in his stupid face for leaving you in a fucking lurch and letting do this to yourself, but he loves you."

"You see, that's where you're wrong," Dave says, his hand suddenly gripping Karkat's own (and Karkat has a vague idea this should hurt, but he's too focused on what Dave's saying to pay it any mind). "You're smart, Karkat, so I won't waste your time and mine bitching about how, if he really loved me, he wouldn't have fucking bailed on me like he did." His shoulders slump, and the hold on Karkat's hand loosens. "He doesn't need me anymore, if he ever fucking needed me. He's got Meenah to take care of all the 'believing in him' shiz."

"Meenah? You mean Feferi's dancester?" Karkat shakes his head. "Never mind, I don't want to know what convoluted bullshit happened to make that possible." It's time to focus on the matter at hand! "You were with Jade, right?"

Dave lets go of Karkat's hand so he can cross his arms. "Yeah. What about it?"

Why are Daves so stupid? To be fair, Karkats are pretty stupid, too, but at least Karkat's aware of it, which is more than he can say for any iteration of Dave. "Think, idiot. Were you in love with Jade?"

"No." There's no hesitation. "I loved her but I wasn't in love with her."

"Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, your Karkat was in a similar situation? Or maybe he thought you actually did love Jade and didn't want to make you choose? Did that ever occur to you?"

Dave's silence speaks volumes.

"That's what I thought." Karkat blows out a harsh breath. "Does he know you're a robot now?"

"Nah." Dave's head is tilted ground-ward. "I didn't stick around after going Ultimate. Kind of just... left without leaving a calling card or anything. Maybe a dick move now that I'm thinking about it."

"Maybe?" It's Karkat's turn to be incredulous. "Fuck, Dave, how could you do that? Even if you don't give a shit about your Karkat or your Jade, I refuse to believe you'd do that to your Rose."

A rough shrug. "I did though. Rose is better off without me." Another tiny laugh. "Maybe this is what Dirk felt before he did what he did."

Dirk? "And what did he do in this timeline?"

"He killed himself," Dave says flatly.

Karkat feels a surge of pity. He wonders if Dave would be happy to know that Dirk's lived long enough to become a wife-napper in his timeline. Probably not, but it's hard to know: he sometimes thinks his Dave would be happier if Dirk had died instead—at least then he could properly mourn. He doesn't say any of this, naturally. He's not a complete idiot. "I'm sorry," he lies.

"Hung himself in my hour of fucking need," Dave continues as though Karkat hadn't spoken. He runs a hand over his metal hair. "Story of my life in this universe: everyone leaves me when I need them. I'm not a good enough reason for anyone to stick around."

It's not difficult to read between the lines and figure out who else comprises 'everyone' and 'anyone'. Again, Karkat wonders what the fuck this version of him had been thinking. "And you figure it's your turn to not stick around when they need you? Is that it? Revenge?"

"No," Dave says, clearly caught off guard by the questions. "Fuck no. Besides, wouldn't work anyway because no one needs me: not Rose, not Karkat, and not John. Maybe Jade thinks she needs me, but she doesn't need me either."

There's a lot to unpack here, and Karkat doesn't know how much longer Dave is going to listen to him. He doesn't know why he's so bothered by the idea of this idiot leaving without first touching base with the other idiots, but he is. His being here feels... serendipitous.

A stray thought of why is he here floats through his consciousness before being discarded: he's focused on what's happening in front of him. "What if you're wrong, Dave? What if they do need you, like you needed Dirk? Are you really going to abandon them like yesterday's grubloaf?"

"Did it to me first," Dave mutters, petulant. Then he sighs and leans against the wall. "Okay, so I know things aren't going great with everyone... except Rose and Kanaya, I guess. They've always had their shit together. Way better than I ever have. I also absolutely know that Karkat doesn't need me. I might have been in the rebellion, too—better late than fucking never, I guess—but it's not like Karkat actually lets me do anything important. Probably afraid I'd fuck it up, and I can't blame him for that. I fuck up everything I touch—I used to, I mean. I'm Ultimate Dave now, and I'm awesome." The bravado is too little too late, and Dave seems to realize it, too. He kicks awkwardly at the stone floor.

Before Karkat can comment, Dave keeps going, his voice becoming tight with frustration. "But to get back to sad sack me, what was I supposed to do about John and Roxy's failed marriage? What was I supposed to do about the clusterfuck which is Jane's fucking family situation? It's not my fault she shacked up with Jake and Gamzee and inflicts that clown on her kid." His voice carries a note of hysteria now. "Should I have helped John kidnap Tavros that one time? And then there's Jade... You don't think I've given her enough of me by this point, or was I supposed to just stay by her side forever out of a sense of obligation? I mean, fuck, Karkat. That's way too much to lay on me!"

"Don't be an idiot," Karkat says even as his mind reels. So many things are different. They would be, of course, this is an alternate timeline, but it's almost overwhelming to hear them listed out like this all at once. While he wants to ask about Tavros and Gamzee, he doesn't want to break the momentum of the conversation with little, probably unimportant, details. "I'm not here to tell you what you should have done. I don't know what you should have done: believe it or not, Dave, I'm not a fucking seer!" He takes a deep breath to calm himself down. It's hard not to shout, but he's learned over the years that, sometimes, people listen to you more when you're not shouting. "It's not about what you should have done; it's about what you should do."

"And what do you think I should do?" Dave asks, as though Karkat hasn't already made it blisteringly obvious what he thinks Dave ought to do.

Then again, Daves are pretty dumb, and this one is extremely so. "Talk to them, Dave. Tell them how you feel."

"Sounds gay."

For an instant, Karkat is back on the meteor. "You're gay, you asshole."

"Oh, yeah." Dave shifts from one foot to the other. "They're not going to be super stoked to see me like this."

"You think?" Karkat pinches the bridge of his nose. "Of course they're not going to be fucking 'stoked' to see you've done this to yourself, but they love you, Dave. They might be angry with you for leaving like you did, but they'll forgive you. And maybe... maybe you'll be able to forgive them, too. But nothing is going to change unless you actually talk to them."

Dave hmms to himself before shaking his head. "You don't get it, Karkat. Literally? None of that shit even matters. I'm not sad sack me anymore; I'm not tied to this universe. I'm Ult. Dave, and I don't need anyone." He steps away from the wall so he can gesture with over the top grandness, clearly making certain his cape moves with him. "I'm finally free. For the first time in my life, I'm actually who and what I always wanted to be: a chill motherfucker with nothing more important to worry about than whether or not I'm cool. And I don't even have to worry about that, because I'm cool as shit."

He lowers his arms. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost pleading. "For the first time in my life, I actually fucking like myself." 'So don't take that away from me' goes unsaid, but Karkat hears it anyway.

This is just... this is just so sad. This Dave might be saying he likes himself, but nothing is more obvious to Karkat than that he doesn't. Karkat still doesn't really understand what being 'Ultimate' means (and now doesn't feel like the right time to ask), but he understands Dave. Since all Daves are Daves, that means he understands this one, too. And what he understands is this Dave is absolutely fucking miserable and trying to hide it underneath a cool layer of ironic assholery.

Newsflash, Ultimate Dave, Karkat has gotten really good at seeing through that shit!

"Cut the crap, Dave," Karkat says sharply. "I didn't pupate yesterday. Do you honestly expect me to believe that being that," he gestures to Dave's shiny robot body, "and pretending you don't give a shit about anyone or anything actually makes you happy?" Not waiting for the lie Dave's no doubt going to supply him with, he adds, "Didn't you learn anything on the meteor, Dave? You are not and have never been cool."

Karkat starts approaching Dave, who backs away from him. It hurts to see him like this, but it confirms what Karkat already knew. "You were a scared kid like the rest of us, and now you're a scared adult, running away from your problems because you don't know how to fix them. And guess what, Dave: your idiot friends are scared adults, too."

Dave is against the wall again, shaking his head. "No. No, you don't get it at all."

It's a risk, but despite what happened with Dave crushing his hand earlier (which really should have hurt, shouldn't it?), Karkat still refuses to feel intimidated by any Dave. He knows him too well. He reaches out his hand and places it onto a cool, metal shoulder. It's practically vibrating. "I believe in you, Dave. I believe in you, and I know you can do this."

For the longest time, Dave says nothing. The cool shoulder under Karkat's hand gradually stills and warms. Then Dave explodes. Not literally, like the Aradia bot, but in a more figurative way. It feels like an important distinction. He pushes away from the wall, pushing Karkat away, too, leaving Karkat to stumble backwards.

"Oh, fuck off!" There's no expression on Dave's rigid face, which makes the vitriol coming out of his mouth that much more disturbing. "Maybe you're the fucking fairy from Peter Pupa or whatever, but I'm not." He steps closer to Karkat. "I am cool, and I don't need anyone else, and more fucking importantly, no one needs me!"

Karkat licks his lips. A part of him wants to throw Dave's anger back in his face. A part of him wants to shoosh the man child until he calms. Either one seems like a bad idea. "Sounds lonely," he says instead, keeping his voice soft.

Dave jerks back like he's been struck. "It's not," he denies just a hair too quickly. He goes into the familiar nonchalant slouch that Dave goes into when he's feeling cornered. "I told you, Karkat, I'm a whole bunch of Daves—I've got all the friends I could ever want." As if sensing this isn't terribly convincing, he says, "Besides, I'm chillin' with Aradia and not quite dead possessed Jade these days. They're a barrel of fucking laughs."

Of course both timelines have a possessed Jade! Is she possessed by some alternate version of Callie, too? And now Karkat's a little confused, because didn't Dave say he left Jade behind? Is this another Jade from yet another timeline? And why the fuck are Jades so god damn unlucky—she seems to have a fucking talent for being possessed! He shakes his head; he's never been good at timeline bullshit, and he's getting off track.

As for Aradia... It's been a long time since he's thought of her. She'd never been one of his closest friends, for certain, and he remembers that she got disturbing chipper about death after she blew up and came back God Tier. Honestly, he can't imagine traveling around with her like Sollux chose to, or like Dave apparently does.

"So, you don't miss anyone here?" He already knows the answer to this question and wonders if Dave will lie. He decides not to give him the opportunity. "You already admitted you miss your Karkat, so I'm sure there must be other people you miss."

Dave crosses his arms. "I miss aj, too, but I'm not gonna act all broken up about it when I've got this hot new bod, these baller new threads, and, oh yeah, fucking Ultimate Dave powers. I guess the real question is what are you trying to prove with all this mushy shit. What the fuck difference does it make to you whether I miss anyone or not—you don't even belong here."

It has been ages since Karkat's had to deal with a Dave this infuriatingly dense. "You're right: I don't belong here. You know who does belong here, you deliberately obtuse prick? You! You fucking belong here. And I'm gratified to know you at least miss some of the people here as much as you miss fucking apple juice."

"What the fuck ever," Dave says tightly. "I didn't ask for a lecture. I didn't ask for your opinion. In fact, I asked for exactly none of this bullshit, and I'm done. I'm outie." He doesn't move. "I still don't understand why you care so much."

Karkat slowly counts to ten. Then he does it again for good measure. "Dave, I care because, for some ineffable reason, I love you and I want you to be happy."

"What?" Dave sounds startled. "You don't even fucking know me, dude."

"Didn't you tell me you're the most Dave Dave? And aren't all Dave's Dave?" Karkat rolls his eyes. "I love my Dave, and that means I love you, too, moron."

"Oh." Dave looks away. "I guess that makes sense." Then he straightens up and turns his head sharply back in Karkat's direction. "So, what you said before, about, about other Karkat...?"

"What? That he loves you?" Karkat doesn't roll his eyes again, but it's a close thing. "Yes, he loves you. I don't understand why he thought it was a good idea to leave your ass, but any Karkat who's had the misfortune of meeting you gets caught in your fucking thrall. You're so fucking pitiful. And infuriating. And attractive."

"Careful, Karkat, you might give a guy the wrong idea." It sounds so much like Dave's normal banter that it hurts. "I don't know," he says, his voice pensive. "You make it sound like it's gonna be so easy to just step back into everyone's life like nothing happened."

"Of course it isn't going to be easy," Karkat snaps. "But you need to do it: if not for the sake of the people here, for your own." He risks putting a hand on Dave's arm. "Let them love you, Dave."

Dave shakes his head. "Don't bother with the mojo again, man. That shit doesn't work on me: I'm immune thanks to being a bad-ass Ultimate robo Dave and all." Before Karkat can question what the fuck he means by that, Dave puts a cold hand over his own. "But you know what? Fuck it. Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," Dave sighs. It only sounds a little dramatic. "I'll fucking talk to them. Let them love me or whatever. I guess if it goes bad, I can just fuck off again like I was planning to. I'll have to let Aradia know though; it's only fair."

Karkat feels relief wash over him. He'd been starting to think he'd never get through to this idiot. He pulls his hand away and backs up. "Good." He feels light. "I'm glad you've decided to stop being stubborn asshole about this."

"Being a stubborn asshole is one of the things I do best," Dave said, a smile in his voice if not on his face. "What about you though?" His question is startling for its unexpectedness. "How are you going to..."

The scene seems further away.

"Ah," Dave says. "I get it. Say hi to Dave for me."

Karkat has no time to voice his confusion before everything is gone.

Karkat wakes with a start. The dream is already fading even as his conscious mind tries to gather the remnants together. He remembers... he remembers Dave. But he was a... he was a robot? And dead? He remembers Dave being absolutely infuriating. He remembers he was trying to... trying to get Dave to do something?

He shakes his head and looks at the Dave still sleeping beside him. An urge to wrap Dave up in his arms overcomes him, and he does so as best he can. He's momentarily surprised by the warmth and softness he feels as he presses Dave against his chest. But that's silly: Dave feels like he always does. He's safe and loved and warm and alive.

Dave blinks blearily up at him. "Bad dream?"

Karkat nods, even though he's not entirely certain if the dream he had was bad or not. "I love you."

"Thanks," Dave says, sounding baffled but fond. "Love you, too." He yawns, already snuggling into Karkat's embrace, already going back to sleep.

For a long time, Karkat watches Dave breathe. Then he falls back into a doze, content.

Ultimate Dave looks at the spot where that strange Karkat was for a long while before shrugging to himself. Weirder things have happened in his various lives than alternate timeline ghosts or whatever the fuck just happened here. He picks up his corpse (it doesn't look like he's decayed at all—must be cold as shit in this place) and starts the journey topside. It's time to go home and, maybe, make amends.

[hansols-yoda-boxers]

yessss i get so happy when people recognize how attractive woozi is!! so many people write him off because he's short which is horrible. let's be real, if he was taller everyone and their mama would be thirsting over his body because he's ripped and has wide ass shoulders. i for one am happy he's short and i would be just as happy if he wasn't. who the fuck cares jesus christ. it's not like you can change your height. it's not like how tall you are has a link to how nice you are or whether you help old ladies cross the street. it's genetics we can't change so why is everyone so hung up on it. i also hate when everyone pushes the cute label in his face because it's so obviously linked to the fact that he's short. like yeah he has his cute moments, but he's a grown man leave him alone. let him rest. i'd be pissed if every moment of every day everybody was calling me cute and dismissing my authority. he's my bias because i love his personality. i'm also the type of person who finds inteligence, ambition and emotional openness to be incredibly attractive. that's what drew me in. then i realized how insanely talented he was and that i'm really into his humor. and on top of that you have his very unique visual, that i can't place in any visual category. and boom, that's my guy. he's hot and you're all just scared because he isn't the tallest. stop it, get some help. and when you've let go of your toxic beliefs, come seek us big brained people. we might forgive you for your sins. sincerely, a jihoon lover who's over it

Okay I have many thoughts so let me try and organize them lmao.

So the short and cute things go hand in hand. Now I know the fandom didn’t just decide he’s cute one day. To be completely fair he was typecast as “the small cute one” by the company upon debut. It’s a thing they do to make it easier to get into the group. Some of the stereotypes are super easy to recognize. Seungcheol is the leader and “Dad” of the group, Jeonghan is the mom, Seokmin is a the sunshine member who’s always happy, Soonyoung as the hyper one, Seungkwan is the sassy one, Chan is the maknae on top, and so on. Some of these stuck around but of course ones like Minghao being the “cool cutie” were going to be easily outgrown as the group matured. And they’ve addressed it themselves. Wonwoo saying that he likes getting chances to share his thoughts and feelings. Seungkwan pointing out that because Mingyu is deemed a visual by the company is role is essentially “shut up and look pretty” even though he actually has a lot to say but doesn’t get to talk or speak his mind nearly as much as Seungkwan.

So when new fans in particular see him as cute it doesn’t surprise me. I mean they push it even to these days, using his cutest moments and adding little squeaky sound effects here and there in Going SVT to reinforce that he’s the cute one. It doesn’t surprise me that that’s the first thing people say. Heck the first video my friend every showed me of him was the oppaya aegyo. And I like cute so I ended up looking up more about him lol. 

All of that being said, I think most of us have been in the fandom long enough to know that he is more than that. I do get a bit sad when the only thing people say about him is that he’s cute because he is all the other things you said. I mean I won’t comment on the muscles because they scare me I don’t really care about physical body with my sexuality (nor, I should point out, am I actually attracted to any idol. Like I can say Jihoon is good looking but I’m not sexually attracted to him or any other idol). But he is very smart, and kind, and really loving when he’s close to people. The whole team loves him to bits and he loves them and it really shows. He pours his whole heart and soul into this team and cares about it with everything he has and that’s probably my fav thing about him. So leaving it at “cute” 100% sucks (tho he is far from the only member that suffers from this). 

(I also get sad when people call them all talented and leave it at that without acknowledging hard work but I have a whole other rant on the “talent wall” but like ultimately I think he’s talented but I find the fact that he’s super hard working wayyyyyyy more cool and interesting than just talent.)

I don’t know though if I agree that people overlook him just because he’s short. Now maybe they totally do and I just hang out with the right people who don’t say shit like that, but what I’ve found about biases is that they choose you. You walk in blindly and one or more of them just drag you into their lane lol. I have a handful of tall girl friends and I do know that there can be a level of teasing and insecurity can arise from your height. And I feel like short boys have it just as bad, if not worse with the way people are about masculinity. Buuuuuut I don’t know how much that affects bias? I mean unless your biases are just “this is who I would date/fuck” which is... a really strange concept to me personally tbh. So I like your enthusiasm on the whole thing, though I’m not sure I feel the same about where it all stems from.

As for biases, every fandom has their favs. It’s a sad thing about being a fic writer that if I take a good idea and give it to a less popular member it will get overlooked point blank. Seventeen has it’s most popular, overall the hhu but particularly Wonwoo and Mingyu. I love them, don’t get me wrong, but like more than half the carats I know Wonwoo and/or Mingyu is the top of their bias list. They are both wonderful, but it does mean that when I write things for them it’ll get way more attention than for the others. As for Jihoon, he isn’t the most popular but he isn’t the least popular either. He sits in the middle ground a lot of the time. I wish they were all even and everyone loved them all equally but alas.

I am really glad that in the last couple years they have been breaking out of their roles here and there. Moments like Soonyoung’s Hit the Road episode really stand out to me and just his general insistence that he’s introverted and shy even though a lot of people don’t believe it and think who he is on stage is who he is irl (which, sidenote, I loved that he talked about performance headspace and stuff cuz it’s such a cool thing hehe). I know everyone will always have their favs and it’s all good, I do too even if I wanna even out my writing so they all get equal attention but I hope that them showing us more of themselves allows us to see them all more complexly.

In the end, I love the spirit, but I won’t be condemning anyone lol. Adn let’s not get into the topic of sin. I try to keep that off this blog sakdjlajsldka

[op-peccatori]

sweeter than dreams (nsfw) | MLQC Lucien

Fandom: Mr Love: Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Lucien/Reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3400

Summary: On your way back home from the winery, your impromptu nap is interrupted by an inappropriate dream involving your boyfriend (and current pillow). The man in question reacts in a way you don’t expect.

Warnings: explicit nsfw content/sex, (public) vaginal fingering, Lucien’s teasing, semi-public sex, oral sex

a/n: It’s Lucien’s birthday month!! and my thirst for him as at an all-time high. This is an alternate version of the winery date, where they’re already dating.

Your eyelids flutter open to warm light on your skin. Your head is burrowed into a firm pillow, your breath heavy and heart-pounding from where your sleep lead you. 

 A dream crafted solely to torment you, with violet eyes and a wicked tongue. Not the first, and most definitely not the last. You freeze as you realise you’ve been squirming on an uncomfortable seat, pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to relieve the ache brought on by your own mind, and some fantastic wine.

The pillow under your head moves then, a familiar silhouette providing shade when you squint up at it. As your awareness creeps back in, you realise that a jacket is draped over your form, shielding your bare thighs from the air-conditioning in the moving bus. 

“You seem to have had a restless nap,” comes a low, modulated voice that is an eerie echo of the one you just woke up from. A tilt of your head shows Lucien staring back at you, mouth tugged up in a strange smile. Your heart restarts its stumbling song at seeing the very face you had just been pressing fervent kisses to in a damning dream. “Had a bad dream?” 

At his words, the sound that comes out of your mouth resembles a panicked croak, and Lucien’s mouth purses in what you think is a kind attempt to suppress a laugh. Your face warms at the thought of telling him, of him knowing of the truly depraved things your mind is capable of conjuring.

“Not-not a bad one per se,” you say, wincing at the rough note brought with sleep. “Just...unexpected.” And with unfortunate timing, as you’re on a public bus and not in bed where you could’ve easily slipped a couple fingers into your underwear to take care of your throbbing sex – it wouldn't be the first time. “It was probably the alcohol.”

“Hmm.” He studies you intently, looking for something in your face that you dearly hope he doesn’t find; you try your best to look like someone who didn’t just have a wet dream about him. “Alright. We should be home in another twenty minutes.” 

Damn. 

“Oh, okay.” You stay still, cuddled up to his side, wondering if you did anything to indicate what you were dreaming of while you were out. You seem to be in safe waters, not sensing anything from him. Perhaps Lucien had also drifted off? You can only hope there wasn’t anything for him to notice. You throw your thoughts toward anything other than his warmth, the subtle tones of his cologne, the way he smiles at you. 

“And now that you’re awake, I’ve been meaning to ask – would you like to switch seats?" he asks sheepishly. "We did agree to take turns.” You agree easily, eager to have the chance to stare at something other than his hands and the old lady in the seat across the aisle, who seems to have dozed off as well. Just to avoid more contact that wouldn't help your situation, you get out of your seat – tugging at the hem of your skirt self-consciously –and let him step out before sliding in, settling into the window seat with no small amount of relief. 

You keep his jacket on your legs, not quite ready to leave the sense of safety it gives you and half-worried that there’s a smell because you know you’re not imagining the damp cloth pressing against you. 

You’re also not imagining the hand that has crept under the cloth to rest on your thigh. More concerning is the way your body reacts to it instantly; breathing hitching in your throat, walls clenching around nothing, the absolute need that rushes through. Just a little higher, and it’ll be where you need it. With how worked up you are, it wouldn’t take long if he works you as fast as you know he can. There aren’t too many people on the bus, and you’re sitting towards the back anyway. Your thoughts whirl around your mind as you try to think of what you could do to give him a hint. Should you just tell him? He wouldn’t leave you wanting. The physical aspect of your relationship is quite new, but Lucien has been really good to you.

And then the old lady coughs loudly, breaking you out of the hold of your desire. You’re on the bus. You can’t ask your boyfriend to finger you in public. What would he think? 

Lucien’s thumb traces soft patterns on your skin, almost absentmindedly, and you bite back a sigh at understanding that he probably means to provide comfort, not pleasure. You feel a bit embarrassed at how you let your baser instincts overwhelm you. 

Leaning into him with a small, fond smile, you turn to look out the window at the tall trees that pass by, marvelling once more at the beauty of the maple leaves; as the sun begins its slow dip below the horizon, it paints the sky in bold strokes of red and gold. The image it creates arrests you long enough that you almost don’t notice the way Lucien’s hand has caressed its way to the tender flesh of your inner thigh, the back of his hand meeting your other thigh in a snug greeting. 

As you sit there with his hand very solidly between your thighs, suspicion is slow to dawn. Is he just trying to warm it or–

Cool lips press against your ear. “I almost didn’t hear you moaning in your sleep, it was so soft...but when I did?” His teeth close around the shell of your ear in a playful nibble, and a gasp tears it’s way out your throat. “Do you know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself?” The sensual tones of his voice wash over you in tandem with his fingers pinching your skin harshly. 

“Lu-Lucien!” you say, voice hushed and eyes wide. You look around in a panic, but the other passengers aren’t paying attention to the cosy couple at the back of the bus. 

“I had to sit there, feeling so left out, listening to you whisper my name so needily, left to only imagine what could possibly be driving you to react that way. My fingers? Or my cock?” he breathes, a light chuckle leaving him as you tense and look up at him pleadingly when his hand moves higher. He returns your look steadily, completely calm but for the perfervid look in his eyes. “Don’t be shy. Let me see.” Long fingers press against your slit, rubbing it lightly through the thin cloth. “Oh? You’re wetter than I thought.” 

Your mouth parts when he rubs your clit, the firm pressure making you nearly jump out of your seat. He pauses at once, removing his hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, tucking you in to his chest as he turns to face you more. Before you can voice your protests or slump over in relief, his left hand has already replaced his right in its position at your entrance, rubbing and coaxing and tormenting. 

“Someone will see,” you whisper, teeth clenching when he just laughs in response. Desire throbs unwaveringly through you, and you hurry to make sure the jacket stays in place. “Lucien!” 

“Are you going to stop me?” he asks, mocking and knowing, fingers dipping into covered puffing lips. Your hands curl around the edge of your seat, struggling with indecision. You both know one word from you will be enough for him to stop but...you can’t bring yourself to say it. It feels good. It feels really good. The fear of someone seeing is still present, but it’s a thrilling sort of apprehension. His jacket is shield enough, and the way he’s curling around you is intimate enough to discourage most people from looking too closely. 

The calm you talked yourself into feeling is cracked when a dexterous finger gets past the cloth to push into you with long, slow strokes. He stops when he’s knuckle deep in you, feeling the way your falls flutter and squeeze and pull at the digit with visible delight. Your hips cant up, trying to get him to move his hand, but he just kisses you on the cheek, soft and cruel.

“You’re terrible,” you whimper into his chest as you lean your forehead against it in resignation. The arm curled around you tightens briefly, fingers tangling into your messy hair. 

“And you shouldn’t have teased me,” he replies blithely. His finger begins a lazy massage within your slick flesh, sending smooth waves of pleasure coursing through you that keep you close to the edge but not giving you enough. “What exactly is a man to do when the woman he loves begs for him in her sleep? I was this close to pulling you over my lap.” 

You can’t believe you’d thought him innocuous. A fool’s mistake. Your boyfriend loves his traps, and you do enjoy playing the role of prey; you glare at him in outrage, breath stuttering on a low moan. “I was asleep-“ 

“Speaking of which,” he cuts in smoothly, ignoring your grumbling. “What exactly were you dreaming of?” 

Your thighs close in around his wrist as he slips another finger into you. The rhythm of his hand quickens, your fingers clenching around his sweater as you try to remain steady. You can’t bring yourself to reply, a mortified blush blooming across your face at the very thought.

“___,” he warns, tugging on your hair lightly. It's enough to let you know he will get it out of you one way or another. “Tell me. Please?”

“You-we were outside my apartment, I think,” you stammer, your skin warming all over, the flush deeper on your cheeks. His fingers slow down deep within you, palm brushing against your swollen nub. Your eyes squeeze shut at the contact. “I’m not sure why. And...we were kissing.” 

“Go on.” 

“...That’s all.” You brace yourself.

He pinches your clit roughly and you keen, hastily burying your face in his sweater to muffle the noise. You don’t want to look up and see if anyone heard that. “That’s most definitely not all. Go on.” 

“And then...I turned to open the door you pu-pushed me against the door...and lifted my skirt.” You nearly cry out as he strokes you harder, fingers curling to rub against a sensitive spot. “Your mouth was...on me.” 

“And then?” his voice is huskier, breath heavy against the side of your face. You swallow your smirk and lift your head, brushing your lips against his. His eyes have darkened, his gaze burning with anticipation. 

“And then you fucked me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It feels as if your confession has frozen time itself. Everything around you falls away as you watch each other, breath mingling, the tip of your nose brushing his. You slide a hand onto his crotch, satisfaction clenching your insides at the bulge you find there, at how he stiffens against your touch, at the way his eyes flash with barely restrained desire.

“Right there? Against your door?” he asks quietly, lips curving wickedly. Your fingers trail a curious path over his erection, encouraged by the slight hitch in his breath. You would've missed it if your faces hadn't been so close.

“Mhm.” The quirk of your lips fades as his fingers slip out of you, and you watch in slight dismay and with a lot of hunger as he leans back and pops them in his mouth, eyes glinting with satisfaction. And then he’s lifting his arm off your shoulders, lacing his fingers through the ones trying to tease him, stopping that game right there. 

“Well, our stop is almost here,” he announces, looking past you and out the window. You watch him with pursed lips, trying not to wilt with disappointment. And he tried to give you crap for something you can’t even control, only to do this.

“Right.” 

As the bus slows to a stop near your building, you both rise to your feet and move towards the door. Before you can exit, Lucien drapes his jacket over your shoulders instead of putting it back on.

“It’s a bit chilly outside,” he tells you cheerfully, and you fight down the urge to stomp on his foot. The short walk to your apartment is filled with silence on your part, and oblivious remarks on his. You make a mental appointment with your vibrator, because the urge to do something violent to Lucien is still very much present, stoked by his apparent indifference to your state of being.

As you both step out of the elevator, Lucien walks you to your door. You would think he’s oblivious to what’s on your mind, but you know better now. You’re starting to doubt he’s even capable of missing things happening inside you.

Mind made up, you stop him with hands bracing against his chest. You lift up on your toes, palms curling around the back of his neck to pull him down to you; he’s already smiling as you press your lips to his, slipping your tongue into his mouth and moaning at the taste of him, at the way his tongue intertwines with yours and licks into you. Your hands traverse the length of his torso greedily, lingering on the firm planes of his abdomen as his arms wind around you, crushing you to him. You want and want and want.

You pull away panting, the feeling of his erection pressing into you setting off another hoard of butterflies. You feel lightheaded with desire, feeling as if you could wrap your leg around him and grind yourself to completion out here in the hall. 

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, eyes glossed over as you step away from him. Your fingers dig into your purse blindly, looking for your keys. 

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so,” he says distractedly, much to your surprise. You turn around to hide the disappointment you know is clear on your face, mingling with disbelief. The way he just kissed you wasn’t chaste by any stretch of the imagination. Is he really going to tease you and just – go to bed? That’s cruel. 

“Al...right, then. I have an early – morning!” Your sentence ends in a yelp as you’re pushed up against your door, your purse falling from your hands and Lucien’s body pressing into you from behind. “Lucien!”

He kisses up the slope of your neck hotly, ending at the base of your ear, where he bites into tender skin. His arm wraps around you, tugging your shirt out of the waistband of your skirt, slipping his jacket off of you and throwing it to the floor. His hand creeps under your blouse, palming your soft breast while the other slips up your skirt, pinching your slit; stuck between his body and the cold wood, you can only writhe in response to his rough handling. 

“Isn’t this how it went?” He tugs at a taut nipple in emphasis, kissing along your jaw. "We don't need to go in."

“Ah, but – the security camera!” you moan, deeply aware of the ever-present security device in the lobby, and of the irresistible way he’s pressing into you, his dick hard against your rear. 

“Do you trust me?“ 

“Yes.” You angle your head in a way that lets you meet his fervid kiss, lifting your hand to brush his bangs back and deepen the meeting of your lips. His intensity frightens you on some level, unconcealed and bright in this moment, ready to set you alight with its force.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“...please don’t stop.” Even more frightening is your own devotion, the pure want, the willingness to let him fuck you outside your apartment with no shame and only eagerness. 

He guides you into pressing your palms against the door, back arched and ass presented to him to caress and knead. He tugs your panties down your ass, following along the same path to go down on his knees. He helps you step out of them, stuffing them into his back pocket before he turns his focus to you. He tucks the hem of your skirt into the waistband and parts the round globes of your ass, revealing your slick sex to his ravenous eyes as he squeezes a handful of flesh, pressing reverent kisses across whatever parts his hands don't cover.

“I’m a selfish man, ___.” The first flick of his tongue against your clit has your eyes fluttering, mouth parting on a curse. “I don’t like sharing you, not even with dreams. Not if I’m not there with you.”

Your laugh dies in your lungs when he tongues you swiftly, relentlessly and with precision, hands holding you in place as you moan and cry instead, forehead falling to your door with a thump. Your pleasure builds up in an earth-shaking wave and is held there as he rises to his feet swiftly, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants hastily.

“My gorgeous girl,” he purrs. The tip of his cock slides against the plump flesh of your rear, leaving wet streaks on your skin as he strokes it to the visual of you spread and ready for his taking. “Did you really think I would leave you like that?” 

“Ah – I thought you didn’t want to.” 

“Oh darling,” he croons, feigning hurt. His hand comes down on your ass in a light, chiding slap. “I always want you. And to help make your dreams come true. Especially ones so...improper.” 

“Lucien,” you moan as he slides into you, thrusting shallowly as he stretches you out, warm palms heavy on your hips. “So good. You feel so good.” He snaps his hips into yours, skin slapping against yours, the sound lewd in the silence of the building.  He angles it just right, taking a moment to still deep within you and begin a slow, hard grind as his hand wraps around the front of your throat firmly. Your shoulders slacken as he squeezes lightly, your desire throbbing and wound tightly deep within you. 

“There we go. Good girl,” he praises you as you push back into him, prompting him to transition into sliding his cock out and back in, in hard thrusts, pulling you by the hips back into him with each one. He moves as if he’s mad with desire, drilling into you as you let out a wail of his name and other things you can’t quite comprehend at the moment. “You want me to fill you up, darling? Is that what you wanted? Oh, my filthy girl.” You reach down to your clit desperately, rubbing it in tight, furious circles. Your eyes roll back into your head as the high wave finally crashes and snaps, your walls clamping down around him, sheathlike and unyielding.

“Please, please, please – come in me, come in me!” You’re overcome by the hunger for it, for wanting to feel him come within you, for leaving his mark in you.

He lets out a throaty groan as your velvet heat drags him into unravelling, throbbing, filling you up in unsteady thrusts. In this moment, Lucien is nearly incoherent in the way words of adoration leave his lips. It's just you and him. You both stay there for a moment, breathless and sweaty, with you struggling to stay upright on your trembling knees and him hissing as he tucks himself back into his pants.

Who needs dreams when you’ve got a man like him?

Lucien helps you straighten, pulling you into an embrace to nuzzle your cheek, his arms wrapped around you to keep you from sinking down like you're sure you will. You tilt your head back and catch him in a languid kiss, content to rest your head on his shoulder, lazy with a kind of tranquillity only his arms can bring.

"God, I love you." The sudden force of it nearly leaves you incapable of further speech. The words are simple, like the cloak pockets of a magician hiding unknown depths. You hold back a giggle at the way his cheeks, already flushed, darken at your words. His eyes, though – you don't miss the blend of love and possessiveness in them, the triumph in his smile at quenching your thirst, the way he sticks close like he can’t bear to put any distance between you both. You wonder if it rivals your own desire to never let go, to spend every moment with him: learning, healing and loving. Playing games that leave you flustered. Blushing when he teases you, watching him try to keep a tight rein on his mask and fail when you bare your heart. 

Your eyes close against soft lips on your forehead.

“Now we can go in.” 

[dirthavarens]

Preparation (Dragatha)

Fandom: Dracula (2020) Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Rating: Explicit Warnings: None Word Count: 4324 Summary:  “And what use would I have for a bride when the perfect wife stands so beautifully before me?” he hummed before placing another punishing kiss to her neck. “If you’re to go out again tonight, you need to settle your nerves. Use me.” Another condition is added to their ever growing list of tasks.

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Agatha closed her journal with a sense of finality, a sigh leaving her lips as she slumped further into her chair. She brought a hand to her head, rubbing her temples in small, repetitive circles. Hunger was burning into her, impatience that she hadn’t known for years, and she knew it was his influence. The thirst for competition, for conquest, for him, manifested in the form of baser desires. 

When she was human, it was the form of destruction, for finality. The last light flickering out of a man who had lived for too long. A devil banished back to Hell and her faith was restored if from vanity alone. Her baser purpose had been served, but her intellectual mind had been stimulated as well. Dracula had crawled into the darkest parts of her and pulled every string he could. He tightened his claws around curiosity and purpose, and pulled relentlessly at them, heightening every part of her. 

And that’s why she chose to drink on her first night. That’s why they fucked like feral dogs in heat. That’s why she drank from his vein and took his promise with fervor. Her curiosity was driven entirely by him. Her life’s work was in her hands and she could not dare to part with that, with him. 

Now, her baser instinct was to feed, to find flesh and tear it apart. Destructive to the point of unspeakable. No resolution in the finality of the lives she takes. Not in Mathieu de la Fontaine, not in Anna Sparelli, and certainly not the others in which she had imbibed. They had all died without purpose, without reason beyond her own hunger. It sickened her to her core, but she could not resist the pull regardless of her efforts. 

The sound of the latch unhitching behind her went unnoticed as her thoughts consumed her mind, too loud to ignore. Nor had she heard the steps approaching her with such lightness, one should question if his feet had ever touched the ground. 

Only when his hand was at her shoulder did she take note of him, shooting upright, and tensed under him. Her body was rigid in the chair, not breathing, not moving.

“Beast,” she spat as a curse. Admittedly, she was relieved for his intrusion, regardless of what it would bring. He could not know that. “Have you no respect for privacy?” 

“A husband and wife should never have secrets, Agatha,” he toyed back. She could almost see the coy grin crawling along his lips as he placed far too much emphasis on husband and wife. “I’m hungry and I want you to join me for a proper dinner. You said it yourself that you wanted to study me. This is your opportunity.”

Dracula took a step back so she could rise and face him, as if knowing she would want to size him up somehow.

She stood and turned around, the palms of her hands resting easily on the desk. A decisive action, naturally. He could not be faced on uneven terrain, the battlefield had to be plain and they had to know the other as a true contender. 

She would hate to disappoint. 

“I have seen you feast, Count,” she started dismissively. “And it is no sight to behold. You feed as a wanton beast.”

“I’m not the one who tore a still-beating heart from a girl’s chest, Agatha.” His return was curt and without emotion. Part of her was wounded, another was understanding and conceded to the truth of his words. 

“A result of your hunger. You said so yourself.” That did not mean she was going to concede to him.

Dracula smiled as he took a calculated step nearer to her. Her breath caught when he brought his hand to caress her face. His grin spread wider before he recomposed himself. “I didn’t make a mess of you, did I?”

She gave a breath and pushed herself from the desk, standing before him plainly as she considered his proposal. He had taken the greatest of care when he had fed from her and by Jonathan Harker’s own account, Dracula hadn’t marked him beyond his neck. His actions on the Demeter and in the convent seemed to have been for theatrics. Of course. He had to be the center of attention, even in murder.

“Well?” 

“I will accompany you under the condition that no more lives are lost tonight,” Agatha sighed and stepped from his hold. So much for a night to collect herself. 

She walked into her bedroom and moved to her closet opposite the bed, not bothering to turn the light on. As she searched for something to wear, Agatha could feel his eyes on her from the doorway. 

“Either come in or go downstairs. It’s impolite to lurk, despite it being one of your habits,” she huffed and immediately felt him press against her. A gasp sounded from her lips as he held her close to him, a hand around her abdomen while the other held at her throat. 

“I didn’t say right now, Agatha. While I am most definitely starving, I do have other appetites that need tending,” he growled in her ear. “I know you’re not wearing undergarments.” 

She smiled and pried herself easily from his hold, despite the rush of heat that spilled in her core.  How he had looked earlier, hair slicked, half-erect, in nothing more than a towel, played in her mind and she bit at her lip as she shoved the memory into the recesses of her mind. 

“Perhaps not. But you said that this was my opportunity and so you shall feed, Count Dracula, and I shall observe you. No deaths. No killing. No brides,” she instructed as she pulled the nightdress from her body, leaving her nude before him. 

Agatha grabbed a simple gown that she could easily pull over her frame, but found herself clutching at the fabric when he pressed a hard kiss to her shoulder. He had his fingers at her breast and teased the nipple to hardness, turning the supple flesh between his thumb and index.

“And what use would I have for a bride when the perfect wife stands so beautifully before me?” he hummed before placing another punishing kiss to her neck. “If you’re to go out again tonight, you need to settle your nerves. Use me.” 

The dress fell from her hand to the floor below as she turned around. His reluctant fingers pulled at her nipple as he released it and drew a soft whine from her. When she looked up at him, she figured out what he was doing. His current offer was not entirely for his own pleasure. She knew that sex was a natural stress reliever, human or vampire, and he was offering himself as way for her to relax. 

“Then I want you to listen to me,” she started as she searched his mind for any ulterior motive. Nothing. “Undress.” 

“As you wish, Countess,” he purred, the term causing her core to ache. She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, her inner lip caught between her teeth as he exposed his furred chest to her. She crossed her arms over her chest and bit at her lip to keep her smug grin from spreading. His pants came off just as quickly and he stood naked and half erect before her, all for her. 

“Kneel.”

He descended to both knees, never breaking eye contact with her, amusement in his gaze but obedience in his movements. “Am I to pray?” 

“With your tongue,” she entreated as she moved forward, her thighs on either side of his face as he lifted her in the air. Agatha curled forward, fingers twisting into the sheets. The grip of her thighs should have broken his neck as he lapped mercilessly between her folds. He worked her over with tongue and teeth, drinking her in as she came, once, twice, thrice…  A second and an eternity meshed as one as ceaseless waves of pleasure crashed over her. 

Only when her legs were shaking and her clit ached did he stop, kissing the oversensitive skin of her thighs as he held to her. Dracula lifted her, turned her, and set her on the bed. She spread her legs, releasing him, and looked up when he loomed over her. 

“Might I make a suggestion?” His lips were glistening in the darkness of the room and as she glanced down between them, she saw his cock hard and ready. Thoughts heady with new lust, no longer on the thirst for blood, Agatha returned her gaze to him.

“You may.”

A depraved grin spread on his face before he leaned down and claimed her lips in a painfully slow kiss. Her mouth opened under his kiss, allowing him entrance that he had yet to ask for, and delighted in the way his tongue slipped easily along her own. A growl sounded in his chest, primal, lascivious, his intent clear as he pulled away.

“I think a lesson in restraint is needed,” he purred wickedly as he sank off the bed.

 Agatha watched as he moved to the window, cock bouncing tightly against his abdomen as he paused, taking in the sight of the neighborhood around them. If anyone were to look into her bedroom window at that moment, they would be greeted by the furred chest and quite noticeable erection of an unabashed four hundred and fifty year old vampire. 

“Is that supposed to be a joke? Restraint, coming from you?” she quipped as she watched him remove the tiebacks from the curtains, the long ropes in his hands quieting her defiant nature and raising curiosity. The room fell into complete darkness, but she watched as he tested the binding of the threads as though it were the middle of the day. “And what do you plan on doing with those?” 

“Ah, my dear, I think you are quite aware of what I’m going to be doing with these.”

He crossed over to her, grabbed at her wrist, knelt beside the bed, and quickly tied it to the post that supported her headboard. Dracula repeated the process with her other wrist and stood with a very satisfied expression crossing his face. 

“Beautiful. Absolutely marvelous,” he breathed softly, the heat of his arousal drowning his words. “I much prefer rope around you like this.”

“Keep that in mind the next time you feel it necessary to hang me,” Agatha shot back as she flexed her fingers and wrists against the bindings. She knew she could easily break free if she truly wanted to, but was content to leave them. “So this is your suggestion? To tie me up and have your way with me?”

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times in disapproval. “I’ve told you before, Agatha. I have no interest in claiming you when you don’t want me to. I’m only giving you what you need. A countess must know when to contain herself.” 

She shifted as best she could, lifting her head as his weight settled onto the mattress at her feet, and looked questioningly at him. What could she possibly need that involved tying her to a mattress and fucking her?

“A literal interpretation of restraint is underwhelming, don’t you think? Fifty years of rest and you’ve come out no cleverer,” she maintained doing little to mask her amusement as his smirk faded into feigned offense. “You’ll have to do better than that, Count.”

“Restraining you was only the start. Did you think I’d be so mundane?” he asked rhetorically and stood once more. She watched as he moved to the door. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

In the solitary darkness of her bedroom, Agatha pondered his intentions. Count Dracula was known for playing games, at least with her, to sate his amusement and endless curiosity. He made it a point to always raise the stakes with her. The bargaining for Mina Murray’s life, playing chess in her dreams, having her strung up by the neck before crew and passengers, allowing her to drink from his vein, claiming her as his wife before they ever reached shore…

The Count did anything to give himself an edge over her and yet he stumbled every time. He fell victim to her unintended wiles and indulged in her with human fervor, a tether to reality that neither of them knew he could have. His reverence for her was Agatha’s undoing and together they arrived at the same crossroads each time they came together. The warmth she found in his chilling embrace could not be replicated by anything known to her; not blood, not her research, and certainly not the church.

Whatever he had waiting in the wings, she would devise a way to be prepared to push against him simply because she knew he enjoyed the competition. Agatha was starting to understand him more than she thought she would ever have the chance to. She had access to his entire life if she wished to recall it, but she preferred to learn through experience. The legwork required to know a vampire could take a lifetime, and lucky for her, she had several at her disposal.

Despite her wandering mind, Agatha caught the sound of him on the staircase and turned her head to catch him as he walked into the bedroom. He had two glasses in one hand, the smell of blood taking over her interest in his presence. She pulled against the restraints as her comfort diminished. Her hunger, while not intolerable, returned from the shadowy recesses of her mind. 

“Ah-ah,” he sounded and approached her, setting one the glasses on the nightstand beside them. He raised his glass to his lips and took a slow sip before the glass joined hers on the small table. “This is for later. First, you have to prove that you can behave.”

Agatha scoffed indignantly and turned her head from him. She trained her sights on the open closet in front of her and crossed her legs tightly together. If he thought blood from a bag was enough to ruin her resolve, he was mistaken. 

“I thought you were at my disposal. It seems you can’t stand staying out of the spotlight for a night. A narcissist even in privacy.” 

“No, I said I was going to give you what you needed. If you don’t want it, then I can stop,” he explained and lifted his other hand to reveal the longer tie-backs from the living area windows. Dracula moved to the foot of the bed and sighed at her closed legs. “It’s up to you, of course. I am a man of my word, Agatha, and if you don’t want to continue, all you have to do is say. Think of it as preparation for dinner.”

“Foreplay is hardly meal preparation,” she returned as he tugged at her ankle. Agatha complied and separated her legs, spreading out for him once again. He muttered his thanks and made quick work of fully restraining her. She felt as though she was going to be drawn and quartered, the taut pressure overtaking her body. “What exactly is it that I need?”

He knelt before her on the bed, stretched upwards, and gently grasped her hips. His breath was hot against the slick, glistening wetness of her entrance; his shallow pants making clear his desire. Dracula’s teeth grazed along her inner thigh, the jagged edges pricking the skin as he trailed down to her knee. One of his hands left her hips as he placed a kiss to the top of her thigh. Agatha drew in a breath when his middle finger traced around her clit, still sore from his mouth, and easily sank into her warmth.

“You need to listen to others,” he dictated, being sure to necessitate ‘listen’ as though she were a pet. 

Agatha began to protest but he curled his digit up inside of her and ran the pad of his finger over her sweet spot. Her breath hitched in response and she tried to move her hand to nestle in his hair. The binding held her firmly in place and she thought about tearing it off. 

“If anyone needs a lesson on social etiquette, it’s you, Count Dracula. Times have changed and you can’t d--”

He plunged another finger into her, caring not for tact or being delicate, and silenced her with a few hard thrusts. The fabric constraints pulled tightly as she twisted and writhed against them. Through heavy-lidded eyes, Agatha caught a grin on his face, smug as he watched her drown in sinful divinity with each of his ministrations. 

“I can’t do what, now, my dear? You’ll have to speak up. I’m afraid I can’t quite hear you,” he taunted as he moved up on the bed, his fingers still working inside of her. Their rhythm slowed and he withdrew one. “The bedroom is no place for etiquette, Countess. Not between a beast in rut and his bitch in heat. Stay quiet, listen to my instructions, and I promise to give you release enough to quell any appetite you may have.” 

She could have spat in his face for calling her a bitch, his bitch, but the flames that engulfed her were of a different nature. Agatha’s jaw tightened as she worked it, trying not to betray the heat splintering throughout her body as lightning spreads through the sky. His eyes shone in the dark, glowing like headlights approaching in the dead of night, and he looked down at her with amusement. 

She leaned up to face him, as close as her bindings would allow, and stared him in the eye. “Try again.”

Dracula withdrew his hand from her entrance and gripped her throat, his fingers carefully placed, a habit from a human life long forgotten. A noise between a snarl and a gasp erupted from her as he pushed her back to the pillow beneath her.

“Humor me,” he insisted, his face so close to hers she couldn’t help but strain against his hand to kiss him. He met her halfway, their lips and teeth colliding with a heat she hadn’t known since their first night. When he pulled away he slid his cock along her glistening folds, her entrance contracting at the contact, and Agatha shivered at the sight of him watching her. 

“Stay quiet or I’ll stop. Can you do that for me?” he inquired as he pushed inside of her, a grunt sounding in the thick of his throat as she enveloped his cockhead. 

Agatha reached up and grabbed his shoulder, holding to him as he stretched her further than what his fingers had amounted to. She felt his cock nearly slide out of her as he withdrew his hips before slamming back into her, filling her in an instant. Remembering his words, Agatha made no attempt to withhold the groan that sounded in her throat. 

He withdrew his hand and cock from her completely, kneeling back on the bed, his erection glistening with her juices. She smirked down at him, her dark tresses a mess around her face, and went to pull at one of her restraints. However, Dracula was there to stop her, grabbing at her lower leg with one hand and lifting her at the small of her back with the other.

The pressure of the bindings as she stretched made her twitch, or maybe it was the tip of his erection teasing at her entrance once more when he repositioned himself. 

“Stay. Quiet.”

 Agatha pushed her head into the pillow beneath her as he thrust into her, the sound of his skin slapping against hers echoing in the dark with discordant harmony. She bit into her lip, focusing on how his cock seemed to go deeper and deeper with each motion. Her walls grasped at his erection, constricting as her orgasm built just where the tip of his cock touched within her.

When she pierced her own skin from trying to maintain control, Agatha cried out. Unintentionally this time as she was too focused on her release. His hips stuttered to a halt and he pulled out of her, panting as he dropped her back to the mattress below. Her body twitched in protest, her hips grinding upwards for contact, and her eyes snapped open. 

“Defiant to the last, aren’t you? Tsk, tsk, a shame, really. I could feel how close you were,” he shook his head. “Now, what will I do with you? Maybe sate a different appetite, hmm?” 

Before she could reply, he leaned forward and grabbed the full glass, the blood within as steady as his hand. “Just a taste. What do you say?” 

Agatha felt her agitation swell within her and took the opportunity to free her hands while he was occupied. She had allowed him to call her a bitch, let him tease her, let him deny her, but she would accept nothing more. This was her show and she would burn before she let him play ringmaster. As she tugged her legs free, Dracula used his spare hand to hold her steady, placing it between her breasts. 

“I say you’re losing your grip, Count Dracula. Indulging yourself too much in any pleasure you can in the moment. You’ve said so yourself,” Agatha returned sharply, her hand covering his around the glass, careful not to squeeze lest it break. 

“I haven’t had nearly enough of you for it to be too much, Agatha.” He dipped his finger into the glass and held it in front of her, an invitation, a truce, a promise. 

She took his finger into her mouth, carefully sucking at it, and pushed him onto the mattress. The contents of the glass came spilling out, covering Dracula in blood from head to chest. A smirk ran the length of her lips as she shifted so she was seated on his abdomen. Being covered in blood suited him, befitting the beast he was. 

She lifted her hips into the air, grabbed his cock, and guided it inside of her as she rolled her hips downward. Slowly, she took him inch by inch, humming at the sensation of being filled again. Her eyes never left his as she rolled her hips again, taking him to the hilt and stifling a groan when his cock pressed so far into her. 

Agatha bent down as she found a rhythm and traced her tongue along his collarbone, indulging in the taste of blood while his claws dug into her hips as he steadied her. The glass tumbled to the floor, ringing clear as it shattered against the hardwood below. At last, control had returned to her.

Her fingers twisted into his ebony hair as his hips bucked upward to meet her, thrusting deeper into her, evoking a moan that splayed across his neck. Teeth like razors, she scraped against his flesh, tasted the human blood there, was overwhelmed by the scent of him and that which he was covered in. 

With his hands planted firmly at her hips, he rolled them, placing Agatha back onto the mattress. She held to him as he chased her orgasm, finding each spot to hit by every breath and noise she would make. Agatha found purchase at his back, dug into his shoulder blades, as her back arched against him, her hips rocking as he fucked into her.

With breath stolen, she gasped as Dracula thrust hard against her, pushing her over the proverbial edge and sending her into glorious oblivion. He stilled himself inside of her as she came around him, holding to him and spewing curses as though they were prayer. She felt him smile against her cheek as he started again but chose to indulge the sensation between her legs rather than the one in her chest. Her walls clenched his cock, squeezing it as he pumped into her until his seed shot inside of her. Dracula gave a few extra soft thrusts for good measure before he pulled out of her.

He fell to the bed beside her, chest rising and falling as though the exertion had some effect on him. Admittedly, she found herself breathless in the best of ways. No matter how she looked at the situation, there was only one conclusion she could draw. Perhaps, Count Dracula could control himself, if only under certain conditions. Perhaps that condition was her. 

“Your hypocrisy of my egoism is damning, Agatha. I simply enjoy you,” he stated plainly, although the lie was transparent. He was saying such things for posterity’s sake.

Even saying that he simply enjoyed her was an understatement. The way the product of their sex spilled out of her as she shifted on the mattress was evidence enough. The way he looked at her now, rolled onto his side, clearly fighting the urge to place his hand at her cheek… 

There was something more behind his eyes and she knew it was reflected in her own, but the rules of their game had never allowed for such things. They would play for a little longer. 

“Was this not a way to sate certain hungers so you could show me how you feed in a controlled environment?” she inquired pointedly and turned towards him, ignoring the now uncomfortable slickness between her legs. “You said it was for my benefit, yet you seem just as satisfied.”

“I’ve satisfied you?” His grin could not have been wider or more wicked than it was in that moment as he leaned in and brushed his nose against hers.

Although she reactively returned the gesture, she shook her head dismissively immediately afterwards. “Do not get sidetracked, Count. We have a task to complete.”

A disapproving huff was his response as he sat up. “At least you’ll learn something about being a vampire tonight.”

[chaos-monkeyy]

State of Chaos

For WIP Wednesday, I thought I’d try something different! So instead of sharing an excerpt from a work in progress, here is a list of the WIPs I’m working on in my too many fandoms at the moment, both published and not; as well as some blathering about other *ideas* I have that I (probably) (maybe) plan (hope) to write at some point. Feel free to ask for more details or ‘vote’ on what I should focus on if you want, I can’t promise anything but I am highly impressionable, and when people get me excited about something there’s a good chance I’ll work on it 😂

(it’s a long post so I’m just putting it all under a cut! There’s mention of kink fics & ships, but I don’t go into any detail about them)

Assassin’s Creed

Diletto (working title) Ezio/Caterina and Ezio/Caterina/Leo, where Caterina wants to be the one to do the fucking, Ezio is more than amenable to this idea, and Leonardo da Vinci makes the world’s first strap-on. First chapter rough draft is written, as well as a few little chunks of chapter 2! Writing F/M fic is always a bit out there for me, but I am very excited about how this one is coming along. 

The skills of Assassins  The Ezio/Mario sexy training one! Three chapters published and while I’ve got several ideas for other chapters, I haven’t started actually writing them yet 🙈 I’m at that point where I need to balance I want more porn with not just getting repetitive… 

Plans  I really want to write some Ezio/Leo smut, got this idea for playful ‘how much can I distract you’ while Leonardo is deciphering one of Ezio’s codex pages (he always bends over the worktable to do it and I just. I can’t not). I also have Thoughts about a couple more kink fics, including a Shaun POV sequel to Not here 😏 And I just, I have to write something with silver fox Revelation’s Ezio. No idea what yet, but god damn he’s sexy. 

The Dresden Files

Nothing really in progress, exactly, though I’ve been kicking around a Dresden/Marcone idea where Marcone hires a Harry look-alike to play out his fantasies of Domming the fuck out of that fucking wizard. (Honestly, there’s so many pairings in TDF that I love the thought of, but just never quite manage to come up with something to write for them… Perhaps I’ll continue my read-through of the series in a search for inspiration.) 

The Expanse

Also nothing actively in progress; I have a couple fic ideas that I still really like the thought of (including a ‘proto-Miller getting freaky with the mind games and double-teaming Holden’ threesome), but I’m not sure if/when I’ll get around to writing any of them. If a new book or season comes out, that might kickstart the interest again.

Midsomer Murders 

A short holiday (working title) Just a standalone PWP / Porn with Feelings for my OG OT3. John, Sarah, and Ben spending a long weekend together in a nicely remote cottage with a hot tub and a fireplace, and having a whole lot of sexy sex and cuddles. Probably featuring needy bottom!John and Sarah demanding some good old-fashioned DP from the two of them. I’ve got some of the start written and I pick at it every now and then when I’m feeling sappy. 

Behind the scenes The companion fic to Falls into place. I still have ideas that I wanted to do, but ever since MM got taken off Netflix, it’s made it harder to write for the show at all and for this little ficlets collection in particular 😭 

Midsomer x Wallace and Gromit crossover  This is a semi-secret project I’ve been working at slowly for over a year now, and a rare non-smutty work 😱 I really like it and do plan to finish it.. someday, but given that it’s an actual fucking story, with no sexy times or shipping, it’s very very out of my comfort zone. So… slow going, to say the least 😅

Plans I really do want to write a werewolf!Jones fic for Bobbit, I just need to figure out what it is exactly that I want to do with it… I also I had a few more ideas for Just Relax (the John dealing with / helping / being there for stress-bunny Ben series), but I have no clue if I’ll ever get around to actually writing them out or not. 

Star Wars

(Come) Ride With Me Got some sexy stuff written out for Chapter 3 (I actually wrote it before even finishing BLJ, it’s what got me writing the damn sequel / companion fic in the first place), but I’m having trouble getting the chapter set-up started. It’ll happen eventually!

Orgy fic That self-indulgent fuckfest I’ve been working at with Jewell for ages, ft. Formbi/Ronan, Ar’alani/Faro, Thrawn/Eli/Nightswan, and Thrass/Everybody. It’s maybe a solid half-done? But damn it’s a lot of POVs to get right and a lot of… bodies and activities to keep track of 😆 (it’s frikken hot though, if I do say so myself)

Sequel to Pinned and Control  I did write out a little tiny chunk for that, and Rev and I have Ideas(TM) for it. I’m still tentatively hopeful they’ll come to fruition someday 😂 experienced young sexpot Eli and older flustered inexperienced Thrawn is just too good to leave dormant forever. 

Plans  Still got a couple more Thrawn/Thrass oneshots I wanna write for the Stripped series. But I know it’s going to make me sad as well as horny if you’ve read Outbound Flight you know why so I haven’t been in just the right mood to actually write them yet. I also really want to write a crack-adjacent Thranto gloryhole fic, a deliciously sacrilegious modern Earth AU with Eli essentially dirty-talking priest!Thrawn in the confessional, a Thrawn/Eli/Thrass ‘he had to marry both brothers’ AU of some kind, a NightThrawn ice to fire sequel, and a part 2 for Consequences. And maybe some Thrawn/Fenn porny oneshots set in the Peace Bearer universe I mean what 😇

The Witcher

Flagrant Indecency Chapter 4 is partially written, and I have basic plans for chapter 5! This is a tough one just cause… yeah. More panic / embarrassment than what I usually write for omo, but I am happy with how it’s coming along. I signed up for Wolfie’s finish your fic fest with this one, so I plan to have ch 4 up in a couple weeks and the fic finish by (…whatever the event deadline is, september I think?) at the latest!

No title yet  I got ambushed the other day by a Geraskier fic idea involving an incubus hunt gone wrong, juiced-up demanding bottom!Geralt, and inappropriate (but consensual) use of Axii. It’s coming along very nicely 😏 chances are good it’ll be the next thing I publish but honestly, I can never be totally sure what the Brain will decide to do.

Plans  There’s a few things I want to get done at some point, including: Geralt discovers Jaskier’s glove kink by accident and they have a lot of fun with that; a sequel to Undignified with more omo thirst trap Jaskier; Geralt’s first time getting fucked / being with a man at all because he walked in on Jaskier and now he’s curious and Jaskier is more than happy to oblige; and possibly one or two sequels to Intoxicating as well because I love my problematic dynamics too much to leave it there. Oh! And maybe a sequel to Tight Fit as well, Jaskier is nothing if not determined 😏

[leafenclaw]

For the “Ask questions about my WIPs!” game

@inkstainedfingers97 asked:

“Perchance would you be willing to send me a brief summary of the premises of "Gem" and "Fearful Symmetry" ?”

First of all, thank you for asking! ^^

Gem is actually one of my earliest Mentalist works, one of several character studies I wrote in preparation for another story called Visions (which I was supposed to go back to right after Chasing Storms, but then Kindred happened x3). The concept was quite simple, a long drabble in which Lisbon was pondering all the ways Jane reminds her of a diamond (the dazzling smiles, flashy tricks, cutting edges of his personality, the fatal flaw at heart, etc.). That said, 400-ish words in I realised I was pushing that metaphor just a little bit too far? XD So unless I recycle parts of it for Kindred at some point (perhaps for 2x09, with that subplot about a diamond Jane lost in the bullpen? ^^), it’ll probably never see the light of day and to be honest I’m pretty okay with that. x)

Fearful Symmetry is a different animal entirely. I don’t know if you remember 2x10 well, it’s the episode where Jane gets hit by a baseball and gets a concussion, so he spends the whole episode fainting and having intrusive memories of his father? And in one of those memories, you see him and his father conning an old lady and her dying granddaughter. For some reason as I was watching I started thinking on that kid, wondering what would happen to her if she survived after this. Would she think the crystal really saved her, or would she know it’s a con and resent the Janes for it? I followed those thoughts for a while, got mislaid by a few Shakespeare references, and ended up with a story in which Celia (the dying girl) is Red John, because the application of the crystal nearly killed her and she wants revenge on the boy who lied to her. x)

It’s not a happy story. Written in 2nd person from the POV of an extremely unreliable narrator, it’s meant to be an illustration of how a healthy mind can sink into really unhealthy thought patterns because of a single event, how holding onto hate and a desire for revenge usually ends up poisoning your own life, and (as the title implies) it was also meant to be a commentary on thematic parallels between Jane and Red John, how similar they are, how you just need to fill in a few blanks to realise they have the same nature.

Anyway. x) It was SUPER cathartic to write and I was all set to publish as soon as it was done... until a computer mishap ate half my progress (more than 5k gone, I had almost 12k by then), including a scene I struggled a lot on, so it never recovered. I’m still keeping that one on the back-burner though, it’s one of ten stories across all my fandoms that I definitely intend to come back to and complete.

Excerpt under cut. Trigger warnings for obsessive thoughts of hatred and revenge, graphic descriptions of pain, some internalised ableism, and violent rejection of morals and religion. (There may be other things, as I said it’s not a happy story.)

(Feel free to comment but please don’t reblog.)

*****

Fearful Symmetry

*****

"Breathe," says your grandmother softly.

And you do, one laborious inhalation after the other, even as the wet, squelching sound makes you shiver, and the pain tears you apart. You do, and you clutch the crystal against your chest – because it will help, won't it? It must. Your grandmother says so, and the Carney man at the fair said so, and the boy. The boy said so. The beautiful boy who cried for you, with the golden curls that makes you want to giggle and sigh and feel their softness under your fingers. He said so.

"Breathe," repeats your grandmother, and you do – again and again and again and why isn't it working?

"I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. You were robbed," says the doctor, shaking his head. "Crystals aren't magic. They can't heal anything."

But neither you nor your grandmother will listen to those lies, because you saw it. You saw the blister on the boy's finger heal with your own two eyes. How is that not magic? So you breathe, and breathe again, and cough up phlegm until even your grandmother pales and shakes her head.

*****

"What if – " you ask, then cough some more. "What if it needs to be inside?"

"Direct application," whispers your grandmother, eyes feverish. "Yes! We could put it in your oxygen tank – that should work. It will work, Celia. I promise."

Of course, no doctor will allow her to put a foreign object in your oxygen tank, not even a magic healing crystal that could save you. You should have known. They never took you seriously, even in the beginning. That's why the cancer was allowed to spread so far.

But you and your grandmother know what you're doing. You've seen it work. And when it does, when you're healed, you will walk back to the county fair on your own feet and kiss that boy right on his generous mouth to thank him for everything he did.

One day. If you dare. You need to heal first, for that to happen.

So you and your grandmother talk about it, and come to a decision.

Forget about the doctors.

Trust in the crystal.

Trust in the boy.

"Keep your eyes closed," whispers your grandmother, a handful of carefully grounded crystal in her palm. "I will blow it toward you. And when I say so, take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Are you ready?"

You nod.

"Now!"

You open your mouth wide and breathe, and cough, and open your eyes because it hurts so much, and dust flies in your eyes and your mouth is burning, your eyes are burning, your lungs, NO, burning scratching burning bleeding leaking painpainpain –

You scream.

*****

"What were you thinking!" bellows the doctor, somewhere on the other side of the door.

Your grandmother is crying, all hysterical sobs and blubbering mess, incoherent words of desolation falling out of her mouth like a waterfall. You want to tell her it's not her fault – it's not her fault, it's the boy's. The lying boy with his lying tears and those lying curls of shining gold you still want to feel under your fingers, except now you want to feel his lying throat bobbing up and down as you squeeze it just as much.

You want to tell her, but they hooked you up to your oxygen tank and you can't say a word, and you can't reach out to her either because you can't see with all those bandages covering your eyes.

Can’t, can’t, can’t do anything, anything at all.

"It's a miracle it didn't kill her on the spot!" yells the doctor again.

You can hear the angry breath he takes and releases, almost covering your grandmother's cries.

"Your crystal dust buried itself in the tissues, scarred her lungs and cornea," the doctor adds, so quietly you have to strain your ears to hear him speak. "If she was to live, it would be a miracle for her to escape pneumonia and infections. But as it is..."

You shouldn't be listening to this. But you do, you do even if you're not supposed to, even if you're supposed to be sleeping, and resting, and recovering. That's what they told you to do, anyway. Rest, and don't bother your pretty little head with grown-up talk.

Rest.

Rest in peace.

"Her last days will be painful," concludes the doctor. "Dying will be a kindness."

Your grandmother's wail covers every other sound.

The pang of shock in your mind covers every other thought.

Until shock turns to helplessness.

Then anger.

Then hate.

*****

You lie on your back, eyes closed as the priest anoints your forehead with oil, muttering blessings for your soul. Your grandmother cries softly by your bedside as you take one painful inhalation after the other. They've all given you for dead already, talking about you in past tense, hushed murmurs and sniffles in every corner of the room.

You don't care.

You're such a raw mass of unending pain. Nothing else matters but the burning in your lungs and the fever in your eyes and the pounding in your head that erases all ideas, all thoughts, all emotions.

Except one.

And the growing thirst for revenge sustains you in a way nothing else – no medicine, no prayer, no crystal – ever could.

*****

You never knew there was an emotion so powerful as to conjure up miracles – but if you had, you would have bet on love.

And you would have been wrong.

Love, in the end, wasn't enough to save you. Be it the love of God with its many prayers all through the night, or the love of Science on the altar of which you sacrificed your hair – both utterly failed you. Even the love of your grandmother only brought you worse suffering instead of the promised peace and relief.

Love wasn't enough.

But hate is.

Hate allows you to survive night after night until a full month passes. Hate allows you to hang on by a thread until breathing comes easier, until pain ceases. So slowly at first nobody notices you healing. So slowly at first you don't even notice it yourself.

Until you do.

Until they do.

"It's a miracle. Praises be to God," says the priest, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because there is no miracle, there is no God, there is only hate burning bright and hot inside you, turning the cancer to cinders and coal dust.

"It was the crystal. It gave her back her life," says your grandmother, and you want to tell her to shut up shut up shut up, because the crystal nearly killed you, the crystal scratched your eyes away and even hate couldn't give you back your sight.

"It was the treatment. In a few months, we may be able to graft her a new cornea," says the doctor, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because the medicine was never helpful to begin with, they didn't even bother treating your eye infection properly when they thought you were dying, and when you finally get out of here you will never trust a doctor again.

But you don't say a word – because you may be healed but you're still weak, and arguing over what exactly saved you would be a waste of time, a waste of energy. Instead you let hate eat away at any warm emotion you once felt, shield your mind with its cold, hard shell of frozen magma.

Who cares what they all think anyway? You know the truth, and at night you dream of a thousand humiliations and pains for the boy who grievously betrayed you.

[vulcan-highblood]

(Blue) Spirited Away

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Pairing(s): Gen Chapter: 4/? Words: 5k Summary:  Prince Zuko wasn’t able to escape the Northern Water Tribe after the disastrous conclusion to the Siege of the North. However, Aang is more than happy to invite his old pal, the Blue Spirit, to join him and his friends on the first leg of their journey to the Earth Kingdom.

(An AU where Aang never learned the true identity of the Blue Spirit, Zuko is desperate, and Spirits enjoy interfering in the lives of mortals)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Read it on AO3

Taglist: @duh-dobrik

Chapter 4: Stalking and Talking

By the time Zuko felt safe moving again, he was so cold his limbs seemed to have locked up. He wasn’t dumb enough to go back to the same house he’d been in before, but that meant he was once again at a loss for what to do. He needed to find Uncle and get them out, but Uncle hadn’t been in the prison, so where could he be?

Zuko half-wished he’d had the presence of mind to ask the Avatar, but a question like that probably would have come across as suspicious.

Well, fine. Obviously he was going to need to do a little reconnaissance in a more populated part of town.

...once he got the circulation going in his limbs, anyway. Damp furs were the worst, and his breath of fire could only do so much. He was so glad Uncle had taught him the technique, or he’d likely be frozen solid by now. The only problem was all the deep breaths weren’t doing his injured ribs any favors, and using his firebending constantly was exhausting.

Zuko’s stomach growled, reminding him his meager meal of jerky and prunes had not been enough. He wasn’t going to be able to sneak around if his stomach was going to give him away, he was realizing. He’d need to take a few minutes to find another house, rummage through the stores, and find enough food for a meal, and hopefully something to snack on so his stomach would stop complaining. He’d never forgive himself if his grumbly stomach turned out to be the thing that landed him in Water Tribe custody.

Moving slowly so he wouldn’t make a dumb move and get caught (his arms and legs still weren’t working quite the way they should), Zuko began picking through the catapult-decimated area, keeping a sharp eye out for food. As usual, his luck was in full swing, because it took him far longer than he’d hoped just to find something to eat. Then he had to find somewhere hidden so he could lift his mask away from his face and actually eat the food. By the time he had found the food and started eating, he realized he was thirsty, too. Which was stupid, he was surrounded with ice, but somehow the air was dry. He considered the ice scattered around, but it was pretty dirty, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about sucking on someone’s wall. Finally, he found a pot. Then he found himself facing another dilemma - did he drink water straight from the canals? What kind of weird things might be floating in that water? Zuko had learned the hard way the kinds of nasty illness that could get you after drinking bad water - he understood after that why Uncle insisted on drinking so much tea - apparently boiling the water made it a lot less likely to give you horrible stomach cramps and force the contents of your stomach out both ends.

He’d been working on his heat production - after all, he’d used it to melt through ice a few times already, so he should be able to boil water without producing a flame, right? Before he could second-guess himself, Zuko grabbed the pot and marched in the direction of the nearest canal. Only one way to find out, and that was to try. He hadn’t gotten this far by wondering about stuff, he’d just done it. After looking both ways to make sure no one was watching, Zuko scooped some water into the pot and scuttled back for the nearest crumpled building, easing into a narrow corner and clutching the pot between his hands. He had to bend the heat away from his hands, so they didn’t burn, but still needed to heat the water, so it would boil and kill any nasty stomach-cramp diseases that might be in it.

He couldn’t tell at first if his heat-bending was really doing the job, but after a few seconds, a wisp of steam curled from the water in the pot. Then, more steam. Bubbles started to form, and Zuko held it at a rolling boil for a few minutes, until he could feel sweat running down his face from the effort of concentrating on bending the heat in the water but keeping it away from his hands. He was about to set the pot on the ground when he realized that boiling hot and ice didn’t mix. He was going to need to keep bending the heat away from his hands, unless - With a sharp exhale, Zuko pushed the heat out and away from the water entirely, causing a bloom of steam to escape the water. It should be right around  Uncle’s tea temperature, now. He hoped. Otherwise he was about to scald his mouth, because Zuko needed to drink something, now. He’d been thirsty before, but now that he’d been sweating  for the better part of a minute, after having eaten nothing but salted vegetables and salted meat for two meals? He felt like he might die if he didn’t have water now.

Predictably, the water burned his mouth. But only a little bit, and Zuko was too thirsty to care if his tongue felt weird for the next hour or so. He did try to bend a bit more heat off, though, because he didn’t want to keep burning his tongue every time he took a sip. Once he’d drank his fill, he stared at the pot, still half-full, wondering what to do with it. It seemed like a waste to discard the water after he’d gone to all the effort of sterilizing it, but it wasn’t like he could bring it with him, he’d have a hard enough time sneaking around the city without lugging around a large clunky water pot. With a longing look, Zuko stashed it in his hiding place, fairly certain he wouldn’t make it back here, but leaving it just in case. If nothing else, at least he now knew he could boil water without an open flame. That was something, anyway.

Hunger and thirst satisfied for the moment, Zuko slunk back in the direction of the populated areas of the city. Now all he needed to do was find Uncle.

~~*~~

It took Zuko longer than he would have liked to find an area where people were actively walking around, and even longer to find a place where he could hunker down to eavesdrop on the people going by on the streets or sailing along the canals.

It was just his luck that he’d only been there for about twenty minutes before the Avatar and his group walked by. Zuko couldn’t hear much, but what he did hear made him start rethinking his current strategy.

“I still don’t know what kind of guest would be more special than the Avatar,” the peasant girl was saying as they approached. “Who on Earth could be so special that Master Pakku was hosting them in his own home?”

“I think it’s less about how special they are and more about not wanting to host a bunch of kids,” the non-bender said, his tone obviously implying that he didn’t count himself as a kid when he made this point. “He’s not exactly good with… Actually, is he good with any kind of people?”

“Master Pakku is an excellent teacher!” the girl protested as they continued past Zuko’s hiding place.

“Yeah!” the Avatar chimed in, “he’s not very nice, but-”

“That’s what I’m saying! Honestly I feel bad for whoever’s staying with him, that can’t be an ideal situation…” And the group turned the corner, quickly fading from earshot.

But now Zuko was thinking. Master Pakku was in charge of the prisoners. He had a “Special Guest” despite an apparent record of misanthropy. Uncle Iroh was still missing.

Zuko didn’t want to believe it, but Uncle wasn’t exactly the General who led the Siege at Ba Sing Se anymore. Hadn’t been, ever since he came back, after Lu Ten…

The point was, it was entirely possible that a master waterbender like Pakku was holding Uncle Iroh captive! And his best chance of finding Master Pakku’s residence had just walked past him.

If it turned out Uncle wasn’t with the old waterbender, Zuko had no doubt he was going to get an earful about this plan. Even if Uncle was there, he’d probably get a few proverbs, a soft frown, and entirely too many cups of calming tea. Ugh, he never thought he’d miss the exasperating advice and hot leaf water, but he did.

Hopefully, the Avatar wouldn’t notice a shadow following him to the master waterbender’s home. If he did? Well, Zuko would deal with that when it happened, he didn’t have time to think about it now.

Slipping from his hiding place, he trailed the Avatar and his posse. It wasn’t hard, they weren’t exactly moving quietly. The harder part was keeping to the shadows when they kept crossing bridges over canals. Slipping from building to building was one thing - trying to stay surreptitious when you were crossing a bridge? Much harder.

A few times, Zuko thought he’d lost them, but again, they weren’t exactly secretive, and he was able to follow the sound of their voices without much trouble. He caught up with them just as they were gathering around a door, arguing over who should try to get the Master Waterbender’s attention.

“He likes you best, Katara,” the airbender was saying, “You should be the one to ask if we can go in.”

“I don’t know about that,” the girl (Katara?) was protesting.

“He doesn’t even know I exist, I think,” the boomerang guy sighed, “I think it should definitely be you.”

The girl was frowning at that. “I still think the Avatar would be more convincing-”

“Oh by all means, continue bickering about who should announce your presence,” the thick furs at the entrance of the house were flung aside to reveal the grumpy old waterbender. “It’s certainly not going to alert the entire neighborhood to your presence.”

“Master Pakku!” the waterbender girl exclaimed. “We came to ask you about Water Tribe legends.”

That managed to take the old man by surprise. “Why me?” he asked. “I am a warrior, not a story dancer.”

“But you’re an elder, aren’t you?” the Avatar pointed out, which was a nice way of saying the man was old. “I thought all elders know the important stories of the spirits.”

“Knowing them and being good at telling them are two very different things,” the waterbending master replied with a sharp look. “I have had no children of my own to instruct, and the students who come to me are often advanced learners. Most of the tales I tell are those of men, not spirits.”

“Well then who should we ask about the Dark Water Spirit?” the waterbender girl demanded, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at the waterbending master with some measure of defiance.

Zuko was almost impressed. Sure, he was pretty infamous for standing up to authority figures, but he’d also learned the suffering that often followed such insolence. He really hadn’t learned, even in these three years, because he’d turned right around and challenged Zhao, and where had that landed him? Here, stranded in the Northern Water Tribe, with no ship and no crew because Zhao had blown it to smithereens. He’d lost his face (literally, as well as metaphorically, he supposed) to his father’s punishment, and then he’d lost his ship and his crew to Zhao’s retaliation. When was he going to learn?

Shaking his head sharply, Zuko dismissed the thought, returning his attention to the conversation.

“I have heard about a masked figure breaking into the prisoners’ holding area, yes,” the waterbending master was saying, a sour look on his face. Zuko noted with smugness that the man didn’t bother to say he’d been there at the time.

Of course, if the waterbending master had been close enough to actually see Zuko, then Zuko likely wouldn’t have been able to escape, so he pushed aside the urge to smirk and settled back to wait and see if the Avatar’s group was ever going to go inside so he could sneak around to the back of the ice house. If they could keep the master waterbender distracted, it would be all the easier for Zuko to find out if Uncle was here.

“Well we were trying to figure out what it might mean,” the Avatar was saying, “And we thought you would know best, because you’re an elder of the tribe, and a teacher.”

“I teach combat, not history,” Master Pakku grumbled, but it was becoming clear he’d nearly given up on discouraging the Avatar and his water tribe hang-ons. Now he just had to capitulate, let them in, and Zuko could start investigating. “Oh very well, you may come in,” he finally said, tugging the firs aside to allow them entry.

Zuko allowed a small sigh of relief to escape as he watched them bundle into the waterbending master’s house. Once he was certain they’d moved away from the door, he began to creep around it, looking for any other windows where he could listen, or maybe even peek inside.

~~*~~

Master Pakku seemed irritated to be interrupted by them and their questions. Katara had been so excited to come and ask him about the masked person, but now that they were here she began to wonder if they’d made a mistake.

“So what do you want to know?” Master Pakku demanded, settling down on one of his furs and gesturing for them to take one of the other furs scattered around his small house. For an important figure of the tribe, Master Pakku didn’t seem too interested in showing his wealth or influence - which was quite modest of him, Katara found herself thinking absently. She would have expected something more impressive, considering how proud the man was. But perhaps it was the sort of pride in what he could do, more than what he had. She could understand that, it was the same sort of pride she and her brother had. The Southern Water Tribe had very little, but they took great pride in their accomplishments. It was just another little thing that she was coming to appreciate about Master Pakku.

“So I went looking for the mask guy after I heard about him,” Aang began, settling down on the fur nearest Katara before picking up where he’d left off. “And I found him! He was hiding in a hut.”

Master Pakku’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “What was he doing there?”

“Uh, sleeping? I think?” Aang scratched awkwardly at his head as he wilted under the man’s critical eye. “He hadn’t even picked up his sword yet when I got there. But he didn’t try to attack me or anything, he just… left. As soon as I turned around.”

“Tell him about the Fire Nation stronghold!” Sokka urged.

“Right!” Aang turned his earnest gaze back to Pakku. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him!” he exclaimed. “I met him once before, in the Earth Kingdom. I was captured by the Fire Nation, and he broke me out of their cell.”

Master Pakku’s hard gaze grew even more sharp, like a shard of ice. “How do you know the same person who broke you out there is now here?” he demanded.

“Well, he moves the same,” Aang explained, faltering slightly. After all, she and Sokka had believed him right away. They hadn’t thought to really argue with him.

“He was wearing a mask both times, and if someone had similar training, would you be able to differentiate between one warrior and another?” Master Pakku asked.

“Uh… probably?” Aang answered, squirming uncomfortably on the fur. He obviously hadn’t expected the conversation to go like this.

“That’s not why we came, though,” Katara interrupted. “Aang recognized the mask as one of a water spirit. We were wondering if there might be some sort of spirit connection to this person’s actions.”

“A water spirit, yes,” Master Pakku said slowly, “but not a spirit of the Water Tribe.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” Sokka griped from his seat, but a sharp look from both herself and Master Pakku had him quickly backing down. “Fine, sorry, forget I said anything.”

“The Dark Water Spirit - more commonly known as the Blue Spirit - is, in fact, a lesser ocean spirit, but he is not typically found in polar waters,” Master Pakku explained. “He is a spirit of trickery and cunning, who finds pleasure in toying with human lives and has even, at times, taken those lives in the name of La, the Great Spirit of the Ocean.”

Katara turned to look at Sokka. “An ocean spirit that takes lives?” she repeated quietly. Of course, in the Southern Water Tribe, they all knew the ocean was not truly good or evil. Like the tides, sometimes it pushed good favor to them, and other times, it pulled that fortune away. You could depend on the ocean, yes, but it was never safe to trust it completely. The ocean was cold and unforgiving, yet brought forth life and abundance. But a dark water spirit… Katara shuddered to think of the horrors a dark ocean spirit might wreak.

“Yes, although these lives lost are often due to foolishness, absent-mindedness, or a lack of respect for the power of the ocean,” Master Pakku explained. “If you do not respect the ocean, it can very easily remind you of the consequences of such a poor decision.” He turned, then, to Aang. “Tell me, Avatar, have you ever played on the ocean’s shore?”

Aang nodded quickly. “Yeah! It’s a lot of fun, you get to splash in the waves and-” he shut his mouth quickly, seeing the pained look crossing Master Pakku’s features. Katara felt a little sorry for him; Aang was just excited to share, he loved to talk about his experiences. She was a little annoyed with Master Pakku for dimming that enthusiasm. Then again, they’d come here for information, so maybe Master Pakku wasn’t all wrong in his death glare, though Katara still thought he could have let Aang finish.

“And have you heard of a rip current?” Master Pakku continued, apparently choosing to ignore the dirty look Katara was sending his way.

Aang tilted his head quizzically. “No, I don’t think I have,” he answered honestly. “What’s a rip current?” Katara turned to Master Pakku with equal curiosity, noting that Sokka, too, looked more than a little interested.

“Sometimes called the Blue Spirit’s hand,” Master Pakku intoned, “A rip current is a small, surface current - similar to the ones used to navigate the seas,” he explained. “But much smaller, and much more dangerous.”

“How could it be small and dangerous?” Sokka piped up from his seat beside Katara. “If it’s small, it couldn’t really affect any of our vessels, right?”

“Quite right,” Master Pakku agreed, more amiably than Katara had expected, considering Sokka had interrupted him. “However, unlike the poles, in more temperate waters, people often swim on the beach.”

Katara nodded, thinking back to their own fun on Kiyoshi Island, before wincing at the memory of the Unagi. Ice dodging with Bato had been fun, too, but they hadn’t really had much time to play in the sea water.

“Wait a minute,” Sokka said, his voice sharp. “Are you telling me… the current takes people?”  

“Sometimes it just knocks them down and rolls them around a bit, sometimes it drags them out into deep water. Sometimes, those people never make it back to shore,” Master Pakku answered, his eyes serious. “A rip current is a dangerous thing, but if you know what signs to watch for, you can avoid it. As is the case with most trickery, a keen eye for detail and a firm head on your shoulders will help you avoid most of the troubles headed your way.”

Katara nodded, frowning as she considered that. “So a trickster spirit who kills people…”

“Or just likes to play tricks on them!” Aang interrupted. “A trickster, you said. So they aren’t evil?”

“What is evil, to the ocean? What is good?” Master Pakku replied. “The Ocean is, and you must respect it. If you don’t, sometimes people get hurt. You don’t call a polar jaguar evil if it kills a man, for it is in a polar jaguar’s nature to kill and to eat. You blame the man for not approaching his hunt with the necessary caution and respect to subdue such a beast. The Ocean is like that, too. You must approach it with caution and respect, and should you lose your life to it, perhaps you have not respected it as much as you should.” Master Pakku nodded firmly to emphasize his point.

Sokka was nodding along with Katara - they’d both grown up knowing this, but it was still a difficult concept to think about, especially when there was a person out there taking the guise of a killer trickster spirit. Because while the Ocean may not be evil, people sure could be. Katara frowned, slowly bringing up that point. “So if the man in the mask is disguising himself as a trickster spirit of the ocean…”

“He must be against the Fire Nation! I mean, water and fire are opposites, right?” Aang looked hopeful. “He helped me once before, I’m sure he’d help us again if we needed it.”

Master Pakku looked about as convinced as Sokka, which wasn’t much. Katara wasn’t sure she agreed with their skepticism, though. Anyone who was helping Aang escape the Fire Nation couldn’t be all bad. Sure, whoever it was wore the mask of a trickster. They might be tricky, then. That was a lot better than the Fire Nation, which really was evil! As far as she was concerned, tricky beat evil any day.

“We don’t know what that man wants,” Master Pakku replied, “And I urge you to approach him as you would the ocean - with caution, and respect.”

“I can do that,” Aang promised, with a speed that made Katara wonder if he really meant it. “I just wish we could find him-”

At that moment, as if by providence, they heard a crashing sound and some yelling from just outside.

“Hey! You there!! Stop!”

“It’s the masked intruder! Get him!”

“Master Pakku! The masked man!”

By the time the third person had finished shouting, all four of them were piling out of Master Pakku’s house and into the street, where they saw - a man, not very big, bundled in pale furs, dual swords drawn, with a blue spirit-mask tied over his face.

And Aang, of course, couldn’t resist stepping in, breezing his way past the warriors to stand right in front of the sharp swords of a man wearing the mask of a trickster spirit. “Hey! Masky! You came back!”

~~*~~

If Aang looked surprised to see the Blue Spirit Mask Guy, the Blue Spirit Mask Guy (Sokka was going to have to figure out some better shorthand, that took way too long to say) looked way more surprised to be confronted with a bubbly airbender. Which was fair, as he’d obviously been gearing up for a fight with some guys who must have caught him sneaking around. 

Actually, now that he considered that, why was the guy sneaking around? What was he after? Was he looking for someone or something in particular?  

“Avatar Aang,” Master Pakku called exasperatedly, “Those are swords.”

“I know, cool, right?” Aang replied, gesturing to the gleaming steel with a wide grin, obviously having completely missed the point.

In fairness, the Blue Spirit Mask Guy (ugh) looked as exasperated as Master Pakku, which was impressive considering all he had to work with was his body language. Sokka considered getting a few pointers - he’d kill to be able to express sheer exasperation through a slouched shoulder or two.

Slowly, which was probably a good idea considering he was facing down some heavy hitters in the form of Master Pakku, Aang, and Katara, the Blue Spirit Mask Guy (Blue Guy? Mask Guy? Ugh) slowly sheathed his swords and lifted his hands in the air.

“Where did you go before?” Aang was asking the guy, apparently not having absorbed any part of Master Pakku’s suggestion that the mysterious Mask Guy (yeah no he wasn’t feeling it) be approached with caution and respect.

Oddly, the Blue Masked Guy (that's a negative) gestured briefly, waving his hands in a small circle before pointing to the street. Sokka had no idea what the guy was trying to say, and it seemed like Aang wasn’t too sure, either, because he tilted his head as if scrutinizing the Mask-Wearing Menace (nah) before brushing the matter aside. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here now,” he declared, grabbing the Blue Spirit’s arm (still not quite doing it) and dragging him towards Master Pakku, Sokka, and Katara. “Hey guys!” he called as he manhandled a man who seemed almost twice his size past the first of the three Water Tribesmen who had sounded the alarm, “This is the guy who saved me from that Fire Nation fortress!”

Sokka hadn’t realized it was possible for someone to look embarrassed while wearing a mask, but this guy’s cringe was on point. He looked like he was shrinking into himself more with every step closer that Aang took. Sokka was about to remind Aang to proceed with caution and respect when Katara stepped forward.

“Hi,” his darling, idiotic sister said, approaching Aang and his Masked Friend (not that one, either). “I’m Katara. Thank you for helping Aang, it means a lot to us.”

If Masky (it would do, for the time being) could have melted into the ground, at this point he probably would have. At least, it sure seemed that way. He nodded jerkily, before shuffling into an awkward Earth Kingdom style bow. Huh. Interesting. Sokka noted Katara filing that information away as well, and felt a small flush of pride. She was annoying, sure, but she was still his sister, and she was smart and capable. He’d never ever admit it to her face, but moments like these, he was glad to be her big brother. “And I’m Sokka,” he added, joining the group because it seemed like the situation was pretty well defused at this point (at least the swords had gone away) and he figured a bit of solidarity was in order. “And you are?”

Masky shrugged one shoulder, gestured briefly with his hands, then shrugged again.

“Can’t you talk?” Katara asked, sounding concerned. “Are you hurt?”

Masky shook his head in a negative response, pointed to his throat, gestured low to the ground (about toddler height), made a slashing motion at his throat, then shrugged again, as if to say it was something from when he was young. Pretty impressive gesture work, all things considered. “So what do we call you, then?” Sokka pressed, not willing to let this one drop. He was not going to keep calling him Masky.

Masky had the audacity to shrug, then point to his mask.

“I am not calling you Masky,” Sokka declared.

Masky recoiled a bit, as if he hadn’t expected that, then pointed at his pants, next.

“I’m also not calling you pants,” Sokka added. “Or any other clothing or accessory.”

Masky gestured exasperatedly for a second before pointing at the sky, his mask, and his pants in rapid succession, then pointed at Sokka, Katara, and Master Pakku. This confused all of them.

“I gotta admit, I am totally lost,” Sokka said. “I guess Masky it is.”

Masky made a sort of strangling gesture in the air, then sighed, nodding slowly.

“So… Masky,” Master Pakku said dryly, wincing slightly as though the word Masky left a bad taste in his mouth, “Why are you here?”

Masky made an exaggerated gesture of looking, lifting a hand up to his forehead and gazing dramatically to the left and the right.

“You’re looking for something?” Sokka guessed.

Masky nodded sharply, then lifted his left hand up over his eye and wiggled his fingers.

Aang and Katara exchanged confused glances with Sokka, but Master Pakku seemed to figure it out pretty fast.

“You’re looking for the Fire Nation Prince, Zuko?” he asked.

Masky nodded a few times, then gestured as if setting something aside, and stretched his arms out wider, as if he were more bulky, then pantomimed drinking tea.

Master Pakku’s eyes narrowed as he said, “And his … Uncle?”

Masky nodded again.

As surprising as it was to hear that there was someone apparently pursuing Aang’s pursuer, Sokka had a bigger question. As far as he knew, Pakku had been out fighting the invasion when Zuko and his Uncle had shown up.

So how did he know they were here? And if he knew that they were here, why wasn’t he looking for them?