#cheap smoking products

[venacoeurva]

I don't really keep up with Watcher anymore aside from the drunk ghost stories, but oh my god leaving Youtube and starting your own streaming service, let alone during a period where people have like no money and people are very annoyed with streaming services, is such a terrible idea

[xfinity-distro28]

Elevated Experience: Silicone Nectar Collectors from Xfinity Distro

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[ms-demeanor]

Hey also you know that post about getting better at cooking and handling meat and stuff?

Meat is really expensive and it goes bad pretty quickly.

If you're a new cook and you're trying to figure out how to pan-fry something so that it tastes good, might I recommend tofu?

I'm not saying "treat tofu like meat and try to replace all your favorite meat dishes with tofu" (though, I mean, if that sounds good - go for it), I'm saying "it's a lot easier to practice heating a pan and flipping objects in a pan for a meal and seasoning objects in a pan when the objects in the pan cost two dollars instead of ten dollars."

Tofu lasts a lot longer in the fridge than meat does, is easy to season, and you can easily learn how to pan-fry it into a tasty snack (or main course) and only requires a little extra prep. You can also pretend that the tofu is raw meat (the texture isn't dissimilar) and start practicing for things like how to take it out of a package or cut it on a sanitizable surface, etc.

My favorite way to cook tofu is to press extra firm tofu for at least half an hour (you can get a cheap tofu press for around ten dollars, or you can put it between two plates with some books on the top plate - this is that extra prep i was talking about - tofu cooks best if you press the excess water out), then slice a 14oz cake of it into 8 slices. I lay these flat and sprinkle cayenne pepper, mushroom powder, and smoked paprika on all of the slices, then I rub it in and flip the slices and season the other side the same way. I cook it in a frying pan with a thin layer of avocado or olive oil over medium heat, flipping every two minutes until the flat sides start to crisp up a little. Just before the last flip I add about a tablespoon of tamari sauce (you can use soy sauce, I've just got allergies) to the pan, sprinkling it over the tofu so that both sides get a little bit of sauce on them.

I have that with steamed vegetables and with jasmine rice (with two teaspoons of rice wine vinegar per 3 cups of dry rice and 4.5 cups of water). I also make a honey-siracha-mayo sauce that I dip the tofu in.

It's really good. And now I end up eating leftover rice and sauce with fried eggs for lunch at least two days a week and that's also really good.

This has become one of my go-to low spoon foods because it's so easy to make, it's filling, it tastes good to me, and it has become extremely easy for me to keep a stock of tofu in the fridge compared to the effort of keeping un-expired meat in the fridge.

I find that a 14oz pack of tofu feeds two adults for one meal, though I can stretch that to three meals if I'm the only one eating.

It makes a very cheap, filling, easy dinner that I can keep the ingredients around for without too much concern for food waste or anything going bad (the tofu that I get lasts about a month in the fridge and these days I just buy three packs every time I'm at aldi and cycle in new stock - it costs $1.50 per pack)

If you're interested in becoming a better cook, rather than worrying about actual high-risk products like raw chicken that can be seriously dangerous and also cost a fair amount, tofu has a pretty low barrier to entry while also being a good way to learn on a new ingredient that has some similar properties to raw meat.

[heartfullofleeches]

I'm awake, mostly coherent, and still in love with Stoner Yan desperately in need of getting railed by his ghost/monster roommate he can only see when inebriated. Loser Stoner Boy who buys some cheap house on the market using his payout from his recently deceased mother's life insurance- Anything is better than his shitty apartment with no working stove and it's not like he'll be there long anyway. His only goal left in life is to use the rest of his cash to get so high he can barely feel his body wasting away. He quit school, never had too many friends to begin with, and his only real hobbies were smoking in various parks til he was kicked out. Life's going nowhere for him, so whatever happens to him happens.... Even waking up in bed when he expressly recalls passing out on the couch. When did he order a bed anyway? When was the last time he ordered food for himself that wasn't to satisfy whatever craving he had?

Waking up from another bender, he finds groceries at his doorstep - a message on his phone confirming a successful delivery. Any mess or spill he leaves around the house is magically cleaned by morning. The one time he wanted to try a stronger drug, he found the needles smashed and floating in the toilet. Strange occurrences became more obvious of another presence in his home, but it never hurt him so why should he care? He was often too high for the question to even cross his mind. That still left the thought of who or whatever it was buzzing around in the back of his mind...

The answer came on a night he decided to finally use the bed in his room without being carried there first-

A still shape bathed in the moonlight from the window. What he could see of it appeared to be a product of the light itself. Its body was slightly too large for the mattress- legs bent into its chest as it slumbered. Annoyed more than anything, he found a comfortable spot on the floor to lay-

The figure was gone by the time he woke up next morning, tucked in between with an apple placed in his hand for the hunger sure to grip him once he arose.

Forgot this was supposed to be a horny post for a minute so Tldr; Stoner Boy falls in love with his "roommate" and decides his pussy is the best gift to give them because he can't do shit less- Frequently smoking without wearing his sweats or even his boxers on if he's feeling extra freaky-

Monster Reader just wants him to go back to college and make better friends first

[icarusredwings]

What things smell like according to Logan Howlett/ The Wolverine. A series of smell based headcanons. Do with these whatever you want :)

People:

Ororo: burnt marshmellows, rain, chunky chocolate chip cookies, protien shakes, spansih rice, chillies, and cocoa butter. She always smells great.

Scott: cucumber shampoo, the remaints of a bonfire the next day, fresh dry cleaning, axe shower gel, lavender sheets

Jean: caramel latte, lavender sheets, vanilla spiced chai, books, mint ice cream, fruit smoothies, stinky hair product, lemon poppy seed muffins, sassafras

Hank: Books, sanatizer, various chemicals, a very specifc fur dander, kinda musky but in a 'im covered in fur and sweaty' kind of way.

Rouge: "Dolly Parton", brick and concrete dust, cherry blossoms body spray, freshly engraved wood, strawberries and milk conditioner, spicy gaucamole and freshly sizzled sausages.

Gambit: tv static, a fresh deck of cards at the casino, spicy jumbo, gin, lime jello, hair gel, "suprisingly good actually"

Kurt: brimstone, smoke from franckinsense, myrrh, a less smelling dander then hank, Holy chrism oil (olive oil and Balsam made by catholic priests), metal, and blue raspberry. Fur/ beard pomade sometimes for special ocassions.

Morph: even when changed he can smell is sandlewood shampoo, he smells like how "Jack Outta smell", latex, pine and cedar, clear nail polish, "that ugly quilt that your grandma kept on the back of her couch that was the warmest, softest thing you've ever slept with."

Charles: Old man fart, metal, chalk, shoe polish, nutmeg, wool, "a trusting hug", books, mahogany, expensive champagne.

Laura: "teen spirit", a shitty cheap "girl power" deodorant that doesn't do well hiding the sweat, apples and peaches, kinda woodsy.

Wade: Cancer, gun smoke, citrus dish soap, blood, oranges, taco sauce, infected skin once in awhile, red dye 40, slight over cooked and crispy apple pie, sugary cereal

Puppins: wet dog, dog dander, oatmeal senstive skin puppy shampoo, chicken, "the dirtest trash she can find to roll in on her walk"

Althea: Old lady, way too strong perfumes, butter biscuits, tea, peppermint candies, more cocaine, "baby powder", lanvender linens, cotton and daisy's Landry detergent.

Feelings/emotions:

Big/serious lies: smell like Gasoline and salty sand near the sea.

Small fibs/playful/ teasing lies: smell like Anise

Lies with decent intentions/are bent truths: smell like honey

Those two are easily mixed up.

Innocent (the person truly believes it. Ex. A child saying dinos are real) truth: smells like thick vanilla creamer.

Filling, whole truths (the person knows for a fact its a truth) smells: like fresh baked rolls/buns

Cancer smells vary like: urine, nail polish remover, some people have a pungent semi sweet smell like rotting fruit, and tar is another smell, depending on which part of the body. If already in late stages, one can smell like cadavers. Even spicy almost.

Pregnant people vary in scent but he can smell the rise of different hormones: Some hormones sweeter then other. If you asked him he would say cinnamon or dying roses. If you're later in your term the scents are more soft like lotion or custard. Lemon ussually.

Serotonin; cheese, lemon cakes, fruity, a bit light, and flakey like a pastry. Marshmellow fluff.

Dopamine; sweet fresh coffee, doritos(?), cocaine. Don't ask why he knows what cocaine smells like. He was alive during coke cocaine.

Endorphins; Sweaty Sex, mint, dark chocolate, violets, chemicals, varies by persons pheromones

Oxytocin; "playful cherries", freshly washed cotton pillows, the warmth of a bath, skin on skin hugs, strawberries

Joy/relaxation/relief: Jasmine, vanilla sugar cookies, fresh soup.

Anger/disapproval/hurt: smoke, the back end of a cigarette, spicy curry, iron, blood, "spoiled raw chicken left out too long"

Fear/excitment/anxiousness: Adrenaline smells like oil, paint, salty pretzels almost.

Tears: Oceans, lillies, fresh water lakes

[cryptidghostgirl]

Unexpected (Vox x Fox Demon!Reader)

Pairing: Vox x Reader

Description: Vox tries to make a deal with Y/n.

Warnings: Valentino is his own warning. Um, slightly explicit near the beginning? Nothing too bad. Cigarettes.

Word Count: 2,928

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

A/N Considering the returns on my most recent poll, I figured I should get this slightly steamy little idea I've had for a while out there in the world.

Vox had never been one to make deals with lesser demons, to take their souls. No, that was Valentino's thing. Vox didn't need to own a soul to get a demon to do what he wanted for one, and for another, Vox didn't particularly like people. He preferred to work alone, to be alone. Life was much more productive that way.

The other Vees were different. Vox allowed them in his life because they were useful, they solidified and expanded his power. Anyone else was just a waste of time and space.

Speaking of the other Vees, Vox right now was on his way to visit Valentino. At Velvette's request, he was aiming to talk to the man about whatever scene he'd instigated at a club the night before. It just happened to be his luck because of course it was his fucking luck that the only spare moment he had to deal with the situation was when Val was filming.

Vox burst through the studio doors, making a beeline for Valentino who sat in a director's chair before the set. He was well practiced at approaching his business partner while the man was working and averted his eyes, trying his best to keep focus on the task at hand.

"Val." he hummed in irritation as he came to a stop beside the moth demon's chair, "What did you do last night?"

Valentino blew out a puff of pink smoke, fixing his eyes on Vox.

"Whatever do you mean?"

The feigned innocence coming from this man was laughable. Vox rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, to reveal what Velvette had told him. By chance, just at that moment, he happened to look away.

It wasn't on purpose. There had been a sound from the set that had involuntarily grabbed Vox's attention. His eyes widened, his screen glitching with fury as he turned back to Valentino.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked pointing to the set.

There, in the middle of the bed was a demon. That was far from unusual, as was the demon's half dressed state. What was unusual was the fact that the demon had been dressed up to look exactly like Vox himself. Well, not exactly. The actor had a box over his head with a fake screen on the front. A cheap costume but one that was most certainly supposed to be him.

There was another demon beneath him, a short thing with with wide eyes and the large ears of a fennec fox. It was then that the sound that caught his attention registered with Vox. Trapped under the other actor's arms, his lips to her neck, she had moaned his name.

"Hmm?"

Val lazily threw his gaze to the stage before smiling.

"Just my newest project. Don't you worry."

"Val, I am definitely worried. I want you to cancel this, right now."

"Oh comon Voxy!" Valentino pleaded, "Think of all the money it would bring in! Half of Hell wants to get dicked down by you for Christ's sake."

Vox folded his arms over his chest, actively not looking at the pair who were still on stage. They had not stopped what they were doing for the sake of the overlord's conversation and Vox was so high strung that he nearly flinched at the sound of fabric tearing.

"Val."

His voice came out deep and mangled, as if his speakers were turned up way too loud. Vox's eye twitched slightly in irritation, his hands clenched into fists. Valentino just watched him for a moment before sighing. Waving his hand, he turned to the stage.

"That's a wrap everyone!" he called and Vox turned to watch at the whole crew of demons, including the pair of actors, turned to their boss, "We're trashing this script."

If anyone had complaints, they dared not voice them before the two overlords. Slowly, the crew began to pack up.

"Thank you." Vox reluctantly said to Val.

His eyes were fixed on the two actors, something that did not escape Valentino's notice as he waved the words of thanks off.

"You owe me one."

"Whatever."

The man had pulled himself from the bed by now and discarded the false head he'd been wearing. With a kindly smile, he held a hand out to the girl he'd been on top of just moments before. She sat up, leaning back on her arms. Vox watched her lips move and though he couldn't hear what she said over the clamor, he assumed it must've been a joke as the other demon laughed.

Gently, and with much more grace than Vox could have thought she was capable of, she took the demons hand and brought herself off the bed. Vox's breath caught in his throat because of course, of fucking course, Valentino had decided to dress her like that.

If Val was good at anything, it was guessing someone's kinks just by looking at them. A party trick but in practice, very useful for his line of work. The demon was dressed in blue and red lingerie, running like twisting wires over her limbs, pressing gently into her skin in just the right way. The remnants of a black dress, the source of the earlier sound of torn fabric no doubt, lay in the imprint of her body on the bed. Vox didn't care if it was predictable, she looked fucking hot.

With that specific breed of confidence that seems only to belong to pornstars, the pair began heading toward the door. Muffled, as if through water, Vox heard Valentino ask him something.

"Yeah." Vox absently replied, tearing his eyes away from the pair and meeting Valentino's gaze.

Val smirked up at him knowingly.

"You alright there Voxy?" he hummed, "Fox got your tongue?"

"I am not going to deign that with a response. If you ever pull shit like this agai-"

"Yeah yeah. Doll!"

Vox followed Val's shifted line of sight to see that the girl had stopped by the door which was being held open for her by her scene partner. She turned to face Val, suddenly taking on a much more demure demeanor than she had previously displayed. Hands clasped before her, she met her boss's eyes across the expanse of the room.

"Yes?" she called, her voice like music.

"Val." he warned under his breath for what felt like the umpteenth time.

Valentino, of course, ignored him, seeking his own entertainment and profit above all else.

"Come here for a second, would you?"

She nodded, saying something to the demon behind her over her shoulder. With a shrug, he left the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. Stepping carefully between the frantic workers, the girl made her way across the room to Vox and Val. She stopped before Val's chair, looking up at him through her lashes.

"What did you want to see me for, sir."

Her words were careful, perfectly annunciated.

"Back here in ten. You've got another job."

"Yes, Valentino." she replied, bowing her head just the slightest bit towards the man.

Val's wicked grin widened.

"Wear the white."

"Yes, Valentino."

It was like those were the only two words she knew. She treated the horrific man before her with the utmost respect, never once taking her eyes off of him.

"You may go."

Val waved her off with a lazy flick of his hand.

"Thank you, sir."

Another slight bow and the girl turned, her hair splaying out slightly at the ends from her sudden movement. As she made for the door once again, she shot a momentary glance at Vox. It was as if the world had stopped turning the second their eyes met. It felt like an eternity of him losing himself in their sticky softness. Then, she was gone.

Vox didn't understand what was happening. Sure, he had found people attractive before. He'd engaged in hookups, wasted time on the occasional relationship but nothing -- nothing -- had ever been like this. Every time he shut his eyes, there she was. Every spare second, his mind drifted to her. He found himself staring off into space, the image of that wry smile she had shot her costar as he had helped her off the bed burned into his memory.

The worst part was she was one of Val's girls and Val's girls were always trouble. The look they had shared, the scene she had been in, the way his name had sounded spilling from her soft lips, Vox knew it meant nothing to her. She had probably already forgotten it by now. The worst part was, it wasn't nothing to him. His muscles tensed at just the thought of the sound, at the idea of him being the one to actually make her beg for him rather than some cheap excuse for a facsimile. The worst part was, he didn't even know her name. In Val's gaze, she was just another body to profit off of. She was a doll, unworthy of any other title. The idea of someone seeing her so cheaply made him glitch because god, he had only met her once, but she was so much more than a toy. Vox was sure of it.

Wrapped in fantasy, he crafted an image of the girl. Vox imagined her patterns of being, what she must be like as a person -- so obedient but with that dry sense of humor he had attributed to her with no evidence save that she'd managed to make one person laugh in front of him one time. Vox never expected to see her again. He thought that the demon would be forever relegated to his dreams, to the recesses of his mind. He thought she'd be dead in a week, with Val's track record.

Vox pulled himself from his desk chair with a sigh. Three hours had passed and he just couldn't bring himself to be productive. She was a menace, a true vixen with those fox ears and tail to match. He would curse her very name for what she was doing to him if he knew what it was.

"Some fresh air. That's all I need." he said to the emptiness of his office, "Yeah."

The back doors of the Vee's building were seldom used, even by the people who worked there. Half the paparazzi didn't even know that they existed and so, he planned his escape. Of course it had to be his luck because it was always his goddamn luck these days wasn't it that the second he opened the door, it was to the smell of cigarette smoke and the image of a demon leaning against the building's brick exterior.

Vox let the door fall shut behind him with a heavy bang. The demon shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

"Escaping?" she asked.

He hadn't wanted anyone to see him. More importantly, he hand't wanted to see anyone, let alone talk to him. Vox sighed, adjusting his sleeves as he turned to face the demon fully.

She looked up at him, squinting slightly against the sun. Vox's heart stuttered in his chest. She looked... different and it wasn't just because she was fully dressed this time. There was no doubt about it however, this was the demon from the studio just a few weeks before.

None of the playful joy or diligent respect from their last encounter remained in her features, she just looked tired. Black jeans and a leather jacket, hair pulled up and away from her face, not a speck of makeup to be seen besides the smudged remnants of mascara beneath her eyes.

"You... you're that... you're one of Val's..."

"Victims?" she chuckled ruefully, "Yeah. I am."

"You're the one from..."

"Last week? Yep. Sorry about that, by the way. If it's any consolation, it was uncomfortable for us too."

Vox was speechless, stunned, utterly taken aback and completely blindsided. The exact thing he was trying to escape, standing before him and utterly contrary to his every previously conjured image.

"Want a smoke?"

"Uh, no thanks. Don't smoke."

The girl shrugged.

"Mind if I do."

"No."

She took another long drag, watching the smoke she blew out as it hung blue in the air. She shot him a sidelong glance.

"You just gonna stand there?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

She laughed. Vox wasn't expecting her to do that.

"S'pose I do."

The idea of a walk had long left Vox's mind. He leaned against the wall across from her in the cramped ally, watching as she anxiously checked the time.

"Goddamn."

She lowered her arm, shaking the sleeve of her jacket back over the watch and looking wistfully out towards the exit of the ally.

"Val?"

"Val."

"You seem... you're different than I expected you to be."

"Thats your fault for having expectations."

She smiled at him like a shark watching prey and he nodded his head to the side in mild agreement.

"What's your name?"

Her smile fell, eyes widening slightly. One of her ears twitched and Vox could hear the sound of her tail shifting against the wall. The world felt so far away. Right now, there was nothing else in existence except for himself, the ally, and the fox before him.

"Vix..." she bowed theatrically after a moment, "is my porn name."

Her eyes shot up to his as she finished her phrase, the same confident and, he now realized, performative smile curling the edges of her lips.

"But my parents called me Y/n."

The demon straightened herself up, holding a hand out to Vox. He regarded it carefully for a moment before placing his hand in hers.

"Vox."

"I know."

Y/n took a final drag from her cigarette, stamping the butt out on the ground beneath the heavy heel of her boot.

"Well," she sighed with one last look to the shock of sky they could see between the buildings, "I best be going. Nice meeting you."

"Wait!"

Vox hadn't meant to say it, nor had he meant to frantically latch onto her arm. Y/n flinched slightly under the contact, stilling before the door and turning back to him, her brow furrowed.

"Why do you..." he cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly pink, "How'd you end up... working... here."

Y/n laughed again. She had to admit, his flustered state was rather endearing, not at all what she had expected from one of the most feared overlords in all of Hell.

"For Val?" she asked and he nodded in response, "Same as every other wayward soul. He offered me something I couldn't refuse, and I was too naive to understand the price."

It took Vox a moment for her words to register with him, for her cryptic language to translate in his mind.

"He owns your soul?"

Y/n nodded once, all traces of amusement having fallen from her face.

"For what."

"Fame! Money! Riches!" she sarcastically called out with wild swings of her arms.

She stilled in her movements, a wry smile flashing across her face as she met his eyes again, her arms falling to her sides.

"Really?"

"Nah, I'm not that classy. I needed protection."

"From what?"

"Anything. I was new and I was afraid."

"And now you're trapped."

"Now I am trapped." Y/n concurred solemnly, "And I have to go."

"Do you want to go?"

Y/n thought for a moment before shaking her head.

"You're not what I expected you to be."

"Thanks?" Vox questioned after a moment, "I am not sure if you meant that as a compliment."

"Yeah."

It was a noncommittal answer and one that sent sparks of anxiety like shards of broken glass through him.

"I meant more so do you want to go to Val."

"Do I want to go get fucked by twenty guys or whatever he's gonna have me do? Of course fucking not. I don't really have a say in the matter so its not really important what I want."

"Of course it's important what you want."

Vox's mouth was moving a hundred times faster than his head. He couldn't seem to make it stop. Y/n's eyes went wide, she shook her head slightly as if ridding it of a thought.

"Maybe in another afterlife." she joked.

"What if... what if I could... fix this for you."

A pause, tense and full of longing. An intake of breath.

"What do you mean?"

"If you make a contract with another demon, Val's would be void."

"Another demon like you."

"Yes."

"I..."

She trailed off, looking up at him with wide eyes. Her tail wagged once happily behind her before all traces of hope were swallowed once again by the utter desolation.

"I dug my grave, Vox."

"But you don't have to lie in it."

He was practically begging her, his hand on her arm again. He couldn't recall when he had placed it there after her wild movements earlier in detailing her deal had thrown it from her. She looked down, examining the place where flesh made contact with leather. Y/n's eyes met his again, she shook him off.

"One deal is bad enough. Trading chains for chains doesn't change anything."

"But it could."

"Look, Vox. I have to go."

Y/n turned her back on him and opened the door. She hesitated for a moment, leaning on it's edge.

"It was nice to meet you."

Vox watched as she disappeared, the door slamming behind her.

----

A/N It doesn't matter if you guys want a part two or not because there will be one.

[forthelostones]

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ➺ 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 #5

anderson construction and landscaping had been parked outside your door since you returned home from university. as if the summer couldn't get any hotter, the business owner works overtime in your area. anderson is collecting new, loyal clients of your neighbors, cementing her permanence in your life for the next few months. what's to come of your girlish crush when she keeps showing up?

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 18+ (mdni); age-gap, young!reader, older!abby, butch!abby, slow-burn, suggestive language, thoughts of infidelity, ellie ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parents, nickname: sweetheart, and modern au.

𝚊𝚗. yall! life has been crazy. your girl is finally back. I'm so sorry I love you all for loving me. lets geeettt etttt. x (this chapter is loosely proofread)

♫ 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. change your mind by moonchild ♫

I kick the duvet off my bed onto the floor, leaving my skin frozen as the blue sky begins to make an appearance like an oil painting on my bedroom walls. My throat is dry and my muscles are tight. I cried before I went to bed but this time it wasn’t over the business, it was about me. When was the last time I cried about me? A deep yawn allowed a stretch to be released from my stiff body. I don’t remember falling asleep here but my back thanked me for it. What happened yesterday? In-house client consultations weren't unpopular just not as common as they used to be. Most days, folks want a Pinterest-made bathroom cutting out the middle price of my creativity. Like I say, who am I to complain?

My phone was crowded with email notifications of applicants. I was one step closer to taking a huge load off my shoulders and that felt good. So good, that I brewed a pot of coffee because I had the time. I reached under the kitchen sink and among the disorganized cleaning products a Mr. Coffee Pot was birthed. I had switched to a fancy automatic dispenser but there’s nothing like a cheap hot drip. I perch my lips on the edge of my mug before opening my mouth. Across the yard, through the window is my neighbor Nora, the lemon lady, as I call her. Just about this time of the year, she would leave a small brown crate of lemons on my front porch. Our conversations were short and awkward but she was a pretty lady to look at. She was heading to work in a blue dress that suctioned her body and extenuated the light brown fro flourishing on her scalp. I wonder how she's doing, my wonder would never be strong enough to open the door and ask that.

Hair and teeth were brushed promptly before opening my laptop and scheduling interviews. The most recent application was from the woman who stood in my house just last night. My first instinct was to pick up my phone and send a photograph with a witty sentence accompanying it. However, I refrained and stared at the email. I could hear her voice describe the elements of her resume. It was a sweet delusion and ghostly experience to recall her rasp but it eased some tension to know I could possibly have her around more.

I didn’t know what to do with the time I had magically acquired this morning. The possibilities seemed vast and the anxiety I felt from the thought of breaking my routine made me just sit in silence. A silence that was paired with fantastical grandeur from a childish part of my brain. Daydreaming about her was a great way to begin my morning.

Over to the loudest street on the west side with two clients already secured, I felt accomplished with the direction both projects were going. A turn down the road revealed a paramedic hauling away a gurney. Without worrying about the parking situation I pull the keys out of the ignition and jog over to the scene. All my men were crowding around the truck and I pushed through them to see pale bone breaking through the flesh of my roofer. I winced at the sight and looked up quickly to meet the eyes of the victim. 

“Boss,” He chuckled in a stupefied state. “ I fell down.” 

We all shared a moment of happiness that the injury didn’t result in any other damage. I took pride in knowing workers comp was going to take care of him for the healing. If it ever did. My back pocket floods with vibrations and I finally interrupt them. 

6:55 am: paramedics? what’s happening abby? 

7:04 am: hello? are you okay?

7:05 am: I don’t see you. where are you? 

As I begin to type and move out of the road to allow the paramedics to leave then I see her, standing on the sidewalk with her house shoes on and draped in a short robe. I could see a bit of relief on her face as I approached her. The closer I got the more nervous I felt but she didn’t have to know that. 

“Gosh, I’m sorry.” She brings her hand to her forehead. 

“So, you were worried?” I poke. 

She chuckles lightly, “My mom made me come outside and check.” 

“Oh right.” I laughed to hide my embarrassment. 

“Well, I’m going back to bed.” She mentioned but her feet didn’t move. 

“Long night?” 

“Longest. It should be illegal to get into arguments after 10 p.m.” 

Her girlfriend was stressing her out again and now that I looked closer, her under eyes were puffy and darkened. She kept her up all night, hopefully not arguing about something concerning me. 

“I agree, that’s a good rule.” 

“I’ll see you later, okay?” 

I nod and turn back towards my truck, wishing we were going in the same direction instead of the opposite one. 

Well into the afternoon I saw her glint in her front yard tending to the blossoming flowers. The old, form-fitting grey sweatpants were dirtied on the knees with brown and green alike. I was leaning against the truck and secretly watched her clean her forehead with her matching shirt, darkened by sweat. I couldn’t stop thinking about how to approach her about the application. Once she had enough digging done she sat in the grass on her behind, leaning on her hands, with her head tossed back. 

I mustered the courage to step away from the car and got a clear view of the most toned parts of her body. My mouth became dry and I had to find the moisture again by lolling my tongue over my lips. She lifted her hand to wave slightly and then to hide her eyes from the sun, even though I am sure she knew it was me. My shadow covered her with a temporary coolness under the fiery sun to which she audibly sighed. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” I smile. 

She opens her big eyes and follows my belt buckle up to my face. She looks glorious in that position, dominant yet completely able to be persuaded. The curves on her body were muscle as much as they were fat. A glorious mixture that made me crave her more — especially when I’m not supposed to. 

“Ms. Anderson,” She giggled playfully. 

“I saw your application, post-graduate life got you desperate?” 

I wasn’t much of a tease toward women I liked, but in the moment it felt good to watch her face contort in a false sense of temporary anger.

“Don’t think I’d be a good employee?” 

I shrug at her comment but inside the vision of her in business casual clothing, debriefing clients, and leading weekly meetings painted my cheeks red. A woman in charge of me was something I didn’t often relish enough. The facade I give off is the opposite of what’s expected but if she gains my trust… Suddenly, she stood up with her hands clasped around her hips breaking my lewd thoughts. The tips of her fingers slightly perched under the fabric of her loose top. 

“I’m not sure,” I grin. “Isn't that what the interview determines?” 

She rubs her glove up the side of her forearm, leaving traces of soil on her skin. The sunshine reflecting from her body is nearly blinding. I fought off the urge to clean away those imperfections on her.

“Does this mean I have an interview?” She perked up on her heels in excitement. 

The motion triggered a reflex to wrap my hands around her hips and pull her inward as I bent her backward for a passionate kiss. I unknowingly took a step forward as the screeching of a '98 Cadillac Seville pulled quickly into the driveway to separate us. The car hummed and scrapped against the pavement causing me to wince. It was her girlfriend, Ellie. I should move. I should lift my feet and walk back down the street and drill a nail into some wood, but I don’t. 

Ellie slams the door to her car with her greasy hair tucked behind both ears and a slouch on her spine. Her eyes avoid my face and I’m glad that they do. 

“Woah, you’re all dirty,” Ellie smirks. 

“Gardening.” Her one word answer even stings me. 

“Let’s get cleaned up, hm?” Ellie’s hand gently clasps her elbow but she pulls away. 

“After I’m done talking to Abby. Why don’t you go up to my room and wait for me?” She asks, sweetly. 

I felt a bulge of confidence wave through my body knowing Ellie was going to listen because of my presence. She cuts her eyes towards me briefly before walking up the driveway to disappear into the house. 

“You okay?” I ask. 

“We’ve been arguing more and more since I moved back home. She’s so sensitive,” Her face crinkles in distress. 

A genuine, heavy pool of laughter escapes my throat. The way she contorted her face to say sensitive showed her disgust of Ellie which I was overly pleased to know. I cover my mouth slightly until she grins too. 

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this.” She adds. 

“It’s fine. I’ve been in your position before.”

“And what happened?” 

I inhale. “We broke up and it was messy.” 

An oh slips her lips filling the silence between us. I pulled my mind from the clouds to stop its wandering tick of floating into the past. I’ve had many girlfriends but my final relationship, five years ago, was the most mentally taxing years of my life. ‘We broke up and it was messy’ was a simple reduction to a very complex situation. 

“I’m sorry to hear that Ms. Anderson.” Her fingertips rise gently to my arm. The glint in her eyes showed a sincerity that I had never seen before. Most people say sorry to things as a formality but she actually meant it. 

“You’re young, these things happen, you have time.” 

“I hope so.” She mutters as she removes her gloves and tosses them angrily into the grass. 

“All right, sweetheart, if you need me you know where to find me.” 

She mouthed a humble thank you and followed behind her girlfriend. 

The team was disoriented, tired, and lazy upon returning from their first break. Losing my finest roofer was going to cost me time and money. With such short notice, it wouldn’t be particularly difficult to find someone willing to fill in. Men in this industry are always hopping from job to job but I want someone reliable and will stay.

I chuckle in disbelief of what I’m about to do. Contact Ellie, to be my new roofer. 

12:00 p.m. Bad timing to ask you something?

She walked towards my truck as I forced a chip into my mouth. I brush the crumbs off my chest and check my face in the rearview as she boldly pulls the handle to sit in the passenger's seat. She avoided eye contact with me and slammed my door with an angry force.

“Hello,” I say, chewing off the last bit of my food. 

“Was your text a joke?” She snaps, her voice holding a begrudging tremble.

“A joke? No, I would never, not at all I was—” My words were tumbling over each other breaking my cool facade. She did not seem phased by my current display. 

“You want Ellie to work for you.” 

The statement was supposed to come out more like a question but there was no rise in tone at the end of her sentence. 

“I don’t have time to hire someone and test them out. You said she was good, right?” 

“She’s one of the best.” She groaned. 

“Well, to be honest, I’m desperate.” I sigh a little more pathetic than I want. 

She turns her head towards me and melts into the cushions. Her legs widen to touch the door with her kneecap. She twisted her head upwards to admire the black upholstery on the ceiling, exposing her kissable neck. I feel a zing of warmth travel from my cheeks to my thighs and I twitch at the unfamiliar feeling. One that I haven’t felt in ages. I run a lingering thumb against the seam of my pants and relish the sensation I feel through them. She turns and looks at me, leaving me frozen. Those eyes were dark with a desire that awakened a sleeping part of me. 

Why did my body suddenly feel like a flowering opening upon first bloom? I was no teenager discovering the female body for the first time but why did it feel like that?

“Fine. I’ll tell Ellie to call you.” Absentmindedly she tugs her lip into her mouth and I cross my ankles because crossing my legs would be too obvious. 

“I owe you.” My voice sounds strained as I exhale into the air. 

In her bedroom, I had my tape measure in hand with a small notebook and golf pencil. The boxes in the room had been cleared since the last time I was here. I had to redo the farthest bathroom wall three times as a tender need pressed against my zipper. The pressure of the metal alone was making my legs wobble. When was the last time I was truly aroused? Her perfume coaxed the walls in the same sickeningly sweet warm musk that followed behind her. My concentration was drained.

"Ms. Anderson?" She asked lightly in the door frame.

I swivel my head like a cartoon character, not particularly shocked by her presence but at my lack of bodily control. "Hey."

"Just wondering how you're doing?" She asked.

Her gardening top had become soaked around the collar and the cuff under her arms. Those sleeves were now folded inward displaying a vast spread of skin. I was going to be thinking about this interaction all day.

"Done." I lie.

"Good, I'm overdue for a shower," She giggled as she walked into the room in what I saw as slow-mo. "See you tomorrow."

"Thanks again. I seriously owe you." I repeat.

"I know," she smiles, starting to lift the hem of her shirt up. "Just make sure I have an interview next week and we're good."

The last thing I saw before leaving the room was a rousing glare, over her right shoulder, in my direction.

DONATIONS FOR DR CONGO

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2, day 1

Danny had no idea what he was doing. There. He admitted it. He had found a book of spells that reminded him of Sam and stole it on instinct. He didn't have much money after running away. He didn't even have the chance to grab one of his Go Bags as his parents fired on him.

Good news was that ghost powers made it very easy to steal stuff. Now with a book that has actual magic spells in it? He'd never go hungry again! It was kinda weird though. New dimension or not he didn't think a grocery store would sell multiple copies of spellbooks just out in the open like this. They were clearly new and a product or modern manufacturing so it wasn't like it was some ancient relic or anything.

Hmm. A mystery for later then. In the meantime he was going to go around Gotham turning rogues and random jerks into frogs! It went pretty well. There was a mass Arkham breakout not too long ago and Danny was having an absolute blast sneaking up and froggifying people while wearing a cheap glittery devil masquerade mask. Once suitable frogged he trapped them in a magic bubble and left them on the rooftops for the bats to find.

This went awry however when one of the local vigilantes, Robin, tried to attack him from above. On reflex he turned Robin into a frog and freaked out, "Okay. Crud. Okay. I can fix this!" He said while picking up the tiny vigilante, "Just promise not to hurt me and i'll turn you back!"

The angry ribbiting told him that the vigilante would agree to no such thing, "In that case," Danny used his ghost powers to make a human sized ice cage and placed the frog inside. The cages bars were thin but sturdy. It would take Robin only a few good hits to break out of it but by that time the mysterious magic user would have had a head start.

Unfortunately, Danny had just started the spell that would turn Damian back when one of his siblings, Tim, got the jump on him...and got similarly froggy for it. Now there were two frogged bats and a startled magic user.

Danny looked up at the rooftops to see more and more bats staring at him. And the just froggified Red Robin. And the frog version of regular Robin. In a cage. This looked bad. After dodging a batarang Danny apologized to the frogs and quickly yelled, "Not today satan!" At batman before dropping a smoke bomb and teleporting away.

Later at the batcave Damian and Tim were placed in different enclosures to keep their new forms healthy and to prevent any frog on frog violence as they sort this out. At first they thought this was a meta who could turn people into frogs but that was quickly ruled out due to Damian and Tim both typing on devices and telling them about the ice powers.

Thus begins Danny's attempts to find the frogged siblings and turn them back before he gets stabbed by an angry bird and Robin and Red Robins attempts to escape to find this magic user cause it was clear that he had cursed them by accident and had wanted to turn them back right away.

They're family keeps trying to stop them though saying its too dangerous to go out as a frog and they don't know what that magic users intentions were. They didn't really have much choice however seeing at Constantine couldn't help them.

The trench coated brit and said this magic was like nothing he had ever felt before and he would have to do some research. Which lead to the boys swinging across rooftops as amphibians and probably making more than a few people question what was in thier coffee.

[mockerycrow]

SMELL — SOAP (FLUFFTOBER)

soap render is again, by the lovely @ave661 !!

flufftober masterlist — 435 words

JOHNNY SMELLED like different scents, depending on the time of when he returned home temporarily from being on duty. When he first returns home late at night, dropping his duffel bag by his feet to wrap his arms around you, your nose burying against Johnny’s cheek, he smells like a cheap body wash you get for cheap, as well as semi-prominent smells of gunpowder and smoke–almost as if Johnny tried to scrub it from his skin for you. When you find yourself in his arms by the front door, his hand grasping the back of your shirt, you don’t mind the smell. In fact, you started looking forward to the scents he brings home; because it’s him.

When it’s a few days into his leave, you turn over in bed and your nuzzle into the back of his neck, wrapping your arms around him from behind, and you smell his fantastic shampoo that you bought him; this poor man was previously using a 3 in 1 on leave before meeting you, and you bought him new products which he keeps buying for himself, murmuring that you “know him so well”. You smell his new body wash as well that makes his skin so soft and moisturized, causing you to rub your hands on him so often to the point where Johnny grumbles and swats your hands away when he’s doing something important. Johnny smells like the food he cooks for you and himself; he smells like the food he grabs on the way home from a friend’s house, he smells like mild dirt, grime, and sweat after he’s done playing rugby or shinty.

Johnny smells like the tequila that he spit out of his mouth out of shock from simply tasting it, insisting it tastes like pure dog piss. He smells like mint in the mornings from his toothpaste, and he smells like shaving cream from shaving. Every single thing Johnny has ever smelled like, you have learned to love. At first, you hated the smell of gunpowder; now you miss it when you drop Johnny off at the airport when he has his next deployment. You hated the smell of the cheap body wash, but you find yourself shamefully buying it when sniffing the other body products decorating your shared home wasn’t enough.

You thought you were a bit odd about enjoying his smells, enjoying him; but when you begin to notice the way he nudges his nose in your scalp or under your chin, or even your shirt; you can’t help but smile, knowing the feeling is mutual when he murmurs, “missed ‘ya.”

[writingjourney]

Friday Nights at the Vinothek | Vampire!Secondo x gn!Reader

Summary: When the local vintner who buys his cigarettes at the kiosk you work at offers you a job you can’t believe your luck. But after moving to the vineyard where the attraction between you only grows, you soon realize that he is not quite who you thought – and that working for a vampire comes with unexpected dangers.

Content: 26k words, gn!reader, smoking, alcohol consumption, blood donation/needles, fainting, vampirism (blood drinking, mind control to keep you asleep), werewolves, violence, hurt/comfort, smut (biting, blood kink, fingering, spit kink, praise, cuming in pants, cockwarming, p in hole sex, no protection), 18+, MDNI

I'm happy to finally share this story. Thank you @foxybouquet for your help with the nicknames ♡ This is a continuation to my fic Friday Nights at the Cinema Club with Primo. You don't have to read that one. However I recommend reading them in the correct order if you do! The Ao3 version is split into 3 chapters for easier reading.

Masterlist – Ao3 link – Part 1 | Primo's Story

“You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and still come with me, and hating me through death and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.”

― Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

May

It takes all of two minutes of regular walking until he finds himself at his destination. Kiosk the sign reads in chipped away block letters, the color faded from decades of exposure to the sun. 

Secondo steps inside. The neon lights flicker unrhythmically, uncomfortable to his sensitive eyes but the small corner store is the only business in a radius of forty kilometers that’s open after eight pm. Two tall newspaper racks greet him by the door, another long shelf that sells all sorts of cheap booze, a random assortment of groceries and drug store products, a bunch of dead flowers slowly rotting in their sad plastic prisons. His brothers would hate it here. Hell, sometimes even he hates it here but as the lovely face behind the register comes into view these feelings quickly change. He wonders why on earth you would choose to spend the limited years of your life working late night shifts in this dingy, outdated shop. Weekend nights, at that.

“Buona sera,” he says, then points to the Marlboro reds behind you.

The selection is abysmal here. You hand him the cigarettes, the picture of a rotting lung barely catching his eyes from the packaging. It means nothing to him, would have meant nothing to him even if he wasn’t beyond mortal diseases. Meanwhile your own curious eyes roam his form like they always do. Not very subtle but he does the very same thing with no hint of shame, your hair and skin tone flat and ashen in the horrible lighting, a wide, deformed black polo-shirt with your name tag on it hiding most of your body.

“Grazie,” he says, handing you a twenty. “Keep the change.”

At first, you fought him over the money. By now you accept it without question, the whole interaction usually playing out in exactly the same way as it does tonight. All this morality, all the politeness. You’re wasted here, wasted in this joyless life.

“Do you want to smoke with me? You close in a few minutes, no?” he hears himself asking, not sure where it is coming from. The clock above your head tells him it’s almost ten. 

“I’ve never smoked before,” you say. Such a soft voice. He wonders how it would sound in a scream.

“That is not a no.”

You smile. “No, it’s not.”

What does it say about him, that he wants to corrupt this young, innocent human? Maybe that he has seen too much, the way they tend to throw away the few years of life that they have to work and work some more, energy wasted for corporations, for family drama and horrible vacations just to feel a short sense of adventure every once in a while. Then they die full of resentment and regret and once they’re gone their offspring fight over the little money and the few possessions that they leave.

Not that his own family is much better.

You meet him outside of the kiosk a few minutes later. Wordlessly he hands you a cigarette, followed by his luxurious gold Dupont lighter, worth about a thousand euros, a little splurge he treated himself to in Paris a few years ago. When you open the lid, it gives its signature cling, a well-measured flame flickering to life as you spark the flint.

“This is a fancy lighter,” you comment, bringing the cigarette to your lips.

Secondo smiles. So you have an eye for these things, even if you lack the funds. Even more curious now he watches you light the Marlboro, promptly coughing in pained stutters. He doesn’t fight the amused smile that tugs at his lips as he carefully extracts the expensive lighter from your hands, slipping it back into the pocket of his tight black slacks. 

“What do you say?” he asks.

“It’s not bad,” you reply. “But I don’t think I’ll stick with it.”

He’s not surprised, though he is impressed you so easily gave in. “There are many more ways to sin, more ways to enjoy life, that might be more to your liking, little dove.”

“Like what?”

“Hmmm.” He examines you, lingering on the playful smirk on your face. “Wine of course, riding a motorcycle, expensive clothes, parties, good food… sex.”

An unmistakable heat reaches your face. He can hear the blood pumping faster through your veins, smell the first few hints of arousal oozing from your pores. It satisfies him, your reaction.

“So what, are you the devil trying to corrupt me?” you ask, covering the tremor in your voice with a chuckle.

He takes a drag from his own cigarette, exhaling a long veil of smoke. “Something like that.”

You get more restless beside him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “If ugh… if you’re asking me for other favors, I’m really not–”

“No,” he interrupts. “I am not. I am not in the habit of finding my lovers in old shops or dark alleyways of small towns.”

“Where do you find them then?”

You pose the question quite genuinely, a flirty undertone to your words that he’s not sure you’re even aware of. He eyes you curiously. “I thought you weren’t interested?”

He can sense more heat rising to your face, radiating off into the cool night air. “I never said that.”

Ah. He averts his gaze, resisting the temptation. Secondo does not take human lovers. Not anymore. After centuries of losing people, of swimming around aimlessly with no one to anchor him, a ship lost in the endless expanse of sea that is an eternal life, he has set himself firm boundaries. Humans are a source of food, at best a companion for a few minutes of conversation, but they are never permanent. Allowing them into your bed leads to lies and wrong expectations. Falling for them, loving them even – it is hopeless, it’s a non-exhaustive well of pain and grief and misery. And attempting to make them last, turning them? He won’t make the same mistake that his younger brother made, inevitably breaking promises and dooming an innocent human to the same restless fate until they despise him for it.

He watches you stub out the cigarette on the metal lid of the nearby trashcan before throwing it away, turning back to him with a glimmer of excited anticipation in your eyes. He’s not sure what you see in him – a sophisticated older man looking for a young lover? A lonely customer in search of a few minutes of company? The local vintner out for a smoke after a long day? 

“Maybe next time we will try something else,” he says.

You don’t reply as he stubs out his own cigarette, heading back home without looking back.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 02/05

Werewolf Presumed Dead After Fight In Central European Woods

A fight between a vampire and a werewolf during last Friday’s full moon supposedly ended in the death of the lycanthrope. Multiple anonymous sources claim that the victim was a middle-aged outcast who resided close to the scene of the conflict in a small Central European town. A source close to the family suggests that the vampire, who remained unharmed, is Primo Emeritus. Known as a former Papa and eldest son of the current head of the Church of Emeritus, the vampire moved to the town no more than twelve moons ago. The source states that it was an act of self-defense and that the Emeritus ghouls took care of the body. No remains could be found within the castle walls of his now abandoned home, according to a representative of the werewolf community. A team of impartial investigators has been hired by the authorities to look into the case. Upon editorial request, Primo Emeritus was not willing to comment on the accusations at this time.

Instances of fights between vampires and werewolves have become rare over the past two centuries. This is the first instance of a killing between the two groups in almost a decade. Further consequences remain to be observed. Experts expect the respective authorities to be able to smooth the waters fairly quickly considering the high social standing of the Emeritus clan.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo nearly spits out his evening coffee, Terzo next to him breaks out in manic laughter. For a few minutes after reading the paper they both sit around the large dining table in pure, unadulterated wonder.

“He killed a fucking werewolf?” Terzo finally speaks into the silence.

“It would appear so.”

More laughter. Terzo is holding his belly underneath his pristine white blouse, his chest heaving with the intensity of his fit. Secondo knows his brother is not breaking out in amusement but sheer disbelief and yet, it is a rare, almost heart-warming experience to hear him actually laughing for once. If only the circumstances weren’t as dire.

“I’m not surprised no one informed us,” Secondo muses. “Father must know.”

“He must, yes, but he doesn’t give a shit.” Another bout of laughter as Terzo’s elbows crash down on the majestic wooden table, his head landing on his hands in a gesture of wild incredulity. “He killed a werewolf. Primo.”

“Will you stop laughing? This could have serious consequences, outcast or not. We have to keep an eye on this.”

“Do you think they’ll be after us?”

A shrug. “That would be foolish but it is a possibility.”

Terzo rests his head on his upper arm now, elegantly draped over the table with his raven hair falling into his face as he turns to his brother. “Why do you think he killed him?”

“Perhaps it was self defense. Some werewolves still hold a deep hatred for vampires. Though it is very stupid to attack Primo. He must have known who he is.”

Terzo pauses, drumming his fingers against his head. He was never able to keep still for long, a little fidget with a tendency for clumsiness, drawing attention to himself if he wanted to or not. “I wish we knew what he is up to. I hate this separation. Can’t you invite him over for that big fancy new wine tasting?”

“He clearly stated that he wanted to be alone for a while to build a quiet new life.”

“Yes but by now a while is four decades.” 

Secondo breathes out a sigh. “I can invite him, I am not sure he will come.”

“Let him know I’m here.”

“I don’t know if that is an incentive or a sure way to get him to never call again.” 

His voice is deadpan, yet Terzo breaks out in more laughter. “You can be so funny, fratello. If only you wouldn’t hide it behind that scary scowl of yours.”

“Aren’t you supposed to help the ghouls clear out the west wing today? We need to renovate the rooms.”

“I don’t know why you assume I am the new bellhop in your hotel business.”

Secondo waits until Terzo meets his eyes, narrowing them for extra emphasis. “Don’t think I do not know why you suddenly felt the need to visit me over the summer. Surely it was not because you missed me so.”

“I don’t know what you mean, fratello.”

“What makes you think they will be here?”

Terzo holds his gaze, similar white and green eyes meeting, only breaking away when the door to the dining room flies open and a black-hooded ghoul steps inside. “They will be, I know it.”

June 

Time feels especially gooey on weekend nights. Customers are a rare sight, not even Mr Emeritus, the attractive older and suspiciously well-dressed man who occasionally buys cigarettes from you, shows up tonight. The tinny music from the old radio behind the counter is somehow worse, every shift a ten hour train ride without stops. Usually, you sit on your little stool reading your book or scrolling on your phone. Today, it’s so boring that you open the daily newspaper to scan the job listings, just in case something pops up.

As expected, it is hopeless. Another dead town center of a remote village with no qualified job offers, your salary a joke but your boss never fails to stress that you at least get the employee discount and free Wrigley’s Spearmint bubble gum. Even with your meager savings you can’t afford the move to a bigger city right now, the prospect of being alone in an even larger just as hollow space with too many strange faces around you not at all enticing. At least here people know you, even if all of your friends have long since moved away in search of jobs and a place to settle.

You turn the page, a rustling sound that feels too loud in the quiet vacuum of the kiosk.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Nordsteiner Abendblatt

��� Ad –

Wine is not the only juice of life that makes it worth living. Donate your blood to help the local hospitals this weekend at the Emeritus Vineyard.

Date: June 25th, 4-10pm

Reward: 50€

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Fifty euros? You pause. Have they always offered money for this? It’s not a pay rise, it won’t get you very far either, but for a bit of blood it’s certainly tempting. There haven’t been any blood donation campaigns here in quite some time, not since they closed the local medical center after pretty much all of the doctors retired, their offices long since abandoned. 

You mull it over until you close the shop half an hour later after another sluggish Friday night without customers. You walk past the Vinothek, peeking inside like you always do on your way home. For a shop slash bar that sells wine in an almost abandoned old town it is incredibly fancy, antique looking wooden interiors, deep green velvet wallpapers with a subtle pattern of tendrils of vine that seem to be crawling up to the ceiling, dipped into the soft shadows of dimmed wall lamps. Everything is centered around a bar that is too well-stocked and professional for a town like this, expensive liquors, a wine fridge that must have cost more than your tiny old car. Two men are nursing their drinks – only one of them is peering over the rim of an actual wine glass, black hair falling into an aging face, the other one tipping the remainder of a beer into his mouth.

The only explanation you have is that this is Mr Emeritus’s little playground while the actual money comes from the export of the wine they produce in the vineyard at the edge of town. You’ve been to the old Mansion before, tugged away in the rolling hills framing the area. They offer guided tours with subsequent wine tastings, hikes, really, that are especially beautiful in early fall when the grapevines are filled with deep purple fruit and the leaves of the surrounding trees are slowly turning yellow. Even though you don’t drink all that often and are by no means an expert you have to admit that you’ve never tasted wine quite as smooth, quite as delicate as Mr Emeritus’s.

That day a few years ago you didn’t get to see the owner himself, you’re not sure if you’ve ever actually seen him in broad daylight, but now you do spot him standing in the doorway at the far end of the bar. He looks dashing, wearing tight-fitting black slacks, a matching black button down shirt with expensive-looking leather gloves and the sunglasses you never see him without. He’s Italian, that much you know, polite yet reserved when he’s not coaxing you into smoking. Even a few weeks later you’re not quite sure what got into him that night, talking to you about enjoying life and sinning, about alcohol and sex and then just… leaving. Not even mentioning it again when he picked up new Marlboros the week after.

Lost in thought, you almost miss that his gaze shifts towards the window. Under his glasses it’s hard to tell if he is actually looking at you but you decide to leave anyway before he gets the idea of inviting you inside. Somehow you must have got stuck for a moment, frozen in time, because before you’ve even passed the bar he suddenly pops up right in front of you. Confused, you glance from the entrance back to him, the door only slowly swinging shut. How–

“Buona sera,” he says, lighting a cigarette with the fancy gold lighter he let you use last time. For a man who seems to indulge in luxuries, he seems so very down to earth, minimalist in a way, no word, no detail that feels out of place. 

“Hello,” you reply.

For a moment you stand there like you’re waiting for the bus to pick you up, unsure if you should just leave or if he is trying to start a conversation. Maybe he’s just out for smoke, maybe he didn’t even notice you from inside. The tip of his cigarette burns up brightly when he takes the first drag, a bright orange fleck of light in the darkness surrounding him. His mere aura beside you seems to command the night, wholly different from how you perceive him in the kiosk. This is his private kingdom, this is where he feels at home.

“Did you finish your shift?” he asks then, puffing out smoke.

“Yeah. It was a calm night.”

“I see.” He takes another drag, then he holds the cigarette out for you, secured between his gloved fingers. “Hm?”

You instinctively shake your head and his pencil mustache twitches. He does not pull away, a dare, maybe. “Okay,” you decide. “Sure.”

A rare smile. He takes a step closer which sends you into a nervous spiral, your heart pumping faster and faster. A slight tremor runs through his hand as he places the filter at your lips, the very part that was trapped in his own mouth mere seconds ago. At this thought, your hands start to sweat, warmth spreading out in your lower belly. His eyes are fixated on your mouth as you close your lips around the cigarette, taking a brave inhale that burns in your lungs. This time you don’t cough or stutter. Your face starts to burn all the same.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks. “On the house.”

“I don’t usually…” You catch yourself before you finish the sentence, shaking your head to dismiss your own hesitation as you remember his words. “Yes, thank you.”

If he notices how flustered you are, he does not let on as he holds the door open for you to invite you in. The man who finished his beer earlier is slipping past you by the entrance and you notice that whoever had the wine is not inside the bar anymore. At the prospect of being alone in here with Mr Emeritus, your stomach does a somersault.

He disappears behind the bar and you set your bag down on one of the stools before you shift into a comfortable position right next to it. The seats are soft and plush, inviting you to stay for more than one glass. Observing the happenings behind the bar from here is a lot more exciting than from the outside. Mr Emeritus is in his element, that much is certain, whipping out glasses and corkscrews with expert movements.

“You do not drink often,” he states. “I think I have something that you would like.”

You nod your consent and watch him pick out a bottle from the fridge. It looks expensive, a white label with gold-foiled lettering. Papastrello, it says. The rest of the words are too small.

“What are you reading?” he asks as he opens the bottle. His eyes have found your bag, the spine of a worn old paperback peeking out of the open zipper

“Carmilla,” you say. 

“Ah, vampires.” The cork pops, a deep, satisfying sound. A rich, slightly sweet scent escapes the now open bottle. “Do you enjoy the old tales?”

“I prefer them over the newer adaptations, yes.”

“So do I,” he says, expertly filling a glass with the red liquid. “I am surprised a young person such as yourself is so fond of the classics.”

You chuckle. “I think many people are. Or they would not be classics.”

He hums, setting the glass down in front of you. “Not blood but a red that is just as beautiful and rich,” he remarks. “One of my fratellino’s favorites.”

“I don’t uhm…” You carefully take the delicate stem of the thick-bellied glass. “I don’t really know how to–”

“Smell it for a moment, grappolino,” he says. “Do not worry about drinking.”

You bring the glass to your nose. The scent is so strong to your unused senses that you barely have to sniff. Even so, you’re not sure what you’re smelling. It reminds you of different fruits, cherry maybe, almost sweet but with a hint of acid.

“There are different categories of aromas,” he says. “Primary, secondary, tertiary. Many factors influence the smell, the type of grape, the fermentation process, the aging in the barrel.”

He explains it calmly, knowledgeable, not like he wants to brag or taunt you for your lack of expertise. You have to admire how soft-spoken he is for someone with such harsh features, such a domineering aura. Seldom have you met a man of his standing who was so pleasant to talk to, who drew you in like this.

“Now try,” he instructs. “A small sip, hold it in your mouth for a moment, breathe in and see how it makes you feel.”

You do as he says, taking some of the red liquid in your mouth and swirling it around your tongue, breathing in as you let it sit. Somehow the aroma is still there, different from the taste, more intense, but together they fill your senses in a most pleasant way. The wine feels smooth in your mouth just like you remember, even as you swallow, not at all like the cheap supermarket wine you know from when you were younger and drinking with friends.

“No blood, you were right,” you say with a smile. “But it is good. I like it a lot.”

He nods, content with your reply, and fills your glass up a little more. Somehow you feel good about satisfying him, about following his instructions and earning his approval. You wouldn’t mind following him in other areas of your life.

“Speaking of blood,” you say to distract yourself from these thoughts. “I saw your ad in the paper earlier. The one for the blood donation.”

“Are you looking to donate?” he asks, perking up. With his interest so focused on you, you suddenly feel almost shy about it.

“I am thinking about it,” you say. “I used to go years ago.”

“We are happy about everyone who donates. It is for a good cause, we are going to do it every few months now.”

“I didn’t know that you get money for it or I would have looked into it sooner.”

“The kiosk does not pay well?” he concludes.

You huff out a pained laugh. “No. It’s a struggle. But there aren’t many jobs available around here.”

He regards you curiously, at least from what you can gather without seeing his actual eyes. You wish you could. His mustache is a dark brown color, even without hair on his head you assume his eyes must be dark just like that. Or perhaps green, maybe even hazel. Without seeing them your own gaze quickly falls, dancing along his sharp cheekbones and down his prominent nose, the lines on his face leading you to his mouth, pencil mustache, full lips over a strong chin. You’ve been eyeing him for months now, every time he visits the kiosk, but somehow the change in lighting, the change in atmosphere, gives him a magnetic, almost preternatural aura.

A smile tugs at his lips then and you panic for a moment that he might have read your thoughts, that you must have been staring. You quickly avert your gaze, downing way too much of the wine to keep up a graceful appearance.

“Can I offer you some food? Some cheese, perhaps?” he asks.

“Actually, I should um… I should head home,” you say, already feeling a little lightheaded. “It’s late and I have a shift tomorrow.”

“Take the bottle,” he says.

“What? No– That’s–”

“Grappolino, I want you to have it. Don’t insult me by refusing a gift.”

You’re not sure what the name means, something with grapes, probably, but you’re too flustered now to pay much attention. When he hands you the bottle you blindly take it, uttering a few words of thanks. He remains steady, unbothered, which you assume is a good thing. He’s not truly offended. You wonder if anything could shake him enough to break his measured temper.

“I will see you at the donation?” he asks when you slip from your stool.

“Yes. I will see you there,” you promise. “I can’t wait to give you my blood.”

He chuckles, a foreign sound coming from the depths of his throat. Without looking back up, you grab your bag and almost rush out of the bar. The cool night air slaps you in the face like a whip, clearing your head and senses from the effects of the wine and its producer in mere seconds. You take a few deep breaths, pressing the cold bottle against your burning chest. If he is flirting with you then it is certainly working, if not then his mere presence affects you in ways you feel almost ashamed of. Either way, you can’t deny that the money has suddenly become a secondary motivation to visit the vineyard next week. No, there is something way more thrilling waiting for you.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Specks of dust dance in the sunlight like a thousand tiny feathers, sinking to the ground almost weightlessly. The two empty sitting rooms on the ground floor should be enough to meet the demand that Secondo expects for today. Everyone who donates their blood gets a voucher for the Vinothek and fifty euros cash on hand. The incentives promise a high yield, enough to fill every pre-order as well as the glasses of his special guests once the blood “wine” is ready to be served.

To his chagrin, all the ghouls are busy renovating the guest rooms, and so Terzo is the one helping him prepare the localities. The partnering hospital has sent a truck with enough donation chairs to line the walls opposite of the south-facing windows of the two rooms, granting a nice view over the vineyard. Come sundown, the ghouls will handle the donations. With their monk-like appearance Secondo hopes the people will be trusting. All the bureaucratic hassle, all the licenses and administrative obstacles better be worth it.

“So, how many times do we have to do this?” Terzo asks, rolling another chair into the room.

“This will be the first harvest, another one in September,” Secondo says. “We will keep sixty percent of donations, the rest goes to the local hospitals. It should give us enough to last over the winter if the demand is stable. Then we continue in spring.”

“Mhm and you’re looking forward to tasting the blood of someone special?”

Secondo’s gaze snaps up in a withering look. “Are you eavesdropping on me?”

“It was hard to avoid, fratello. After I finished my wine I had to use the bathroom and it is so close to the bar, no?” He shrugs, smiling to himself. “Now, what happened to Mr. I-don’t-fuck-humans?”

“Who said anything about sexual intercourse?”

“Sexual intercourse?” Terzo repeats. “That’s not a very romantic word. Not very sexy either.”

“I am not looking to fuck, I am looking for a food source.”

“So you want to sample their blood today?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think it’s good? Why are they special?”

Secondo has no answer to this. Instead he pushes his sunglasses up his nose, adjusts his gloves, biding time. When he finally meets Terzo’s curious gaze again, he shrugs. “I have a feeling.”

“Where exactly is this feeling located? Just below your belt?”

He heaves an annoyed sigh. He won’t grace with him a reply to this, maybe even because he knows that there is a certain truth to his brother’s words that he would rather ignore. There is just something about your smell, about your presence, your positive aura, the warmth in your eyes, that wakes a certain hunger in him. Sexual or not, Secondo knows that he needs to taste your blood.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

The mansion is just as impressive as you remember from your last visit years ago, throning over steep hills with neat rows of lush grapevines. The sight takes your breath away as you carry your already tired body towards the open entrance gates of the estate. A grand, majestic building sits partly hidden behind two tall beech trees with their voluminous crowns, U-shaped, well-kept and exuding the impressive historic atmosphere of centuries past. Ivy and vine tendrils crawl up the high walls on either side, hiding some of the rich ornamentations of the façade that are partly embellished in gold.

You leave the winding trail through the landscape, your muscles burning from the steady uphill climb, and enter a spacious, stone-flagged courtyard. An almost Mediterranean ambience welcomes you – old wine barrels have been stacked in one corner, beautifully planted with lush flowers and shrubs like a small magical garden. A small outdoor sitting area dominates another corner, shielded from the sun by a pergola that’s overgrown with more vine tendrils. Terracotta planters scattered around the open space house even more greenery and the whole area smells richly of herbs and pollen.

You soon spot a sign with a red arrow, the words blood donation written underneath, leading into one of the side entrances. An old chair secures a wooden door that opens into a cool but gloomy hallway, flagged with old stone tiles that remind you more of a castle than a stately home. You’re met with voices chattering in the rooms on either side – it seems busy. Glancing into one, you spot a small reception area and decide that this is where you must be registering for your donation. One wall of the room is lined in medical chairs, almost all of them occupied by donors with black-robed men that remind you of monks tending to them.

You are greeted by one of them, only not with words but a gentle nod as he guides you through another door. Inside is a small office where a pale but kind-looking doctor receives you. After a short talk he clears you for donation and you’re assigned one of the chairs near the entrance. One of the black-hooded men approaches. He really must be a monk, you decide, doing charitable work. Perhaps Mr Emeritus has connections to the church – it would make sense if he is veering into the philanthropic lane now. So many religious orders have their own humanitarian organizations who offer volunteers in the field of medical care, maybe he even has his own. You don’t question the process as everyone else in the room seems comfortable.

The monk does not speak to you when he prepares your arm but he is certainly skilled as he slides the sharp needle through your skin and into your vein. You hardly feel any pressure and as the tube fills with your blood, you start to relax in your seat. He hands you a black rubber stress ball, mimicking how you’re supposed to squeeze it to your palm to increase the blood flow. For the next ten minutes you stay exactly like that, your arm outstretched and your fingers wrapped around the squishy toy. Time passes fast, an older lady begins to chat with you before she is done and leaves you to yourself. Once your bag is filled, the monk removes the needle and expertly wraps up your arm. You don’t see where he carries the bag as he leaves through another door.

With your donation complete, you first sit and then stand up, cautiously stretching out your limbs as to not overwhelm your circulation, following the lady’s advice to take it easy. Another sign in the hallways indicates that there is a sort of break room with snacks and drinks, so you decide to head there and wait until your body has recovered. The sudden change of light and temperature as you leave the sunny and warm sitting room does you no favor. Suddenly your head begins to swim, an icy cold wrapping around your body like a blanket of snow. Your fingertips tingle, cold sweat spreading over your back and then you’re sinking, falling–

“Careful,” a steady voice says and instead of the cool stone floor you hit a soft, strong body. Your vision is blurry but you clearly see the outline of black sunglasses over a strong nose and then those soft, full lips. The man cradles you against him, sitting you down with his knee supporting your back. “I need you to lie down, grappolino. Do I have permission to carry you?”

You nod, not quite sure what is going on as your brain struggles to cling to the world around you. 

“It’s you,” you whisper when he gathers you in his arms like you weigh nothing at all. 

He carries you down the hallway, the sudden movement only making you dizzier until you feel like you have to throw up. “It is me,” he says at length. “Do not worry, little dove, I will take care of you. I will take care of you forever.”

You close your eyes at the sound of his soothing words, spoken in such a deep but somehow soft voice that caresses your ears like the gentle touch of a lover. Comforted, you rest your head on his shoulders, breathing out a tired sigh, and drift off.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

“This is the right bag?” he asks, even though he can smell it through the plastic and antiseptic layers surrounding it. The same scent he detected from your arm when he carried you upstairs, a scent that already has his nerves on edge with an appetite that he can hardly contain.

The ghoul nods and Secondo shudders as he cradles your blood in his hands. What a beautiful red, richer than any wine he ever made. He takes off his sunglasses to admire how it moves when he flexes his gloved fingers, the texture so smooth, almost silken. Saliva gathers in his mouth and for a moment he forgets the presence of the ghoul.

Impatient now, he looks up to dismiss him. “Grazie.”

He’s already in the kitchen when the door closes, ripping open cabinets in search of a glass. But his body is on fire, burning, longing, craving. He feels like a starving man, like an addict in search of a fix, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s abandoned his search. With both hands he takes the bag and sinks his fangs into the plastic, penetrating the material until he can finally taste you. A deep, rumbling moan breaks from his chest as the first drop of blood meets his tongue. It’s not enough. He bites harder until more of the liquid spills out. Secondo drinks like he has never drunk before. Any attempt at savoring it is in vain. He can’t remember the last time he lost control like this, gulping it down with a greed that would make Lucifer proud, an unquenchable thirst. Your blood is infernal, drinking it an unholy sacrament, the closest he has felt to his faith in decades since leaving the Church. More and more he sucks into his mouth until it dribbles down his chin and onto his sleek white shirt, the one he ironed before knowing that he would meet you today. He rips it from his chest as soon as the bag is empty and the taste starts to fade. Impatiently he sucks at the stains until the aroma finally escapes even his hyper sensitive taste buds.

He’s a wreck. The smell lingers in his nose long after he’s licked the last remnants from his gloves. He sinks to the floor, shamefully gathering the last few drops of blood he spilled and bringing them to his searing, ruined tongue. A pathetic, shameful whimper escapes him and he has to sit in quiet solitude for several minutes until he manages to gather his wits. This is embarrassing, he decides. He has to get cleaned up and dressed.

Secondo enters his bedroom where he brought you to rest a mere ten minutes ago. The sight of your innocent form sleeping in his bed nearly sends him into another frenzy, your neck exposed over the collar of your shirt and practically begging for his mouth. He stands and looks at your weak body, watching your eyes twitching behind their lids, even if they stay closed. For now he is sated enough to stay in control, pushing any animalistic thoughts to the side. You’re beautiful, such a lovely young human, sleeping in the bed of a bloodthirsty monster. The thought makes him chuckle. Perhaps human prejudice against vampires is not that unfounded, even if he usually thinks of himself as a rather sophisticated specimen.

He allows himself another moment of silent reprieve, his eyes roaming your peaceful form without his glasses now. Eventually he brings himself to take a quick shower in the en-suite, freshening up, more cologne, less blood to spook you. He decides on a simple dark green polo shirt, showing off his arms. As he splashes his face with water, he can’t help but wonder what is happening to him. 

Your taste is unlike any he has ever experienced before. If he sold it in bottles, even watered down, everyone would flock to his business. But just the thought of sharing you with any other vampire makes him recoil in disgust, the hair on his arms standing up in defiance. It is an entirely new sensation, entirely unwelcome, and yet he can’t shake it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about these intrusive feelings, about his lack of control, the possessiveness that overcomes him in your presence. He’s not even sure if he can trust himself to be near you.

But even so he knows that he cannot let you leave. Not anymore.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

You dream of him. 

The outlines are blurry, a room that feels dark, the lights blended out and only coming in through cracks that won’t allow your eyes to focus. Then his handsome face comes into view. Your vision clears for just a moment. Blood covers his face. Not his face. His mouth. His eyes are weird, one is a dark red and one is incredibly pale, the strong brows above drawn tightly together. His gaze is intense, a hunger, a craving reflected in his glowing irises. You’re scared for just a moment but then his expression changes, a sudden tenderness glossing over the harshness of his features and the red eye turns to an emerald green. He looks quite beautiful like this, even with the blood covering his mouth. Especially with the blood covering his mouth.

When you break free from the tight grasp of your hazy dream and open your eyes, his face is right there. You startle, your slow heartbeat suddenly jumping into a sprint, but there is no blood, no discolored eyes, just his sunglasses as he pushes them up his nose.

“Don’t be scared, grappolino,” he says from the edge of the bed. “It is just me.”

You nod, blinking yourself awake. Your head hurts, a low thrum that penetrates your skull like a fly repeatedly hitting a window.

“Do you remember what happened?”

You sit up slightly, propping the pillow up behind you and the way it hurts, the pressure and numbness in the crook of your arm, brings back your memories. “I donated blood.”

“You did. And you fainted,” he explains. “This is my own private bedroom.” 

“Do… do all the patients get this treatment?”

A chuckle. “No.”

Heat rises to your chest and you avert your eyes. They are immediately drawn to his bare arms, to the dark hair covering them before his gloved hands appear in your peripheral vision. The polo shirt suits him, a dark green color, the cut accentuating the solid shape of his shoulders. A tuft of dark chest hair peeks out of his open collar and you can see his nipples through the fabric. It is cold in here, you realize. Or perhaps your goosebumps have a different origin.

“I brought you something to drink,” he says, lifting a dark glass bottle he must have set down beside the bed. The distraction is imminent. You eye it curiously, a frown settling on your face. 

He can’t possibly be offering you wine right now? 

“Grape juice,” he states.

“Oh.”

You feel silly now, maybe your brain is still not fully awake. He opens the screw and fills a glass that was previously set down on the bedside table. When he hands it to you, the tight bandage on your arm hinders you yet again from moving freely and you have to hold out your other hand instead. Mr Emeritus is patient, waiting until you’ve taken the first few sips before he stands from the bed.

“I will bring you some food, little dove. We need to increase your blood sugar, give you some energy. In the meantime you will be good for me and drink your juice, yes?”

His words make you choke on your spit and you cough uncomfortably into the burn. “I ugh… I will. Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but it’s enough to have you flustered. You take small sips of the juice that, just like his wine, feels smooth on your tongue and has a rich, intense flavor. It warms your belly, brings life back into your limbs and other parts of your body. You’d be good for him in so many different ways if he let you.

That thought makes you abruptly realize that you’re in his actual bed. You use the chance to properly look at the spacious room surrounding you. It is furnished rather simply, heavy dark curtains cover most of the windows but even with most of the light locked out you can’t see anything beyond the huge canopy you’re resting on. You’re draped between dark green cotton sheets that must have an incredibly high thread count with how soft they feel underneath your fingertips. The dark wooden bed frame is kept upright by four artfully carved posts, solid and dominating the room, the drapes tied to them with rope. You spot two doorways – one is closed, the other slightly ajar. The wall next to the open door is home to a huge painting, the edge of the gold frame shimmering in an odd ray of light that breaks through a gap in the curtains. You don’t know the artwork, it seems to be a dark one, mostly covered in shadows now, but you think it must be a religious subject because you can make out monk-like figures, a goat, a building that resembles an old abbey.

“You walked here?” 

Mr Emeritus reenters the room, carrying a tray as he pushes the door open with his black leather brogues. 

“Ugh, yes. Is that bad?”

“You cannot walk back,” he decides. “No one is available right now to drive you and I cannot leave before we are done with donations. I suggest you stay and rest.”

“As in… stay the night?”

“One of our guest rooms should be finished by now. You can stay there.” A pause as he settles back beside you and places his cargo in your lap. On the tray you find a basket with a few slices of bread, ciabatta from the looks of it, a plate with a small piece of butter, two different wedges of cheese, a bunch of grapes and other fruit. It looks delicious. “I hope this is to your liking.”

“It looks wonderful, thank you.“ You look from the tray to him. “You’re not from the area originally, are you?”

“No, I am not from the area. Does that matter to you, grappolino?”

“No, you just… you don’t look like you belong here,” you finally say, popping a grape into your mouth. “You should be in… I don’t know, Rome, Paris. Or Tuscany, maybe. Why did you bring your business here? Just because of the vineyard?”

“The mansion has been in possession of my family for a long time,” he says. “I always had an interest in wine making, so I took over when the previous tenant expressed his wish to retire.”

“So you actually chose to live in the middle of nowhere?”

“I enjoy the quiet and solitude.” He cocks his head to the side. “And besides, so do you.”

“Hm, touché.”

You eat as much as you feel comfortable with. He watches you throughout your little meal and while it unsettles you you’re more than willing to accept his hospitality. You promised to be good for him after all and you don’t intend to break that promise. Once you’re done he relieves you of the tray and sets it down on the floor. He gives no indication that he wants to leave.

“Do you feel better?” he asks instead. “Let me feel your pulse.”

You don’t object when his gloved hand reaches for yours. The leather feels thick, sturdy, which makes his hand look huge when it surrounds yours. But then he seems to make a last minute decision to remove the gloves, revealing pale but strong hands, dark hair trailing from his knuckles down to his arm. His fingers are cooler than you expect even though there is a warm glow pulsating underneath his fingertips. Your heart immediately begins to hammer in your chest, rapidly beating against its cage of bone and skin. This will not be a useful measuring, at least not if he’s trying to anticipate your health.

Perhaps his train of thought is similar, for his eyes search yours the moment he feels the increase. The corner of his mouth pulls up slightly and his thumb gently strokes over your wrist. You’re quite incapable of looking away, even through the sunglasses there seems to be a sort of shine in his gaze. If only you could properly see them, not just their shadowy outlines. Sparks fly just below your skin, sending shivers through your whole body.

“You seem livelier to me,” he concludes. “Perhaps some more sleep will do, hm? I will have your rooms arranged, you can stay here for the time being.”

“I have a question,” you pipe up before he can leave, a hint of embarrassment laced into your words that you can’t quite hide. “Am I still getting the money?”

“The money?”

“The fifty euros.”

You’re acutely aware of his thumb still stroking your wrist, so softly that it tickles. “You will, grappolino. But there is… something I want to talk to you about. I was going to wait but perhaps now is a good time, no? Before you are too tired again.” 

“What is it?” you ask.

“I want to offer you a job.”

Your eyes widen, the words so unexpected. “A job?”

“I need an employee for the Vinothek. Wine tastings take place on Friday nights every few weeks and I need someone to take over the regular business as I take care of them. The rest of the time you can help out in the vineyard. We have a few important events soon where we introduce new varieties, some international guests will come to visit and there is a lot to do until then.”

“Are you sure this is… not just a pity job offering?”

“No,” he states so matter-of-factly that all your questions vanish. “I can use two extra hands and a sharp brain. I will double your current salary and you can move into your own quarters here for no extra cost. I will make sure your rooms are to your liking.”

You let the thought sit for a moment. Double your salary? Living in an actual mansion in the midst of beautiful wine hills? You wonder what the catch is, if he’s just going to fire you once fall is over or if he’s going to give you all the most horrible tasks he can think of. Even so, for that much money you wouldn’t mind cleaning toilets, sweeping the floors or brewing his morning coffee. It’s not that different from what you’re doing right now anyway.

“Of course there will be no eh… bad blood if you say no.”

“That seems exceptionally dumb,” you say, cringing a bit at your words. “What I mean is, that’s a… a tempting offer. It’s one that sounds too good to be true, actually. It’s just… I don’t know much about wine.”

“I can teach you all that you need to know, grappolino, non preoccuparti,” he says, his voice deeper and almost sultry. His thumb presses into your pulse then, drawing a line along the vein in your forearm until he stops just below the crook of your arm. Then he seems to snap out of whatever thought occupied his mind and pulls away. “Think about it. I do not expect a reply right away.”

You nod, missing his fingers on you already. When he finally leaves the room, you sink back into the soft mattress and imagine what a life here would be like. The offer is too good to refuse and your undeniable crush on Mr Emeritus urges you to agree even more, no matter how foolish it would be to pine after your employer. Subconsciously you bring your thumb to the wrist he just held, mimicking his touch. You think you might die if you don’t feel his hands on your body again. Perhaps he was right, perhaps you would like to explore all the different ways of sinning that he mentioned to you, and perhaps you would very much like him to take part as well.

July

Even though you’re still not quite sure what to make of the masked and hooded monks living in his home who never seem to speak, you accompany them to pack up your belongings. They follow all of your requests and directions without question, treat your things with utmost care and make sure nothing gets lost. What is even more astounding is how they carry even the heaviest of boxes filled with books without any visible strain. Most of the furniture you won’t need anymore is quickly sold or gifted to people on eBay and in the span of one afternoon, all you need is neatly packed into boxes that are now stacked in your new quarters.

You’re not quite sure how he did it but Mr Emeritus handled your job transition quite seamlessly. Your old boss agreed immediately, at least that’s what he told you, and a day later you signed all the necessary paperwork. It gives you a whole day off to familiarize yourself with your new living situation. All morning you unpack boxes, sort books into shelves, clothes into drawers. Your quarters are bigger than anticipated. A decently sized sitting room with beautiful antique-looking green sofas leads into a wide, canopied bedroom that has an en-suite bathroom as well as a walk-in closet.

You are free to use the impressive kitchen downstairs and really, you still haven’t found the catch in the whole arrangement. In search of a cup of afternoon tea, you make your way exactly there, hoping that the pantry is stocked since you’re pretty sure Mr Emeritus has his own private kitchen somewhere else in the mansion. This morning, when you picked up a cup of coffee, he was nowhere to be seen and no dishes or any other evidence betrayed that he was down here. 

When you enter the room now, you spot someone else – a raven-haired head stuck in the fridge. The man looks like he just woke up, wearing grey sweatpants and a purple dressing gown. When he turns around, you notice that his upper body is naked and for a moment you’re not sure where to look. The sweatpants barely conceal the outline of his cock and his bare chest and the soft pouch of his belly are covered in thick black hair. A few small tattoos litter his pale skin, an upside down cross underneath his ribs, two more symbols you don’t recognize just above the dip of his hips. His face seems familiar, broad and handsome, beautifully aged with lines that bring out his strong features, bushy dark eyebrows over eyes that… You halt for a moment. One of his irises is green and the other is white, just like the ones you saw in your dream. Heterochromia is nothing new to you, but for an eye to be this pale?

“Oh, buon pomeriggo,” he says with an openly flirty smile. “We have not met yet, I believe?”

“Uhm... no. I don’t think so.”

“You can call me Terzo.”

You give him your name as well, introducing yourself as a new employee. Before the man can say anything else, steps resound behind you and Mr Emeritus appears in the doorway, eyeing him with barely concealed disdain. “Am I interrupting, fratello?”

“Oh, we just met,” you explain. “I wasn’t aware there was anyone else living here.”

“This is just my brother,” he states. “Don’t mind him, he is ugh… hanging around.”

Terzo scoffs dismissively. “I am actually also working here–”

“I thought you were not my new bellhop, fratellino?”

“I help with the guest room renovations. Really, I am the eh… interior designer, you could say.” He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips with a smirk. “Anyway, it is a pleasure to meet you, tesoro. How lovely to have a youthful presence in this old house.”

“Likewise. I actually wasn’t aware this was a hotel also.”

“It is not,” Mr Emeritus explains, taking a few steps into the room now. He looks incredibly handsome today, wearing his usual black slacks as well as a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled up and the collar open just enough to reveal some of his chest. “We are going to host some of the guests who submit to long travels in order to attend the wine tastings. Now, I was looking for you. I think you need a tour of this place, grappolino, no?”

Terzo dismisses you with a gentle smile, waving after his brother when you both leave the kitchen. Mr Emeritus briskly walks ahead, leading you down a long hallway.

“Were you going to eat?” he asks. “I interrupted.”

“No, I wanted a cup of tea. But I can just have that later.”

He hums, then leads you up a staircase to show you where the guest rooms are going to be located. You see some of the monks again, carrying furniture, painting walls, cleaning rugs. They don’t acknowledge your presence, only step aside when you pass.

“Mr Emeritus–” you start.

“You can call me Secondo,” he interrupts. “Since you are already calling my brother by his first name.”

You’re not sure if you’re imagining the hint of jealousy tainting his voice. He certainly did not look too pleased when he entered the scene earlier. “Secondo and Terzo,” you say. “Like the numbers?”

“My father was not very creative when he procreated like a dog in heat. He argues that he followed an old Italian tradition which is just convenient, no?”

You make a mental note that his father is not a good subject to broach just as he leads you back into the main staircase. “Can I ask you something else?”

“I understand you must have many questions. Feel free to pose them whenever you wish.”

“Well, the biggest one I have is… uhm…” You pause but he does not seem bothered at all. “Who are the hooded men? They look like monks but also not like any real monks I’ve ever seen before.”

“They are something similar.”

“Like a cult? Is that why they don’t talk?”

“No, grappolino, not a cult. We call them the Nameless Ghouls.” His voice is even and patient considering the amount of questions you’re shooting at him. As you walk down the stairs you notice that he is not even remotely out of breath while you’re already struggling to keep up. “They are bound to certain rules of their community such as to not speak to outsiders. They work for me because they were summoned to do so for which I am very grateful. I have arranged one of the former guest houses on the property where they live amongst themselves.”

You furrow your brow, a little confused as to how much of a red flag that should be for you. Ghouls, the religious painting, the upside down cross on his brother’s chest… it does seem suspiciously like a cult. His pace is so fast that you almost stumble down the stairs now. “Do I… do I also have to join them?”

“Oh, no, non preoccuparti. They have nothing to do with you.”

“So they just… help out here?”

“Sì. They make all of this possible.”

“I mean, if they want to live like that, I guess that’s okay.”

He stops in the middle of the staircase. You almost stumble into his strong back, catching yourself on the railing just in time. “I assure you it is all consensual, grappolino. They are free to leave and do as they please. Just like you. Nothing here happens without great enthusiasm.”

You look at him, toying with the hem of your shit nervously now that his gaze is back on your body. Enthusiasm does not sound like he is talking about work but at least it also doesn’t sound like a cult. “This word, is it a good thing?”

He chuckles. “It is a… how do you say? Pet name?” Suddenly he takes the step that separates you, inching closer until his face is right in front of yours. “Do you want me to stop?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, no. No, I like it. I was just wondering… is it a common name?”

“No, it is not common.”

You stare through his glasses, trying to make out the expression in his eyes. Is he flirting with you? Is he making fun of you? The tension is unbearable but you cannot be sure if he feels it as well with half of his face hidden from your sight. You have half a mind to take the glasses from his face.

“If you follow these stairs all the way down,” he finally says, stopping you from any foolishness, “you will reach the wine cellar. It is the door at the bottom, right next to the main entrance.”

“That’s… that’s where all the treasures are kept?”

His mouth curls into a rare smile. “Not all the treasures.”

“Can I ask another question?”

“Certo.”

“Do you have the same eyes as your brother?”

He cocks his head to the side, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “You will have to find out, grappolino.”

You swallow, about to take a foolish step closer to him when he suddenly backs away. His face is out of reach before you can even attempt to rid him of the sunglasses and he’s halfway down the next flight of stairs when you finally catch yourself.

“Now let me get you some tea and some food also,” he calls, not even making sure whether you’re following. “You have to eat a lot of iron and vitamins to increase blood production. We don’t want you to get anemic, hm?”

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 02/07

A group of rogue werewolves attacked two unsuspecting vampires in the Styrian mountains last Monday. The perpetrators fled the scene after they did not manage to kill their victims and attracted the attention of a nearby group of vampires. Both victims fully recovered in the span of two days while further circumstances of the incident still escape the authorities. Unnamed sources claim that one of the vampires is an old acquaintance of Primo Emeritus. Since last Wednesday, speculations on Social Media suggest that the incident could be connected to the death of a lycanthrope in May in which the former Papa was supposedly involved. Neither the authorities nor the Emeritus family were willing to give statements to confirm or deny these rumors.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo is not proud of slipping into your room that first night. He’s not proud when he sees you sleeping so peacefully, trusting that you are safe in his care. You look lovely, young, the picture of innocence and trust. A human so lively, so curious and quick-witted. There is an intelligence in you that is way beyond your years and maybe it is the very reason why you so foolishly trust him – you’re not superstitious.

Before he drinks from you, he inspects your quarters. Sheer curiosity, he tells himself, he always liked to learn. Your bookshelves are filled with all sorts of genres – classics, romantic novels, thrillers, horror, historical fiction, non-fiction. What is most telling however are the books on your bedside table. He finds the same copy of Carmilla you carried in your bag, a book about wine making you must have recently ordered and another book that looks suspiciously like a cheap erotic novel. Maybe not so innocent, he thinks, wondering how he would find you if he came in here a few hours earlier, just before your bedtime.

Secondo is not proud when he slips into your room again a few days later. He’s not proud when he does it again and again and again until one day he notices the first signs of anemia in you and gives you a week of reprieve that has him shaking like an addict. At least he found the strength to be careful now, exerting the control he lacked when he tried that first bag of blood, barely puncturing your neck with one of his fangs and drinking as slowly as your blood flow dictates. He does not want to hurt even a hair on your head, does not want you to wake up the next morning with a wound like an animal attacked you and get suspicious. No, he needs you to stay here and stay well, a source of food, a source of joy.

Still, the moment he drapes himself over your sleeping body and your blood hits his tongue it takes all of his strength to stay calm, to suppress the moans spilling from his lips, to stop himself from growing hard against your sleeping body and humping you like a horny teenager. Just a late night drink, nothing else, a meal to sustain him throughout the night. The restraint he displays is impressive even to him. It goes against all of his predatory instincts that tell him to simply drain you, to consume you until you have nothing left. 

No, Secondo is not proud of any of it. And he slowly starts to realize that it is not stealing your blood that affects him in such a way that he struggles to keep his eldritch powers measured, to ensure that you stay asleep when he feeds. The kiss of a vampire can be impactful even for the vampire himself, at least when other feelings are involved. So no, it is not your blood that breaks his resolve, that makes it so hard to treat you like any other food source.

It’s the feeling of your skin against his lips.

August

Every day in the vineyard feels like a dream. 

You never realized how much your job at the kiosk and living in your tiny flat with nothing but the bare essentials had drained you of the joy of living, how it had put you into a sluggish rhythm of loneliness and unfulfilling work – not until you started to see a different life for yourself, that is. Perhaps Secondo was right when he told you to try out different ways to enjoy yourself all these months ago, perhaps he saw how stuck you were before you got here. Your growing crush on him certainly helps to envision a happier future for yourself in this place.

Your favorite thing are the quiet afternoons with him. Usually, you never see Secondo or his brother before two o’clock. It seems like they are night owls – it is not a rare occurrence that you spot light underneath his office door well into the late hours when you head to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea. In the mornings, you get most of your work done, usually helping out with wine orders that the Nameless Ghouls pack and a post truck picks up around noon. In the evenings, you help out at the Vinothek, taking care of the shop or waiting on people while Secondo tends the bar. But the afternoons? The afternoons are priceless.

Secondo and you usually get comfortable underneath the pergola in the mansion’s courtyard. While he prefers to sit in the shade you have opted for a sunny spot. First you share a break with some afternoon coffee for which his brother usually joins you, then, once Terzo leaves, he starts to teach you everything he knows about wine and wine making. As expected, he is a most patient teacher who takes great delight from your genuine interest in the subject. Today, he is talking to you about different grape varieties and their differences in taste.

“Sangiovese is a red variety,” he explains. “Very common and the base for many wines that I have shown you, grappolino. Chianti, for example.” 

“Like in the Silence of the Lambs.”

“Sì, like that one.”

“Have you ever had it with liver?”

“You see, my dove, Chianti is actually not a good wine to have with liver. Amarone would be much better suited, or some lesser known ones. Dr Lecter would have known that, in the book he did.”

You have to smile at that. Of course he would take note of such things while watching a movie or reading a book. While he continues on his lecture on Sangiovese, you breathe in the rich scents that waft over the courtyard, carried by a gentle summer breeze. For a moment you turn your face into the sun, letting the warm rays caress your features. Mild summer days are your favorites, being outside in a simple shirt without freezing or sweating too much. When you turn back, you notice Secondo watching you. When you smile at him he cocks his head to the side, still observing you without shame. As though he only notices now, he suddenly turns away and reaches into his pocket. When his hand comes back into view it holds a silver flask and he makes a face when he takes his first sip.

“Not good?” you ask, chuckling.

He shrugs, giving a dismissive hum. “I am… used to drinking better things these days.”

“What’s in it?”

“A new drink I have been working on. I try to sample it throughout the day.”

“Can I try?”

“No, grappolino, it is not ready for that yet.”

“You will tell me when it is, though?”

He smiles, a genuine, almost soft smile that you see on him more often now when you’re just among yourselves. “I will, little dove. You are always so eager to learn and try new things.”

The compliments he gives you, if rare, are always meaningful. They manage to fluster you every single time and you subconsciously start to scratch at your neck again. This has been going on for some time now – a few mosquito bites that never stop tingling and as soon as you touch them they start to torment you.

Secondo eyes you, brow furrowed, as if to ask why you’re fidgeting so much. The itch won’t leave, however. At this point it’s hard not to just give in and scratch until it’s bleeding and hope that it will just heal off.

“Mosquito bite,” you explain. “I’ve had them since I got here. Somehow they love to drink from my neck.”

“It is a very tender spot, no? Well supplied with blood.”

“Hm, I think so.”

You scratch until it hurts, then you force yourself to stop. Meanwhile, a distant noise becomes louder and louder until a truck enters the courtyard. Its loud beeping as the driver turns around and goes into reverse hurts your ears to the point where you cover them.

“Oh, I quite forgot about that,” Secondo says and stands up. 

You watch from the pergola how a few of the Nameless Ghouls appear and carry boxes as well as barrels of wine outside loading the truck. Secondo further rolls up the sleeves of his button down shirt to help, carrying boxes until there is not much space left. The Ghouls bring three more barrels and you watch in utter fascination when Secondo picks one of them up like it weighs nothing more than a feather, placing it inside the cargo area. A minute later the truck takes off to his destination and the Ghouls disappear.

“This… was this a full barrel?” you ask, still in shock, the moment Secondo joins you again.

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“Why would you deliver an empty one?”

He eyes you, sitting down, not even out of breath. How is he so fit? You never see him working out. “Always so many questions, grappolino. So curious.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” you say with a shrug.

“Some people buy them,” he says at last. “For eh… decoration purposes.”

You eye him skeptically. Even carrying an empty barrel would take a lot of strength. At the same time, you assume, he has been carrying boxes and barrels and heavy pieces of furniture for years now. When he reclines against his chair, you again take notice of how pale he is.

“You should wear sunscreen,” you say. “You look like the pale type that burns easily.”

“I am Italian, my dove. I am not the pale type.”

“Still, sunlight is the main cause of skin aging and skin cancer.”

“Are you telling me I look old, grappolino?”

“After you just carried all these things old is the last word on my mind that I would use to describe you, no.”

A smirk tugs at his lips but when you take out your sunscreen, waving it in front of his face, he still allows you to apply some to his cheeks, chin and forehead. You think that any excuse to touch him is worth it, even if it means acting like a mother hen to a significantly older man. Despite your inner desire, you don’t let your hands linger on his face. Touching him feels vaguely forbidden, even with his consent and over the greasy layer of sunscreen. Your shaky hands certainly betray the nervous flutter in your body and when you sit back down on your chair, your stomach is in uproar.

Yes, these afternoons are your highlights because with every day you feel like you take a precious step closer to him. And if you’re really lucky and he’s not too busy he takes you back to his private kitchen afterwards to give you your own little tastings, introducing you to flavors your tongue has never met before. One month in now, you can honestly say that the decision to come here was the best one you ever made in your life.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 04/08

Ad:

Don’t miss when the new special varieties of the world famous Papastrello wine are introduced. Now with a hint of blood and many more flavors.

What? Food, Wine, Socializing

Where? Emeritus Vineyard

When? September 29th

⛧ ✦ ⛧

It is a subtle art to manipulate the taste of blood. You have to feed your prey the right flavors of food and pour the perfect drinks down their throats to influence the aroma in just the right ways. Too much alcohol and the blood is ruined, too much sugar and it tastes like cheap supermarket wine. Secondo has refined his approach over the past centuries to match his personal preferences.

“Grappa,” he says, pushing the thin-stemmed glass in front of you. “A young one.”

You sway the glass underneath your nose, inhaling the sharp scent. There is not much you could deduce from the smell, not with your human senses, but he appreciates how you always try to use them regardless of how futile the results.

“It is distilled from the pomace after the winemaking,” he explains as he watches you nip. “Nothing goes to waste.”

You smile. “That is a very progressive view.”

“I think it is a very conservative view. Traditional, if you will.” He raises his brows, waiting for your reaction. “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice, it burns in all the good ways.”

“It used to be the drink of farmers,” he explains, filling your glass again. “Until technology progressed in the last century. The taste improved a lot, now it is very popular. I learned how to make it in Northern Italy not too long ago.”

“Were you always a winemaker?”

“No.” He does not elaborate, though his brow furrows as the ghost of distant memories tries to haunt him. The flicker is gone as fast as it came. “Come here, grappolino.”

You do, walking over to where he is sitting and stopping right in front of his chair. He grabs your hand with his gloved one, the back facing upwards before he takes some of the grappa and spreads it on your skin.

“Go on,” he says. “Take in the aroma.”

The scent that hits your nose is pleasant, much more pleasant than the taste. When you are done, looking back at him, he reaches out for your hand and brings it to his own nose, holding your gaze. His lips graze your skin when he sniffs and you think you’re about to combust, your whole body tingling nervously at the unexpected touch.

“Impurities show in the smell,” Secondo explains, remaining unfazed. “Of course, this one does not have any. It is perfect.”

“Of course,” you repeat and when he looks at you with his intense discolored eyes, you’re not sure if he meant the grappa. “So… is that true for people as well?”

His brows rise, a smile tugging at his lips as he nuzzles your hand. “Hm, I don’t smell any impurities in you.” A pause in which you stare at each other, unmoving, unblinking. “Unless they are…” His hand slides up your arm, agonizingly slow. Fingers sprawl out on your cheek, cradling your face before he taps his index finger against your temple. “In here.”

“I can’t say my thoughts are very pure when I’m around you, no.”

Your admission, so readily given, hits him like a gut punch. His cock jumps in his pants, swelling until his slacks are uncomfortably tight. It’s not like hasn’t daydreamed about making you come in a hundred different ways, about having you sprawled out underneath him in the very bed you first opened your eyes to him, to have you begging for him, showing him just how obedient and good you can be when it really counts. Right now, he wants to bend you over one of the wine barrels and have his way with you until you’re crying out his name, until every bit of boldness leaves your body and you’re at his mercy in more ways than one. He wants to teach you the sin of lust until you’re fluent in its very language.

“You’re the first human in a long time that’s tempted me,” he admits with a sigh, pulling his hand from your face. “But the sinner knows temptation when he sees it. I won’t fall, little dove.”

You chuckle, leaning further back against the edge of the table. “The first human? That sounds ominous.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “You should thank Satan for the gift of ignorance. I know you like to ask questions but sometimes it is better not to know.”

“Secondo,” you whisper and then you’re closer, your leg touching his knee. It is evident by the way your blood rushes to your face that you can see the predicament in his pants. He makes no attempt to conceal it. “I don’t know what it is that you think you need to protect me from. But I just wish… I just wish…” You visibly swallow. Then your tongue darts out to wet your lips, slowly, sensually. “If you’re a sinner, then why not sin?”

It is foolish of him to allow you to slide into his lap. Even more foolish to place his hands on your hips and pull you closer, to feel your soft flesh against his thighs. Your hands land on his shoulders, delicate, curious fingers that feel him without shame. They stay there until you sit so comfortably that you don’t need the support anymore at which point they start to travel – over his chest, down to his belly, back up over his bare forearms. The skin contact is more intoxicating than the grappa. You’re always so warm.

It is only when they reach his face that he flinches. You stop immediately, trying to meet his gaze through his glasses. He takes a deep breath. You’ve seen Terzo’s eyes, there is no reason why you would be spooked by his now. And yet–

“Please?” you whisper.

He knows that meeting your gaze with no barrier is going to bring him to his limits. It is a last safety measure, a shield to prevent you from seeing into his soul and to stop him from falling into yours. Curious, beautiful eyes who have seen way more of him than he ever wanted to bare. Still, it seems like you have softened the hard edges of his resolve. More and more of him trickles from the cracks and he can’t quite figure out how to mend the leaks. 

His cautious nod is all it takes for you to take the frame of his glasses and carefully pull them off his face. You hold his gaze so bravely, even as you set them down on the table. The quiet that follows is agonizing even to him. His muscles tense and even though he tries not to blink, he’s the first one to do so.

“You do have the same eyes,” you finally whisper.

“Runs in the family.”

“Ah.”

Those soft fingertips dance along his jaw now, tracing the lines on his skin as though you’re drawing a map. He allows you to get to know his face, even allows your palm to cup his cheek when you gain more courage. The warmth spreads inside of him like a flame, kindling his deepest, most carnal desires that used to be latent for so long. 

It terrifies him and yet he craves nothing more than to give into the pull of their current.

“Secondo,” you whisper, his name laced with all of your needs, and then you’re leaning in.

He already feels your hot breath against his lips, your thumb swiping along his sharp cheekbone, and he can’t help but admire your boldness. It would be so easy to give in and accept his fate, accept that he is not as immune as he thought. But to do so would be to admit to his feelings and the consequences, the pain this would cause you both, is not worth a fleeting moment of passion.

He turns away at the last second, your nose brushing against his, even as your lips miss. You pull back, looking at him with your heavy-lidded, lust-filled eyes. It takes everything in him not to grab you. Confusion ices over your features then and he uses the moment to gently push you off his lap until you land on your feet again.

“Go to bed, grappolino,” he says and to his own shame he can’t meet your eyes as the words leave his mouth.

Even so he catches the hurt of rejection that flickers over your face. He can already smell the salty tears gathering in your eyes, even as he fully turns away and starts to clean the table. Your footsteps retreat with no argument, no witty comeback, not even an insult or a sound of annoyance. He almost wishes that you would have slapped him.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

When he sneaks into your room that night dried tears stain your velvety cheeks. They present him with a feeling he has not dealt with in centuries – guilt.

He falters, thinking that he should not feed from you tonight, not after refusing your intimacy earlier when you offered it to him so willingly. And yet, perhaps even more now, he wants to feel your skin against his as if to offer you the comfort he cannot give by day. Against his better judgment he settles in bed next to you, facing you this time instead of just taking your neck from behind. You’re sleeping on your side, one cheek squished to the pillow, the other one available to him. Secondo pulls at his gloves and gently strokes along your cheekbone, gathering what little wetness remains. You’re warm. So warm.

With some effort he leans over you, finding the spot on your neck and reopening the wound with his fangs. As he begins to drink, his arm wraps around you, pulling you into a more comfortable position. It is the closest thing to a hug.

The contrast between you and him hits him with full force in that moment. He’s not sure why you’re not afraid of him. Most humans sense the presence of a vampire. Unaware as to what the threat is, they still usually feel unease or a vague air of danger. Perhaps you have no sense of self-preservation or perhaps you truly just don’t fear him. Perhaps you’re one of the few people who are unaffected, too curious for your own good.

Or perhaps you were simply made for him. Perhaps Lucifer made your paths cross for a reason.

The thought of having you, of leaning into what has been building between the two of you is terrifying but thrilling at the same time. With your blood in his mouth it is easy to imagine claiming you, revealing himself to you, bringing you into his world and showing you its magic.

He’s not sure how you sense his line of thinking but in that moment you start to shift, moving against him like you’re trying to get closer. He slips, losing grasp on his powers for just a moment but it is enough to make you rouse. You don’t fully wake but your sleep lightens and with a tired sigh you cuddle up to him, tilting your head so he has even better access. An arm wraps around his middle, fingers playing with the hem of his black shirt until they graze his bare midriff. 

“Secondo,” you whimper. 

It awakens something inside of him he has not felt before, not a sexual feeling but a thrum somewhere close to his heart. Need is dripping from your voice, the smell of your arousal hits his sensitive nose, and he’s sure you must be dreaming about him now. Before he knows it he has sunk both of his fangs into your neck and is sucking the blood oozing from the wound. His senses explode, the feeling of your skin on his fingertips, your taste, the way you sigh and seek out his embrace. Lust he can handle, hunger he can handle, but these feelings run deeper, digging below the surface and clawing their way into his very core.

Suddenly it’s all too much. He pulls away from your abused neck, already discolored and swollen, and the sight of what he’s done is enough to propel his overwhelm and guilt into new heights. Secondo slips from the bed and before he knows what he’s doing he finds himself back in his own bedroom. He throws his gloves to the side and stares at his shaking hands. Hands that held you not five seconds ago. Hands that are already yearning to hold you again. His body is buzzing with the need to be close to you, trying to chase the feeling he had when you clung to him, and he hasn’t felt this alive in centuries.

He slides to the ground, leaning against his bed and staring through the window at a growing, nearly full late August moon. What he should be focussing on is the Vinothek, the preparations for the event not even a full month in the future, the growing tensions with the werewolf community and the upcoming wine harvest, not playing around with his little human. 

Secondo licks along his teeth, grazing his fangs, but the taste of your blood won’t fade from his mouth, no matter how many times he swallows and swallows and swallows. It remains there, a phantom of you to remind him of his folly. He knows he won’t find any peace tonight.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

When you dream of him this time, it sets your body on fire. Your imagination, in comfort or torture, brings him into your bed where he wraps himself around your body and kisses your neck with reckless abandon. It seems to last all night but at the same time you feel like you’ve only slept for an hour. Waking up is like being ripped from paradise and cast back into the raging horrors on earth. At first you think you still feel his lips on your neck but the sensation turns into a dull pain, not that of a love bite but that of a hammer repeatedly hitting your skin. You remember his rejection from last night and promptly feel like throwing up.

With your mind still stuck in the fragments of the dream, you enter your bathroom to splash your face with some cold water. The pain on your neck has reached into your whole shoulder area by now and you pause when you spot your reflection. A huge purple bruise has spread over the area around the bite. How–

It would not be the first time your body has let his frustrations out on yourself in sleep. Maybe you scratched the mosquito bite too hard, maybe that’s why you dreamed about him kissing your neck in the first place. At any rate, what you really need right now is a cup of coffee and some painkillers.

Without as much as changing you quickly head downstairs. The house is eerily quiet as usual, the morning has just begun after all and the sun is creeping up over the horizon. Every window you pass reveals a spectacular view of the vineyard with its rows and rows of wine dipped into the soft orange light of a late summer sunrise.

The sight helps improve your mood somewhat. Though that is quickly reversed when you reach the kitchen. You’re already halfway to the coffee maker when you jump after spotting Secondo sitting at the large kitchen table. His own cup of coffee sits in front of him as he reads the paper and you’re wondering if he never went to bed in the first place. 

Of course he has already detected you, eying you curiously. He’s not wearing the glasses, you note, only his gloves, a simple black polo shirt that draws your attention back to his forearms. Quickly, you avert your gaze and focus on the machine in front of you, your face hot in shame for your silly attempt to kiss him as well as your dream.

“Buon giorno, grappolino,” Secondo says, closing the newspaper he’s spread out in front of him and folding it neatly. You can’t read his expression, not even with his eyes revealed to you. 

“Good morning,” you say. “You are up early.”

“Sì. We get some important deliveries today.”

The noise of the espresso machine drowns out your hum of acknowledgment and briefly ends the conversation. However, Secondo’s gaze lingers on your neck and you realize that you’re still only in your loose sleeping shirt and pajama bottoms, the bruise in plain sight.

“It’s… it’s not a hickey.” You’re not sure why you’re saying it. It’s not like you could have got one in the span of the few hours that you’ve been separated. “I don’t know how I got it, probably scratched too hard in my sleep.”

He doesn’t reply, not with words, but there is something in his expression that is wholly foreign to you. His brow is furrowed, his lips slightly parted, and without his glasses you can see a range of emotions reflected in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better you’d think it’s a mixture of shame and guilt. He doesn’t stay long enough to let you see more.

September

Harvesting wine is a brutal job. That is what you’ve been told, anyway.

Hand-picking the grapes instead of using machinery protects the soil, Secondo told you, which is why the Nameless Ghouls head out every morning and every evening to gather them manually while the sun sits low on the horizon.

“The grapes have to stay cool,” he told you when you asked him why they left at four in the morning each day. “It reduces the risk of bacterial infections.”

You watch the bustle from your window, how they start at the bottom of the hillside and make their way up, row after row with buckets and containers on their backs. Once their shift is over, they bring the yield back into the courtyard where they prepare it for further processing. 

It seems like they never get tired.

Most days, Secondo and Terzo either help them pick or they take care of pressing the grapes. Things stay a little awkward, at least for you. Secondo does not really acknowledge that anything happened at all and since the whole vineyard is busy with the harvest while you’re stuck in the office or in the shop, restocking shelves, checking inventory, taking care of shipments, you hardly even see him. On one hand, his rejection still hurts, but on the other hand you’re relieved that he has not fired you or had any other negative reactions to your advances. It would not be the first time you meet an emotionally repressed man who pushes you away. Not the first time you calm your anxiety by nurturing your foolish hopes that maybe one day he will find it in him to like you back.

You learn that the harvest has to go over quickly before the grapes are overly ripe. It’s no surprise when they’re done after no more than three weeks. The cold storages are filled with grape juice just like the wooden barrels in the wine cellar where it now rests, fermenting slowly over the next few months until it turns into wine.

With the harvest done, focus shifts to the upcoming tasting event. When you don’t see Secondo chasing the ghouls through the guest wing for some last minute changes to the interior, you usually know he’s busy in the wine cellar, entrenching himself in one of the back rooms which he told you are not for nosy little doves. You’re sure he’s working on his new wines, perfecting the secret recipes. He prefers to work undisturbed in silence, so whenever he is busy down there he has you stock the mini bars in the guest rooms, make floral arrangements to decorate the sitting rooms or prepare small self-made gifts for the visitors. Anything to keep you occupied elsewhere.

You’re not sure if he really wants to work in solitude or if he’s just avoiding you.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo never took himself for a coward. 

He is a smart, calculated man who has a few centuries of experience under his belt that help him go through life mostly unscathed. He tries to anticipate risks and act accordingly and he might come across as cold or dismissive at times because of his measured choices. He hides, he protects, he does what he has to do. But he is not a coward. 

He is not a coward but since that night, he has not drunk from you.

It bears the question if avoidance and cowardice are two sides of the same coin. If he can’t win either way. The impulse to ignore an issue is not exactly familiar to him but with the event coming up, with the harvest and goings-on at the vineyard it is easy to slip into a mode of focus that pushes you away by keeping busy.

If it weren’t for that hunger.

He’s drinking enough blood from his supply to sustain him but somehow it will not sate him in the way that your blood does. Even as he works with Terzo now, preparing the rooms for the guests that are arriving today and tomorrow, all he can think about is you. It certainly does not help that your smell lingers in every single room.

“Fratello,” Terzo pipes up behind him. “Did Primo say he would bring someone?”

“Hm?”

“He’s…” His brother snorts, pressing his greasy palms against the freshly cleaned window. “I swear to Satan, he’s with a human.”

“Di che parli?”

Secondo can’t help but join him, glancing out of the window like that one annoying neighbor everyone hates, scanning the courtyard in search of his older brother. Primo’s old Bentley has been parked at the far side beneath the beech trees. His long blond hair dances in the breeze behind him as he rounds the car and opens the door to the passenger seat. Someone else steps out, not a ghoul nor anyone else Secondo has ever seen before. The person holds his gloved hand and he immediately pulls them into his arms, wrapping his deep red cloak around them. He leans down to kiss them on the mouth, tenderly, taking his sweet time as he cradles them in his arms like they’re the most precious thing in the world.

“Ma che cazzo…” Terzo whispers. “The old man found someone before I did.”

“He’s with a human,” Secondo states.

“No shit, Sherlock, eh? Not all of us are anthropophobic.”

“I am not–”

“Satana, are they going to stop making out? That’s disgusting.”

“Stop spying, stronzino.”

He practically pulls Terzo from the window and forces him to welcome their brother in the entrance hall downstairs, as respect demands. They have to wait another five minutes until Primo appears, carrying two large suitcases, the human he brought with him entering alongside. They’re young. Very young in fact. Probably around your age, he can’t help but note.

“Fratello!” Terzo greets him exuberantly, opening his arms to him. Primo barely has enough time to set down the suitcases before Terzo’s lips press to his cheeks in two loud kisses. “You look well! And you brought someone, che sorpresa!”

“I am well,” Primo says as Terzo quickly moves on to the human, taking their hand delicately in his and bringing it to his lips. Meanwhile Primo faces Secondo who is still rooted to his spot behind the reception desk. “Grazie per l’invito.”

“Grazie per essere venuto,” he replies diplomatically. “It is good to see you, fratello.”

“To be honest, we need a place to stay for a while.” He turns to his companion who has since been freed from Terzo grasp, wrapping a possessive arm around their waist with a sort of love-sick expression that Secondo has never seen on him before. “This is my little flower, my greatest treasure. I want you all to meet.”

Terzo and Secondo exchange a quick look but before they can say anything the human speaks up. “It’s nice to meet you both. Primo told me a lot about you.”

“Only good things I hope, eh?” Terzo asks.

“They know,” Primo says then. “You don’t have to hide.”

“You told them?” Secondo asks, the shock evidently woven into his voice. 

“Fratello, what is going on?” Terzo’s reaction is quite similar. “Werewolves, a human?”

In that moment Secondo’s senses detect you coming down the stairs. He shushes his brothers, nudging Terzo towards the suitcases in hopes of giving the appearance of a normal check-in. The last thing he needs right now is another human finding out.

“I told you I am not your bellhop,” Terzo complains.

You round the corner, then, and they finally pay enough attention to notice you as well. Secondo can’t help but take you in when you descend to their level. His eyes find your neck, the bruise mostly faded but even so the memory of that night is clear in his mind. That appetite inside of him stirs, the urge to have his lips on your skin again to taste not just your blood but all of you.

“Oh, hello,” you say, effectively bringing his attention back to the situation at hand. “I thought I heard voices. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, grappolino.” He has to force himself to stop staring at you. “The first guests have arrived. This is our brother, Primo, and his… partner.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“And who is this?” Primo asks, shooting Secondo a knowing look before he greets you with a gentle smile. “How lovely to see a new face in these old halls.”

Secondo introduces you, not without a hint of barely concealed shame. He can feel Primo’s eyes boring into him throughout, the accusation of hypocrisy very evident in his narrowed mismatched eyes. Of course Primo would see right through him. His older brother’s senses are even stronger than any of theirs. He would not be surprised if he still smelled him on you.

“Can you find a Ghoul to carry their luggage?” Secondo asks. “I would like to have a moment with just my brothers.”

“I won’t leave my flower,” Primo says, vehemently shaking his head.

“It’s okay,” they interject, running a soft hand along his arm. “I will just start unpacking.”

It is only with a great deal of reluctance that Primo follows him and Terzo into the kitchen and leaves his little flower to you. The eldest immediately finds the kettle and brings some water to boil. Old habits die hard, Secondo supposes. Serious conversations are only to be held over a calming cup of herbal tea.

“Cos’è successo?” Secondo ask once they all sit over their mugs. “With the wolf?”

“It was not done on purpose,” Primo says. “I was protecting someone I love. That is all you need to know.”

“The human?” The word comes out with much more venom than he anticipated.

“Ah and you are here to pass judgment?” Primo asks, giving him a withering look. “You?”

Secondo presses his lips together. “Not judgment. I am trying to understand why.”

“Is it so hard for you to imagine caring about someone? To love them so much that you would kill for them?”

”No, I–“

“I am not here to be questioned,” Primo interrupts. “You invited me to an event, no? That is what we are here for. If you allow us, we would like to stay a few more days until we can move into our new home. But apart from that, I do not wish any commentary on my life.”

“You are moving?” Secondo asks. “With the human?”

“Oh, don’t mind him, fratello,” Terzo chimes in. “He is just grumpy because he fell in love with a human as well but unlike you he already messed it up. We are very happy for you and your little flower.”

“I will not have this childish conversation,” Secondo says. “There are werewolves running amok because of this, attacking our kind.”

“And they will calm down,” Terzo says. “There are a few rogues, it is not the whole community.”

“Secondo, I know you are worried.” Primo’s voice lost the defensive tone, instead it sounds much more like the caring, diplomatic voice his brother is used to. “But I don’t need your protection. If any werewolf is foolish enough to attack us, they will face harsh consequences. I will defend what is mine and I urge you to do the same.”

Secondo lets those words sit for a moment. He has never felt protective of anyone outside of the family before but now the first person that comes to his mind is you. Would he have done the same, killing a werewolf to save you? Potentially rekindling a centuries-old conflict between two communities? 

The answer comes surprisingly easy.

“Did you invite Copia?” Primo asks then. “He is not here?”

“Oh, he is busy playing Dracula somewhere in the Slovakian mountains,” Terzo replies. “He said not to expect him but to send him a few bottles.”

“He is not doing well.” Primo takes a long sip of tea. “It has been half a century.”

“Until father steps down this will not change,” Secondo says. “Copia has the rightful claim to the title.”

“Well, we had this argument before and it caused a family feud that made us vulnerable in the first place,” Terzo snaps. “The old stronzo doesn’t give a shit.”

“Let’s not get into this now,” Primo says. “We are here to celebrate that your business is doing well, Secondo. It will give the community something else to talk about for a while.”

This is as long as they manage to keep Primo from going to look after his flower, leaving them to stew over their own tea mugs they won’t be emptying. Secondo struggles to grasp what he learned today. Primo – the experienced, the wisest and most reasonable of them – is in love with a human. A young, kind, lovely human. And he is happier than ever before.

But perhaps that is not what is so hard to understand. Perhaps it is the fact that Secondo wishes he had the very same thing. Primo’s words still ring inside of his head. Is it so hard for you to imagine caring about someone?

The answer is no. He knows exactly what it feels like.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

The next twenty-four hours are the busiest since you came to the vineyard. Guest after guest arrives and Secondo puts you in charge of welcoming them. You’re behind the reception desk most of the night because apparently most of them traveled through the evening hours. By twelve pm on the very day that the event takes place the last guest arrives. He is a middle aged man with dark hair and kind brown eyes, looking far more average than the rest of the guests with their fancy clothes, aristocratic features and expensive cars. He reveals his name to you and you scan the reservation, finding him at the bottom as one of the last ones to book a room. There aren’t any left, so he must have got lucky. 

“That would be the blue room, sir,” you offer, handing him the key.

He eyes your neck, then, and you’re not sure what he is looking at, if he can still somehow see the faint remnants of your bruise in the dim lighting inside. Before you can apologize for your appearance, he glances away again, smiling. “Thank you, little one. The blue room sounds lovely.”

“Let me ask someone to carry your luggage, sir.” 

You’re ready to ring the bell and call for a Ghoul. However, the man stops you with a wave of his hand. “Oh, not necessary. I shall carry it myself. A little workout never hurt anyone.”

“Oh, okay.” 

He’s already up the stairs when you’re distracted from the encounter. Secondo strolls into the entrance hall. He does not appear nervous, despite only having eight hours left until the event begins. Right now he’s dressed in a simple polo shirt, slacks, his usual gloves and sunglasses. You love it when he looks somewhat casual, at least to his standards. Still, you can’t quite revel in his handsome appearance. Since the tasting is so close now, your anxiety has risen to an uncomfortable level. He said he needed an extra pair of hands but he never specified for how long.

“Has everyone arrived?” he asks when he reaches the desk.

“Yes, the last guest just went to his room.” You eye him as he scans the list in front of you, not even taking notice of the state you’re in. “Actually, do you have a moment?”

He looks up, then, and you freeze. Even through the glasses meeting his eyes has the heavy impact of a gut punch. You’re surprised by how gentle his voice is. “Of course, my dove. What is it?”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” you ramble before you can think twice about it. “I know, we were just being a little flirty with each other and that this is very different from actually attempting to kiss you. I feel very stupid now that I… that I misread the situation and I want to apologize. I love working here and I don’t want to lose it when the event is over. I enjoy being here, spending time with you and I don’t want to leave.”

“Grappolino, who said anything about leaving?”

You’re almost crying, tears pricking your eyes like a thousand needles. “You’re avoiding me. I just assumed that when you don’t need me anymore…”

He stops you by reaching for your hand, pressing his thumb into your palm. “You do not have to worry about this right now.”

“How can I not? You’ve been acting all sorts of weird with me.”

Secondo sighs deeply and you regret bringing it up now when he’s already stressed. But then he perks up as though something caught his attention. He pulls you into the door to the wine cellar by the stairs just when you hear voices and footsteps approaching. Blindly you stumble after him, shivering when you reach the cold stone masonry downstairs where he turns on an old, dim ceiling light. Down here it smells of fermentation, wine and vaguely of must. You lean against an old table, listening to the gurgling sounds of the carbon dioxide leaving the barrels.

“You won’t go, grappolino,” Secondo says, running his gloved hand over his face until he reaches his sunglasses and takes them off. “In fact it is I who should apologize for how I’ve been treating you. For things you don’t even know about.”

You stare into his odd eyes, the white iris almost glowing in the gloomy old cellar. He takes two steps until he’s right in front of you and you feel a cold shiver of anticipation running along your spine. You haven’t been this close since the grappa incident and the smell of his cologne makes you dizzy with need.

“My dove, you did not misread the situation. I very much wanted to kiss you.” He cages you in, resting both of his hands on the table at your sides. “And I very much want to do so right now.”

“Please,” is all you can say. “Please, Secondo.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smug grin at your begging tone, the lines on his hollow cheeks deepening. He leans in until your breaths mingle, until you can feel his exhales tickling your lips. “We shouldn’t,” he whispers into the tight space. “It is foolish.”

And yet he does not pull away. His hooked nose nuzzles yours as if to savor the moment for just a bit longer. You dare to reach out and wrap your hands around his strong neck, playing with the collar of his shirt. He hums when your fingertips brush the tender skin at his nape and his own hand moves to cup your cheek, looking for more contact. The leather feels soft, hiding how his firm grip keeps your head in place. His eyes are stuck on your lips and you decide to close yours, mentally tracing the line of butterflies that flutter from your belly all the way up to your throat. Another hum leaves him when you part your lips in a sigh and then his thumb pushes your jaw up, tilting your head just right before his lips capture yours.

His mouth is cooler than expected, softer too. Secondo takes charge of the kiss in a way that makes you weak in the knees. Gentle but firm at the same time he moves his lips against yours, slowly increasing the pressure. You moan softly, clinging to him as your body sinks and sinks against him. His hands move to your hips to catch you and he easily sets you down on the table, stepping between your legs until you can feel his whole front against yours. He’s already half-hard and his outline is only growing against your stomach.

You snake a hand between your bodies, cupping his length through the tightness of his slacks. Secondo groans into your mouth, pushing his tongue between your lips with urgency. You kiss back with the same hunger, swollen mouths and eager tongues exploring each other to the last crevice. When you break away, saliva drips from the corner of your mouth to your chin and he licks it off, kissing from your cupid’s bow down to your jaw.

Before you can properly recover your breathing, Secondo’s hand toys at your lips and he slides two of his fingers inside your mouth. You receive them, allowing him to press down on your tongue.

“Get them wet for me, hm?” he murmurs into your skin. “My perfect little dove. So eager, so filthy, just waiting for me to fill you.”

You suck at the digits spurred on by his praise, swirling your tongue around their length while his lips firmly attach to your neck in a bruising kiss, just like in your dream. You struggle to keep your grasp on reality, lust and pleasure overwhelming all of your senses. When he finally pulls his hand from your lips you feel horribly empty. He gives you no time before he pushes his hand into your pants, not even playing with you before he immediately slides it in deeper. He finds your opening, fingers probing and widening before he slips one inside. You keen, grasping his shoulders for support and he adds a second one shortly after. The stretch is beautiful, thick, gloved fingers that he crooks expertly to hit that sweet sensitive spot inside. You think he moans louder than you at the contact, sinking against your body for a moment as the sensation hits him.

“You…” He shudders, groans deeply into your ear. “You’re so… warm.”

He gasps when you impatiently rut against his hand, rolling your hips in sync with the movements of his fingers inside of you. He helps you along, pumping his fingers in and out of you while still kissing your neck with his insistent mouth. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, closer, until his hard cock rubs against your front at every thrust of his hand. Secondo grunts like a wild animal and then his teeth sink into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. A stinging pain shoots through you and you cry out in surprise. The feeling is not unpleasant, on the contrary – the pain mixing with your pleasure makes you wonderfully dizzy. He must have broken the skin because there is more wetness now than just his spit trickling down your throat. Secondo startles when he feels it, breaking away from your neck, and you can see blood staining his teeth and lips. “I’m sorry– I–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “It’s okay, I like it rough. Don’t stop.”

His lips press to yours urgently. You moan, tasting your warm blood in his cold mouth, and you push your tongue inside even deeper for more. Secondo’s movements speed up. His fingers fuck you roughly until you can’t help but clench around them. It only takes a few more flicks of his tongue against yours, a few more strokes of his fingers until you’re tumbling over the edge. The moan that breaks from your throat echoes loudly in the old stone halls and you whimper pathetically at every thrust with which he carries you through your pleasure.

You notice that his hips still hump your front in sync with the last few pumps of his hand, chasing the friction of your body. He’s grunting, his open lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before they slide down to your neck. His tongue darts out to lick the remaining blood from your collarbone, eager strokes of his tongue that leave a wet trail over your skin before his lips close tightly around the wound. Suddenly he stills, releasing a drawn-out moan stifled by your wet skin and you feel his cock jumping inside of his pants when he cums. For a moment he holds you against him, removing his fingers to wrap both of his arms tightly around you.

“Perdonami, per favore,” he whispers, pressing a thousand soft kisses along your neck. “I hurt you. I hurt my little dove.”

“Don’t apologize,” you stress. “I like it rough, I would have told you if I didn’t.”

“That’s not…” He sighs. “No, I cannot hurt you. It has to stop.”

“Secondo.” He falters at the sound of his name, frowning at you. “I liked it. Please, don’t worry.”

He takes a shuddering breath, shaking his head vehemently. “Grappolino, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You smooth out the deep line between his eyes, caressing his features with all the tenderness you feel towards him. He slowly relaxes, resting his forehead against yours. For a while you stay like that, embracing each other, breathing each other in. Your heart beats strongly against your ribs, longing to reach him. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been this happy before.

“Secondo,” you whisper, nuzzling his nose with yours. “I think I’m in love with you.”

He freezes against you, his limbs going rigid. After a moment he pulls away to meet your eyes and there is such visible confusion etched into his features. His mouth opens slightly, revealing the edges of two sharp fangs, still dipped in your blood. His eye turns from a deep red to its usual green.

Suddenly, it all begins to fall into place. Perhaps you breathed in too many alcoholic fumes down here, perhaps you’ve finally lost your mind. But the way he lapped at your blood, the way he avoids the light, the bruising around your neck, the sunglasses and late nights, how you dreamed about him with blood staining his mouth, his eye glowing red–

“Secondo!” a voice calls down the stairs. “Sbrigati!”

His head whips around and he tries to break away. You attempt to keep him there, holding onto his shoulders, urging him to stay. “Secondo, are you… are you a–”

“We have to talk later,” he says, tearing himself away from you with ease. “We have to head to the Vinothek and get ready for the guests. I will wait for you in the courtyard.”

”But–“

He won’t hear you out. Before you can say another word he’s already upstairs.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Somehow you manage to get dressed. Your legs hardly carry you upstairs, weak from the force of what just happened as well as the sudden stress added on top. With your evening outfit already neatly laid out on your bed it doesn’t take you too long to get ready but you also can’t find any calm moment to gather your thoughts. Your suspicion spreads in your mind, carrying a hint of fear but also curiosity. You’re sure you’re slowly losing grasp on your sanity. It’s impossible. You’re not superstitious, on the contrary, you’ve always relied on your thirst for knowledge, on the fact that you learn fast, that you see through things and quickly understand them. But if your notion turns out to be true, you ran into the trap of a predator with open arms and a bared neck.

Even so, your suspicion doesn’t stop your cheeks from burning when you meet everyone in the courtyard, Secondo and his brothers already waiting for you in the shade of the pergola. When his eyes meet yours you feel a pull, a need unlike any you have felt before. You can’t help but wonder if you’re being manipulated, if this is all a mirage and he’s been toying with you all this time.

Real or not, their looks for the night take your breath away. What strikes you the most is how all three of them are wearing face paints that shape their features like skulls. They’re all slightly different but Secondo’s looks the most menacing, stressing the sharp edges of his jaw and cheeks. In contrast to that of his brothers his eyeshadow is glittery, sparkling in the light that meets his face.

Suddenly you’re wondering how the thought of them being vampires has never occurred to you before. Secondo looks quite like Count Dracula himself in his white button down shirt, a green brocade vest under a perfectly cut suit jacket, an emerald green bowtie, black slacks and leather brogues that match his gloves – the same gloves that were inside of you not even half an hour ago. Terzo’s outfit is quite similar only that his shirt has ruffles, the vest is a deep purple and he’s fixed a silver brooch on his collar that bears the upside down crucifix you’ve seen tattooed on his body. Primo is wearing a crimson brocade tailcoat, his long blonde hair curled at the edges while his partner’s outfit was carefully chosen to match his. They look like they jumped straight out of a classic horror movie – elegantly menacing, aristocratic and weirdly out of time.

During your ride to the Vinothek, you’re closely pressed to Secondo’s side on the backseat of a short limousine with darkened windows, driven by one of the Nameless Ghouls. Even dressed up you feel quite out of place. His strong thigh is pressed against yours, distracting you enough that the five minutes pass quickly. You stare at his hands resting in his lap, toying with the hem of his gloves, and you wonder if he wore the same pair on purpose.

At the venue, more Nameless Ghouls arrange tables and chairs in one of the side rooms that are usually empty. You feel pretty useless while the others discuss the tasting, so you refill the shelves in the store up front and distract yourself by preparing the bar for the evening. At some point Secondo approaches you behind the counter. “You can handle the hum-” He coughs. “The evening bustle while I lead the tasting?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you, grappolino.” He stops, almost reaching for your hand but pulling back just before your fingers touch. He looks like he wants to say more, you want him to say more, but his lips stay sealed. It is odd to look at his painted face, a man you thought you knew, thought you were in love with. Now it is hard to say if any of it was real.

Once the first guests arrive, you’re tasked to show them into the event location. You know the actual tasting is going to take two hours with the subsequent chance to socialize. Once the door closes you get somewhat comfortable behind the bar. Throughout the night you only have to tend to two guests, the rest of the time you spend googling everything that you can about vampires on your phone. No helpful sites pop up, only a few intense subreddits about suspected vampire sightings that only serve to confuse you even more. 

About two hours later, the door to the side room bursts open and Terzo storms past. He pulls at the door of one of the wine fridges, blindly reaching for one of the bottles. Secondo follows two seconds later, closing the door quietly behind him with a deep sigh. You step aside when Terzo reaches for a corkscrew, pulling the cork out like it’s nothing.

“You don’t know if it is true,” Secondo says, leaning in the doorway.

“Well, they’re not here,” Terzo says. “They didn’t come.”

“You should be glad they did not, fratello. It spares you the pain of another rejection.”

Terzo lifts the bottle and places it at his painted mouth, taking a long swig until the paint is smudged and his lips take on a deep crimson tone. He lets the taste sit for a minute, seemingly content before he starts to empty the bottle without pause.

“Fratello, you need to calm down,” Secondo warns him. “This is a wine tasting.”

“Yeah, so? Are you supposed to be boring at those?”

“They are a more… sophisticated sort of event. Come sai.”

“What I know, fratello, is that I’m here for a good time, just like everyone else. I want to have some actual damn wine and find someone to fuck later, sound sophisticated enough?”

“Terzo,” Secondo says. “You can’t fuck or drink the pain away.”

His brother frowns, grabbing another two bottles from the fridge. “Watch me try.”

You follow Terzo with your eyes as he pushes past his brother and disappears in the other room. Through the open door you can hear the bustle of people socializing, the clinking of glasses. “Will he be okay?”

Secondo closes the door and shrugs. “This is going to cost me a lot of wine. It is not easy to get him drunk.”

“So ugh… who didn’t come?” you dare to ask.

“His ex.” Secondo lifts his hand to rub at his eyes but thinks better just before they touch his make-up. “It is a long story. Someone told him they’re with someone else.”

“Secondo,” you try, now that you have him alone. “Actually, I’ve been wondering…”

“I need to look after him before he causes a scene. Can you do me a favor and get some of the orders sorted? The bottles are in the backroom. You can pack them in the usual boxes and bring them out back where one of the Ghouls will pick them up later.”

You want to argue with him, force him to listen to you, but he seems too tense to risk an attempt now. Instead you nod. “Where are they?”

“I will bring you the forms.”

With that he disappears into the side room as well. You’re curious, maybe too curious for your own good, but you just have to risk it and slip inside as well. The sight that meets you has you gasping. All of the guests have gathered around bar tables, wine glasses filled with a deep red liquid as they eagerly chat and drink. Even in the dimmed light you realize that this is not the same wine you’ve seen served at the bar, nor does the texture resemble any of the ones Secondo had you try. No, if it’s true and they’re– 

A sudden sense of terror overcomes you, even more so as you notice the first curious pairs of eyes on you that you swear are a glowing red. They don’t look real, they don’t look even remotely human, and most of all they look hungry.

“You are too curious for your own good.”

Secondo is by your side immediately, blocking your view before he ushers you out of the room. You let him carefully manhandle you until you’re outside of the door, still petrified from what you just saw, from the sudden horror fantasies your mind conjured up.

“The orders,” he says, pressing the documents into your hand before he gently cups your cheek.  You’re panicking, maybe. Or perhaps you’re not breathing at all. “My dove.”

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

You nod, telling yourself that this can’t be true. It simply can’t. You’re seeing ghosts, your brain has taken hold of an idea and ran wild with it. This is the real world, not one of the many novels you read. Secondo is right here, looking just like always, his iris green and not glowing at all.

“I’m sorry for busting in,” you say, realizing your silly mistake now. “I just… God, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m losing my mind.”

“Grappolino, I promise we will talk tomorrow. First we have to get this done, yes?” His thumb swipes over your cheek, so gently that you decide to believe him. “I will meet you once the guests leave and we will talk about what happened today.”

“Alright.” You nod, leaning into his touch. “I’ll… I’ll take care of the orders.”

He must know of your suspicion, he must know. His eyes tell you that he’s not going to let you leave, that he has an eye on you if you want to or not. For some reason you still feel safe knowing that he’s here, his touch nothing but comforting. His nod is barely noticeable but he does let go of your face eventually to go back inside. 

For a few minutes you have to hold onto the wall, slowly breathing in and out, trying to calm your racing heart. Perhaps it’s the lack of proper sleep. You spent most of last night checking in guests, only getting a few hours of rest in the early morning. 

This is ridiculous, you tell yourself, vampires aren’t real.

Once you’ve recovered, you start to pack the boxes, distracting yourself with the basic, monotonous work that is packing order and updating inventory. You’ve already carried a couple of boxes outside into the alley behind the Vinothek when your sneaking suspicion grows stronger again. There is an easy way to find out whether they were really drinking blood. One way to prove to yourself that you’re overreacting.

Without thinking you rip one of the boxes back open. The bottles look like any other wine bottles. Papastrello, the label says in gold-foiled lettering that is all too familiar by now. The only difference is the upside down cross that is stamped into the paper. The bottles are about the same weight, the dark glass no different from the other wine bottles you’ve seen. The only way to know for sure is to open it, to look at the wine itself.

In that moment you’re too scared to head back inside, too scared that someone is going to sense your suspicion and either laugh about your paranoia or possibly harm you for finding out what no one should know. You feel quite unhinged when you grab the bottle and smash it on the concrete of the sidewalk. What splashes out and mixes with the shards of glass is a red liquid that might be wine or might be blood, you can’t quite tell. The pale light of a full autumn moon reflects in the color, making it much paler than it looked inside. You know that you have to try it to know for certain whether it is wine or not.

It takes you a long moment of persuasion, silently debating with your inner voices until you reach out and wet your finger. On your skin, the liquid feels wrong, thicker, creamier, but also not quite like blood. You swallow your fear and bring it to your lips.

The moment your finger hits your tongue a deafening growl echoes in the street behind you. The sound is predatory, animalistic, ringing inside your ears long after it stopped. The hairs on your arms stand in alert as you turn around, expecting an aggressive dog or perhaps even a wolf straying from the woods. But what meets your eye is anything but. The creature is huge, filling the width of the whole alley with its broad shoulders and even as it cowers, resting on his two huge clawed hands, it’s almost as tall as the cars lining the main road. 

The metallic taste on your tongue is forgotten the moment you spot it. Another growl and the beast jumps into action, galloping along the alley just as you scramble to your feet. Flight is hopeless, you barely take two steps in an attempt to sprint before its heavy steps are right behind you. Still you run and suddenly it seems like you’re making headway, the sounds gaining distance. You dare to turn around when you finally reach the end of the alley. What you see feels surreal, like a nightmare brought to life.

Secondo is standing between you and the monster who seems to have stopped, assessing the situation. Against all instinct you take a few steps back in their direction, watching the furry creature with its deformed but still somehow human body. Suddenly you recognize him, dark hair, the same brown eyes. It has to be the man who checked in this morning.

“You attacked the wrong human,” Secondo says. “This is not who you’re looking for.”

The creature does not seem in control of itself as it paces the road, sniffing audibly, baring its fangs to you in an attempt to intimidate and scare. Secondo stays in front of you, the image of a predator himself, but compared to the werewolf he looks small, almost fragile. Fear buries its way deep into your body. Suddenly you’re not worried for yourself anymore but for him. Your heart is hammering so fast that it echoes inside of your skull, your whole body sweating and shaking. 

When the beast finally pounces, you shriek. Secondo grabs its massive arms to keep it at a distance but the werewolf tears at his clothing, ripping until its claws sink into his torso. His voice stretches into a pained scream that penetrates your whole body, deeper and deeper until you can feel it all the way into your marrow, rattling at your very core. The wolf is going to rip him to pieces in the blink of an eye. It’s going to kill him the moment he breaks his powerful hold.

You would never forgive yourself if he died because of you, if he got hurt trying to protect you. And maybe it is foolish, maybe you should let him handle the fight by himself, but you close the gap anyway until you can duck and reach into his pocket. Before you can think any of it through you’ve already sparked the flint and shoved the flame of his stupidly expensive lighter into the wolf’s fur. At first you think it is too dense to burn but then the beast starts yowling. The softer underfur has caught on fire, a disgusting sulphuric smell spreading around you. For a moment the wolf recoils in pain, letting go of Secondo who stumbles backwards. You’re trying to reach him but then the wolf deals one final blow, throwing his massive arms around his body. At the last moment, his paw smacks into your flank and pushes you down.

You land on the concrete, all breath brutally ripped from your lungs, and the intense pain of the impact explodes in your whole body. Secondo falls to the floor next to you with a heavy thud, dark non-human blood oozing from the cuts in his body. You hear more sounds as your vision slowly fades. Terzo is storming out of the back door, more people blurring into one big mass of faces behind him – and then you’re gone.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 04/09

Last night’s wine tasting at the Emeritus Vinothek ended in a brutal fight between the owner Secondo Emeritus and an unknown lycanthrope. The werewolf attacked a human employee outside of the establishment but could be stopped when the vampire intervened. He fled the scene while the other attendees took care of the victims. Both vampire and human escaped the fight slightly injured but are going to recover with no permanent damage, according to a spokesperson of the family. This is the tenth incident of violent conflict between vampires and werewolves in the past four months, following a surge of cases after the killing of a lycanthrope in May.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

“Here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and head was next placed on a pile of wood, and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire. ”

You wake up to Secondo’s voice as he reads you the last few pages of Carmilla. Slowly noticing the world around you, you realize that you are in his bed in the mansion, the same soft white sheets surrounding your tired body that you found yourself in that first day. You keep your eyes closed, listening until the story is over.

“They always kill the vampire,” he says. “Perhaps they are right to do so.” A pause in which you hear the rustling of pages as he closes the book. “I know you are awake, grappolino.”

You turn around, opening your eyes to see him lying in bed next to you. The memories of what happened flood your brain, the way he protected you from the attack, saved you by risking his own life. You remember falling, the impact of the hit you took, and you’re surprised that you’re well, that you feel no pain other than the heaviness of your tired limbs.

“You slept almost a whole day,” he says. “I thought you might be angry with me. But I needed to watch over you.”

You take the book from his hand, running your palm over the smooth cover. Secondo looks tired, paler than usual and without the sunglasses you can see the extent of his exhaustion in his eyes. He’s wearing a dark green robe over black sweatpants, an altogether unfamiliar sight compared to his usual put together looks. No matter what happened, no matter what you now know, an intense surge of love for him floods your whole body and you can hardly shake it or push it down.

He saved you and you saved him. Everything else seems almost insignificant in that moment.

You shift so you can get closer and he watches you like a hawk, tracing all your movements.  “My dove you shouldn’t move around.”

You don’t listen, you can’t, even as the soreness in your muscles makes it harder. Eventually you settle with your head on his belly, closing your eyes until the wave of emotion has crashed over you. He only seems half as frightening from here, in fact he looks incredibly soft as he gazes down at you.

“What do you think would happen,” you whisper, “if instead of killing we started loving them?”

He exhales – a pained, heavy sound that carries a distinct sadness. His expression shifts and he shakes his head, watching you with glossy eyes. “How can you say this when you know what I am? When you see what my world can do to you?”

“Because I feel it,” you say with no pause. “Because my heart screams that it does. I’m not scared.”

“Of course you are not. You never were.” His hand reaches out but he stops himself. “Per favore, may I touch you?” You press your face into the soft fabric of his robe, giving him a firm nod, and he gently strokes your hair, running his fingertips over your scalp, more to soothe himself than you. “I will never forgive myself for being late. That I missed the wolf in sheep skin because I was too distracted. When it hit you…” His hand stills and his lips press together tightly. After a moment he cradles your cheek, caressing your skin with his thumb. “I will protect you. I will never let any harm come to you, my dove. I swear it.”

You turn your face, leaning into his touch. “Why did he attack? To get to you?”

“I drank from you,” he says. “Imprinting myself on you. He must have thought you were Primo’s partner. Or perhaps he was just looking to hurt any one of us and went after the smell. There has been an ongoing conflict.”

“Vampire werewolf politics?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Yes.”

“I’m so confused, Secondo. I have so many questions.”

“I know, my dove. I will answer them in time but you need to rest.” He sees your disappointed expression, running his hand along your lips now. “One question.”

“Your business…” you start. “Does this mean vampires don’t harm people? It’s not like they show us in all those movies? They drink from bottles and you get it from blood donations?”

He cringes slightly at your question, a painful twist, perhaps at the prospect of disappointing you. “Many vampires still… hunt. Some are more predatory, some are more subtle, some prefer to not hurt anyone. There are a million ways to feed, amore, and we have no laws to regulate this.”

“But why would they still hunt?” There is irritation, confusion in your tone. “If there are easier ways?”

“Some vampires enjoy the taste of fear in the blood,” he says. “A lot of adrenaline, stress hormones, it flows faster after biting too. Even here sometimes people are scared of needles and you can taste it later after taking their blood. But it is not as intense as it is when you… hunt.”

“Do you… do you like this taste?”

“No.” He falters, cocking his head to the side. “Not anymore.”

“But you have?”

There is a hint of accusation in your tone but he does not seem disturbed by it, on the contrary. “I will not lie to you. I have in the past, grappolino. Many young vampires do, a bit like teenagers who drink alcohol for the first time. But taste changes with time, as it does for humans, and I have left those wild, young days long behind me. In fact, since I tasted you…” He trails off, running his finger down your jaw until he strokes the faint remains of the bite on your neck. “I have no desire to hunt for a better taste.”

His words send a shiver through your body. His thumb presses back against your neck, then underneath your jaw, following the line of your pulse. Even knowing what he is and what he did – your body longs for his touch and you don’t know what to do other than give in. You press your cheek into the softness of his belly, the fabric of his robe smooth against your skin, trying to hide how easily affected you are. “So you were my mosquito? The bites were yours?”

“That is the second question.”

You furrow your brow, trying to pull away but he won’t let you. “Secondo–”

“You take me for a monster now,” he states. “And maybe I am, maybe I am cruel for wanting you for myself in ways that made me keep the truth, in fear that you could not accept me. But my feelings for you are real, they are consuming me more than any thirst for blood ever has. I am…” He swallows, his voice firm as he continues. “I am devoted to you forever.”

For a moment you let those words sink in. This is as close to a confession of his love that you got until now and you realize that it must take him everything to be so open with you. He seems to mistake your silence for rejection.

“I understand if you want to leave,” he says. “I will not stop you.”

You shake your head, finally managing to sit up and properly look at him. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t ever want to leave you.” He looks pained at your admission, like he has almost been hoping for a rejection. “Why are you so hesitant? Is it that unheard of to be with a human? Your brother is with one as well.”

“Every time I have opened myself to someone it ended in pain and it will end in pain with you, grappolino. Unbearable pain, loss, grief, loneliness.” He stops himself, his eyes red and glistening. “With you I have let the sun back into my life. And I cannot… I cannot bear to have the world take it from me again. Non credo che lo potrò sopravvivere questa volta.” (I don’t think I can survive it this time)

“It doesn’t have to, Secondo,” you assure him. “There are ways… there are ways to make it last, right?”

“There are ways. But this… it is not something to take lightly, amore.”

“Secondo, I want you to know that… that if it ever happens, if I ever die, I want you to turn me,” you say. “I don’t want to leave you, ever.”

He pauses, shaking his head at the conviction in your tone. “We will discuss this later. You need time to think about it, to learn more.”

“You saw how fast it can happen. I feel like–”

“Amore,” he interrupts. “Not now. The next time I think about your death it will not be in this bed.”

You sigh reluctantly, trying not to mope as you settle against his chest. If he has a heartbeat it is too slow and quiet for you to hear it. But his body underneath yours feels nice, soft and welcoming. You notice that he doesn’t seem to be in pain either.

“Why am I not hurt more?” you ask. “I know that’s another question.”

“We have healers in our midst. They have some influence on your circulatory system.” His hand moves to rest on your waist, playing with the hem of the loose white shirt someone put you in. “You will feel sore for a bit, I think. As will I after my body healed my wounds.”

“Would it… would it help if you drank from me?” you ask.

“You’re too weak, my dove, but I appreciate the offer.”

You sigh, bringing your hand up so you can run your fingers over the sliver of chest that peeks out of the robe. Slowly you open it more and more, toying with his dark chest hair and feeling the smooth skin underneath.

“What do you think you are doing, hm?”

You just smile up at him, pushing the robe all the way open. He doesn’t stop you from exploring more of his body, following the line of hair down to his belly, supple and slightly raised. His own hands start to grab more of your body then, squeezing the flesh on your hips, grabbing at your ass. Before you know it he takes hold and pulls you fully on top of him. Your core meets the outline of his hardening cock, barely concealed by the sweatpants. You gasp at the contact, slowly rolling your hips for a bit of friction.

“You feel good enough to tease me,” he says. “Then you feel good enough for a kiss?”

A smile breaks out on your face and you lean in, resting your upper body against his. Before your mouths can touch he has already grabbed you and sits you both upright. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer and trapping you in his lap until you can feel all of him. Only then does he allow you to close the gap. The kiss has a bruising force, lips pressing in hard, teeth clashing until you adjust and find a heavy but more controlled rhythm. His tongue licks into your mouth hungrily, flicking against yours and you moan, vibrating against it. Your whole body shudders, looking for more, anything to quench the need pooling into your core. Secondo groans at every roll of your hips, sucking on your tongue, biting your lower lip like he wants to consume all of you within seconds. You kiss back with just as much hunger, tying to keep pace. Your whole body is burning with need for him, carrying you higher and higher. After a while he slows, hitting an invisible break, and you follow, pulling away to look at him.

Secondo heaves an exhausted sigh, not letting go of you but creating a small gap between your faces to breathe. “I am not quite in shape yet, amore. I don’t think I can keep up tonight.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to drink?”

Maybe it is the way your voice is practically begging him to do so, maybe it is the hunger in your eyes or maybe he truly needs the energy that your blood provides because he finally relents. You pull at your shirt, baring your upper body to him and for a moment he hungrily takes you in, running his hand over every curve, thumbs teasing your nipples until you arch into him.

“So responsive,” he murmurs as he kisses along your jaw. “So good for me.”

His words make you squirm in his lap, the hard friction of his cock adding to the pleasure that runs through you at every touch. “Please. Please, Secondo.”

“Already begging for my cock?” He huffs out a chuckle, hooking his fingers underneath the elastic of your underwear. He rips the fabric apart with ease, running a bare finger over your arousal. “And already so eager. Always so, so eager.”

“I need you,” you whisper. “Please, all I want is to feel you.”

“Hmm, that is all I want too, grappolino. Perhaps you can use the time while I feed...” His fangs scrape over your skin, not breaking it but leaving a burning trail along your throat. “… to keep me nice and warm, hm?”

“Yes,” you immediately squeeze out. “I will do anything.”

“But there is a catch.” He pulls at his sweatpants, freeing his cock until it slaps against your abdomen, trapped in the tightness of your bodies. “You have to be so very good for me. You cannot make a single move. Can you do that?”

“Yes. Yes, I can.”

“Good.” 

He lifts you up carefully, keeping you on your knees above him. You leak onto him, drops of your arousal landing on his cock, and he hisses, his fingers digging into your flesh. With one finger, he wipes it off and smears it over your entrance until he can slip it inside, quickly adding a second. A deep moan leaves you at the intensity of the stretch but you quickly adjust and find pleasure in the stimulation. He pumps a few times, spreading his fingers to widen you even more. When he seems satisfied he pulls them out and grabs both of your hips to pull you down into his lap. The tip of his hard cock slides into your entrance. Before he is even fully inside you already clench around what he offers, making you both moan at the sudden intensity. Slowly you sink down further, his mouth hot on your neck while you run your hand over his shoulders. Once he is fully sheathed, he gives a full body shudder.

“Satana, you are so warm,” he whispers, his voice as delicate as if he is saying a prayer. “So, so warm.”

You don’t speak, allowing him his moment of silent reverence. However, patience is not on your side today and you can’t help but squirm after a second, trying to find the smallest amount of friction. His cock is big, girthy, stretching you open like nothing else you’ve felt before.

“No moving,” he finally says. “I need to be precise.”

With that his lips search for the spot on your neck. He stops eventually, opening his mouth and wetting the spot with his tongue. You expect the pain and yet the sting draws a whimper from you. Secondo stops at once, waiting for your reaction. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

His fangs pull out and you can feel the blood oozing from your vein. Hungrily he laps at it, not quite sucking but firmly holding his mouth over the wound, tongue swiping at the hole in your neck with every swallow. It’s slower than you expected, even as your heart rate goes up in arousal an anticipation. His cock jumps inside of you and you clench around him, earning you a moan from somewhere deep inside of his chest. For a few minutes you hold out, desire building inside of you with every drop of blood that leaves your body.

Eventually, Secondo breaks away. You notice that his skin feels slightly warmer underneath your fingertips, that his eyes look more alive when they finally meet yours again. The green one has turned red just like in your dream and a drop of blood runs down his jaw. You lean in to kiss it away, the metallic taste on your tongue an intense reminder of who you are with. Secondo reciprocates the kiss with renewed energy, licking the blood from your lips and tongue. You taste more of it in his mouth and you can’t help but moan.

“Your taste,” he says, breaking from your lips. “It is the most exquisite thing, my dove.”

“Do you feel better?” you ask breathlessly.

A nod. You squirm again, his cock shifting inside of you as you try to find a comfortable spot. Secondo huffs out a deep breath, the same strain visible in his eyes that has you whimpering with every little movement. “This is not how I want you,” he says. “I told you I would show you how to sin, no?”

With that he grabs your hips, a sudden invigorated strength that seems effortless as he easily manhandles you onto your back while he stays buried deep inside of you. The impact reopens the wound on your neck and you feel drops of the warm liquid running along your skin.

“White sheets…” you whisper as more blood dribbles onto the fabric. “Bold choice for a vampire.”

He chuckles, licking along your shoulder to catch the few remaining drops. He hums, his tongue almost rough when he cleans every drop you have left to give.

“Your blood sugar is low,” he whispers then. “When we’re done here I will feed you, amore. After a nap, perhaps.”

You giggle but it quickly turns into a gasp when he finally starts to move, slowly thrusting into you in a steady rhythm. He grabs your thighs then, pushing them deeper into the mattress until he has you folded in half. With him so deep inside of you your whole body is boiling. You can’t help but hold onto his shoulders, allowing him to move faster, fucking into you almost desperately now. Your arousal leaks all over your joined bodies, wet, squelching sounds soon filling the air around you as his hips piston into yours. You moan without shame ever time he hits that sweet spot inside of you, every time his skin rubs against the other sensitive areas on your body.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, keening and closing your eyes when he thrusts even deeper, slower now.

“You look at me, amore,” he warns. “You look at me when I make you cum.”

Your eyes snap back open, meeting the liquid fire reflected in his red iris. Secondo’s grip on you is tight and his own grunts echo in tandem with the sounds of your skin meeting, with all the desperate noises that leave your lips. You dance along the precipice for a moment, trying to last, trying to stretch out time for a little longer. But when he begins to stutter, his own eyelids fluttering in pleasure at every slow, deep stroke in an attempt to keep them open, you finally fall. The climax that hits you is stronger than any you have felt before and you’re a mess, mewling and whimpering, breathing in jolts as the heat spreads in your body like fire.

Your muscles clenching around him soon has Secondo following. His cock jumps, pumping you full with his seed while he breathes a low moan into your ear. You feel every raw shudder, every  little twitch, until it starts to leak out of you and he finally loosens his grasp. Your legs sink back to the mattress and he settles on top of you. Skin against skin, his cool while yours is hot and burning. For a long time you both calm down. Even if he doesn’t seem out of breath, it is clear that he needs the quiet moment of reprieve just as much as you do.

“Ti amo,” he whispers, first almost too low for you to hear but then louder. “Ti amo per sempre. Not even death can part our union.”

You press a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. “I love you, too.”

He huffs out a breath, turning you both to your sides where he holds you close against him, his lips tickling your temple as he presses more and more soft kisses to your skin. You start to relax, his sweet touches lulling you into a state of half-sleep. Your mind finds back to what really occupies it, all the questions and insecurities. A thousand thoughts are swimming in your head, some of them have to do with the sticky mess between your legs, some of them leave the four walls of this bedroom altogether.

“I can hear your mind working,” Secondo grumbles. “I thought I had distracted you well enough.”

“It’s just… are the Nameless Ghouls real ghouls then?” you ask. “And is the special wine all blood or is it some sort of amalgamation? The healer you mentioned, was it the doctor from the donation?”

“Grappolino,” Secondo warns. “All in due time.”

He shifts onto his back, pulling you on top of his chest. You have to bite your tongue to stop interviewing him because he is right – you’ve had enough exertions for the day, and you’d rather spend your remaining energy on more of this. 

“Should we have a smoke?” he finally asks.

“In your bedroom?”

“In our bedroom,” he corrects and reaches for the bedside table.

He grabs a pack of Marlboros, retrieving one to trap between his still swollen lips. The gold Dupont lighter opens with a cling and you have to smile. When he hands you the cigarette this time you don’t hesitate. You take a deep drag, pressing your mouth to his before you exhale. Secondo holds it inside, then releases the smoke into the air above you. When his arms close around your body in a firm embrace, you rest your eyes – and listen to the quiet sizzling of the cigarette as it slowly burns out.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed vampire Secondo. If you want to be tagged in any future Friday Nights stories pls let me know! Terzo and Copia will get their own stories, as you might have guessed from the hints in the plot ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

[mazikeenhyde]

Oh Baby, Pain is Pleasure! Finale Part 2

POLY JUDGMENT DAY X READER (WRESTLER) 

Y/W/N – Your Wrestling Name 

Y/W/N/F – Your Wrestling Name Finisher

WARNING – THESE WARNINGS COVER ALL PARTS OF THIS FICTION/ IMAGINE STORY- THEY MAY NOT BE SPECIFIC TO THIS PARTICULAR PART! - 

SMUT,  GIRL X GIRL, MAN X MAN, POLY RELATIONSHIPS/SEXUAL, BDSM, BLOOD, PANIC ATTACKS, SPANKING, VIOLENT REFRENCES, INJURY, ABUSE (CONSENTUAL) CHEATING, STALKERS/ STALKING, SMOKING/ CIGARETTES , ALCOHOL

Tag List - @babybatlover @p0is0nl0ve @babiidee28 @darlingnikkisixx @commandershepardofthedas gooses-pond  rhiamaymay  scaraskzzs darkangelchronicles 

Oh Baby…Pain is Pleasure – Finale Part 2

“You’re Fired y/w/n..... You're fired, with immediate effect.” 

In that moment, in that very moment… I could say it was as if the world just fell away. As if the entirety of time stood still, as if silence was the only thing that existed on earth… but that could not be further from the truth. All hell had broken loose. 

The entirety of Judgement Day had completely lost their minds, they were screaming & shouting, demanding answers from Triple H who had now been surrounded by security in an attempt to hold back the furious group. Paul was trying to have his voice heard over them all but every word he got out, he was interrupted again. Liv Morgan had been quick to disappear out of sight choosing to wait in the wings of the ramp to enter the match. The Wyatt Sicks had already made their entrance to the ring and were now pacing their territory both inside and out of the cages. The monitors in Gorilla showed them playing up to the audience while many fans were chanting for The Judgment Day, for Mami, for Y/W/N big entrance. Abby the Witch, who had already entered the cell was sat in the middle of the canvas smiling, chanting to herself in hushed tones, her painted China mask glowing in the spotlight gave such an uneasy feeling to those in the front row. Meanwhile those further back in the cheap seats had been more than happy to begin poking fun, trying to stir up the Wyatts. 

“Y/W/N is gonna kill you…. Y/W/N is gonna kill you!” They sang, arms waving in the air as Dexter had jumped up onto the barricade alongside Huskus, shouting abuse back at the spectators. But the fans were just as quick to jump on them instead…

“Rhea’s gonna kill you… Rhea’s gonna kill you!” The audience chimed together. Out in the arena the atmosphere was really building for what everyone believed was going to be an incredible match. 

Meanwhile, backstage chaos was still at full peak. Anxiety was kicking in and I stood back from everyone in silence, I wasn’t entirely sure what to say, what to do. How do I even begin to process what he had said, what was going on? I couldn’t hear any of them now, my brain had turned into a cloud of fog. All I could focus on was a high-pitched alarm going off in the corner of the room, it was flashing on and off with an LED screen that displayed the words ‘ON AIR’. 

The main event of WrestleMania had been replaced last minuite with this Ten Man grand slam match. When it had been announced the crowd were beyond excited, they screamed and chanted ‘THIS IS AWESOME’ so loudly the ring announcers had struggled to be heard, even with a microphone. 

And yet I was not going to be in it? Pfft, over my dead body. 

I’m not sure where it came from, or indeed what bought me back to reality. Maybe it had been that alarm indicating that the show was live, and the production team were now running behind, given that The Judgment Day were still stood in Gorilla arguing with Paul and every member of the backstage crew. 

I took a deep breath and proceeded to walk over to the production crews table, picking up a steel chair and launching it across the room into the adjacent wall. The loud crashing sound echoed throughout the room as everyone fell silent and stared over in my direction. Rhea looked so concerned for me as her eyes scanned over my body for any sign of injury or upset. Meanwhile the boys were all far to angry to fully regulate their emotions at that point. 

“Enough…” I stated plainly, holding my head up high and slowly walking over towards Triple H. 

Rhea, Damian, Finn and Dom all took a step back to allow me to pass by them as I stopped in front of my boss. Security was quick to regroup and reform behind him while Judgment Day stood directly behind me, Dom reached out his hand to squeeze my fingers, desperate to make sure his girl was okay. Though I am sure he himself needed a little grounding too. 

“Why?” I questioned Triple H as he readjusted his suit shirt from Damian’s firm grip, making sure to fix his tie where Finn had attempted to throttle him with it. 

“Why am I fired? You have to tell me why. You can’t just fire me, walk away and think no one is going to question your decision.” My voice was plain, strong and confident. If I hadn’t been so focused on dealing with the situation in hand, I might have noticed Damian getting a little hot under the collar at his little lady dominating the problems at hand. I may have noticed Finn smirking with pride at the self-confidence I was displaying, or even Rhea with her arms folded and eyebrow raised, she knew full well her girl could handle business. 

Hunter cleared his throat as he placed one hand in his pocket and the other over his mouth, wiping the sweat of his chin and taking a breath. 

“This company, Y/W/N…has a strict no tolerance policy when it comes to fraternizing with other wrestling companies. You signed a contract young lady; you know the rules…. And you broke those rules. So…” Hunters words sounded almost humorous, like the situation to him was funny. 

“What are you talking about!?” I said, frustrated and confused at everything that was going on. 

Triple H very quickly got frustrated and ran his hands over his head, taking another sharp breath. 

“Look, we don’t have time for this right now. You lot…” He said pointing to Rhea, Damian, Dominik and Finn. 

“Get out to the ring, the match needs to start! Liv Morgan is waiting; she will be taking Y/W/N place. GO!!” His voice was harsh, he was not happy, but neither were my loves. I turned on the spot to face them all and smiled. 

“Finn, you always told me the show must go on, no distractions. Remember? All of you, go! Kick their asses, Ill fix this, I promise! I’ll see you out there” I held out my hands and they all quickly rushed in, sharing a warm group hug before they made their way out. Rhea turned before she exited through the curtain as The Judgment Day’s music played out in the arena, blowing me a kiss and offering a half corner smile. 

I watched as the monitors showed them all entering the ramp and making their way to the ring, the crowd cheering and chanting their names. But the front row quickly noticed it was Liv Morgan there and not me. And when Samantha Irvin announced Liv would be my replacement, the thousands of spectators were not happy. 

“BOO! BOO! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! WE WANT Y/W/N! WE WANT Y/W/N! THIS IS BULLSHIT. . . . . THIS IS BULL SHIT!” 

Liv smirked without a care in the world and made her way into the cell. 

The cages were locked, the bell was rung. 

The War began. 

“Ok!” I shouted facing my manager once more. 

“You are back on schedule, the production are happy and the show is running to time again! So, take a bloody chill pill grandad and explain to me what the hell you are talking about?!” I demanded standing in front of Hunter. 

He sighed, frustrated by my words and turned on the spot, taking an envelope out from the desk behind him and handing it to me. 

“Liv bought this to my attention after your match earlier, just shortly after you and the rest of Judgment Day went back to your locker room, I wanted to discuss it with you, but you were all…….. obviously busy.” He raised his eyebrows as he looked down at me, his tall figure looming above mine as I rolled my eyes at his words and proceeded to open the envelope. 

We must have been loud enough for Hunter to hear us! 

Tearing open the envelope I pulled out a handful of photographs but before I could take a look a sudden flurry of cheers from the crowd had me distracted for a moment. Both Triple H and I turned our heads to the monitor as Samantha Irvin’s voice ringed through the sound system. 

“Joe Gacy has been eliminated!” 

Dominik and Damian had managed to pair up while the others fought and with an assisted South of Heaven-Frog Splash Dom had pinned Huskus! A huge grin was plastered on my face as I turned my attention to Rhea who had Howdy pinned in the corner, pounding him with continuous punches to the face. That glint in her eye showed me she was fighting for love and her passion for revenge had completely taken over. 

Liv and Nikki were in the midst of a brutal scrap, exchanging punches and body kicks with neither showing any weakness, but my heart burnt deep and heavy. That should be me out there fighting! That is my title shot! 

Frustratingly I could also see Rowan had gotten back to his feet after a brawl with Finn, who had been sent over the top rope and into the steel cage. My poor Irish prince was in agony, then within the blink of an eye Rowans giant frame had flattened Damian with a hefty forearm, swiftly followed by a chokeslam to Dom who was now out for the count. 

“Dominik Mysterio has been eliminated!” 

“Shit…” I whispered under my breath, turning my attention back to the photographs. My heart ached for Dom, I needed to be out there. I need to sort this shit once and for all! 

“So, what is this?! What am I looking at?” I demanded taking a closer look at the photos. They were blurry, it looked like countryside landscape, but I recognized something in it. There was a vehicle in them, it was a white transit van, hidden slightly by some large branches hanging from the trees above. On the side of the van in large letters were painted ‘A.E.W’. And there I was, standing at the back looking over my shoulder. I don’t remember any of this though. There’s no denying it was me but… why do I look so…odd? Positioned so strangely? So lifeless? So?...

Then it hit me. 

This was the day the Wyatts had snatched me from my run, I didn’t look odd or strange, I wasn’t even conscious!

“I know how this may look H, but I promise you I have no connection to AEW whatsoever! Look…” I pulled the photo out to show him in closer detail. 

“Yes, it is me. But look you can see! My eyes aren’t even open and my hands… they are tied behind my back! I know its blurry, clearly this camera man they paid off is shit at his job! Look, I have a long history with the Wyatts, and one I don’t want to bring to light. I made some serious mistakes in my past and I learnt from them, Bray Wyatt helped me see that and I was a firefly. Howdy he, he can’t accept his brother has gone. And we all know when love cannot save you, evil is quick to thrive. This day, this day Finn had me training and I went for a run, the Wyatts grabbed me and took me to this old barn to try and scare me. I didn’t think much of it, Howdy’s always playing games but…..” My voice trailed off into a silent whisper as something caught my eye. 

“I never knew…. Why… they….” My voice was broken, barely audible as Hunter rushed to my side looking closer at the photograph in my hands. I was trembling as I only now realized the true ring master behind it all. 

There…

in the photograph….

Driving the van. 

My shaking finger moved to point at the driver’s seat, a blurry but prominent head of hair was clearly visible and we all knew who it was. 

“But.. that’s Liv Morgan?” Hunter questioned, taking the photo from my hands. 

“I never knew why they took me that day, it all seemed so strange. But it was, it was all so strange because it was a set up. She planned it right from the moment he set her free. Despite both of us being guilty for that night we took our revenge to far she had always blamed me. She set me up!” My voice more dominant then ever as I turned to face hunter. 

“I understand you cannot pull her from the match now, but you have to see this was all a set up! The idiot she is must of thought the photos being such a poor condition you wouldn’t of taken notice of her in the van when you could clearly see me. I deserve to be in this match, I deserve to fight for that Championship! HUNTER PLEASE!” I was begging him at this point. 

Triple H turned his head to the monitor as Samantha Irvin’s voice rang through the arena once more. 

“Dexter Lumis and Finn Balor have both been eliminated in a double pin!” Samantha sounded panicked as the referee had opened the door to the cage and Finn and Dexter had come out still swinging for each other after managing to get each other in a double shoulder down pin. Neither preparing to stop the fight they were still going until they were pulled apart by security and Dominik who was quick to check on Finn. He led him over to their opposing side of the cage as Rhea rushed to put her hand through the grate to Dom. She looked exhausted and Damian was clearly running on fumes now too. 

“HUNTER. PLEASE!” I threw my hands up to the screens as Liv was setting up her finisher.

Hunter said nothing, he simply reached over and flicked a switch on the keyboard. He nodded his head to me as my music drowned out the stadium and the crowd erupted into complete chaos. 

The lighting scheme changed to full on Judgement Day colors, flashing LED’s and stream spot lights illuminated the runway as I appeared at the top of the ramp. 

Inside the first cage remained Damian & Rhea vs Rowan and Uncle Howdy, meanwhile Nikki Cross and Liv Morgan were battling with what they had left in the second cell. 

Dom and Finn leapt up at the sound of my music, grappling the side of the cell and shouting at the top of their lungs as I ran at full speed down to the ring, the referee opening the cage door and allowing me entry. 

Locking eyes with Liv Morgan she grinned evily and hit her finisher on the witch, pushing her out of the way and to the floor below. 

And so there we stood. 

“We were friends Liv, we were family. How fast you were to sell me out...” I spoke.

“I didn’t sell you out… I bought in to a new way. You were weak, we could have finished that scumbag off for what she did to you. But no… Y/W/N always breaks, you were to soft.” Liv’s voice was full of spite.

“I wasn’t soft Liv, what we did was wrong. He taught me that, but it seems you never took his lessons to heart. A firefly always….” I tried to reason but she cut me off. 

“SCREW THE FIREFLIES!” Liv lashed out grabbing my hair and the fight began. Blow after blow, swing after swing, punch after punch. 

The crowd erupted and their chants could be heard the other end of the city. 

“Y/W/N! Y/W/N! Y/W/N! Y/W/N!”  

We tore each other apart in that ring, destroying every last piece of who we were and what we wanted to be. Nothing was off limit, and we knew it. Kendo sticks, fire extinguishers, chairs, tables and more. To the point of two broken women standing in front of each other, blood dripping and bruises across every part of the skin. The fans loved it, but they had no idea we were both prepared to destroy each other to secure victory. 

Rhea and Damian had Howdy and Rowan on their knees as they both set up for their finishers, taking a quick peek over to my match before sending these two scoundrels back to where they came from. 

“RIPTIDE! SOUTH OF HEAVEN! RIPTIDE! SOUTH OF HEAVEN!” The announcement desk was going wild, unable to comprehend the absolute madness of this match. 

“1……2…….3!!!!” THE CROWD CHANTED AND CHEERED! 

“Erik Rowan and Uncle Howdy have been eliminated! The Judgment Day win the first battle of Hell in a Cell!” Samantha Irwin announced, cheering as she did. 

Finn and Dom ran around to the side of the cell I was fighting in, Nikki cross was out for the count on the floor of the cage while Liv had me up against the ropes. My vision starting to blur as she laid her fist into my face repeatedly before getting off and picking up the Kendo stick by her feet. She swung it into my ribs again and again and again, Blasting any remaining air from my lungs. 

Liv then threw the stick to the side and turned to celebrate to the crowd, preparing her run up to the ropes for the final Oblivion. 

“Y/N! Y/N!” I could hear Finn’s voice coming from behind me. Turning my head I could just make out his silhouette. 

“Come on lass, you can do it!” Finn shouted, over the sounds of the crowd. 

“Come on my girl! Finish this!” Dom yelled. 

From my right I could hear two gentle voices calling out, trying to ground me back into reality. 

“Mi Vida, Mi Vida! Por favor, listen to me! You can do this!” Damian’s voice was gentle and full of love. 

“Bunny, you are our champion already, no you need to be theirs!” Rhea was right. 

I dragged myself back to my feet, Liv racing towards me and without a seconds thought I lept onto the rope before catching her off guard. 

“Y/W/N/F! Y/W/N/F! MORGANS DOWN MORGANS DOWN!” The announcement team went wild as I found myself laying next to Liv, she was out and I could see it. 

“PIN HER LASS! PIN HER!!” Finn screamed as I reached out, dragging my broken body towards the bitch, falling flat on top of her. 

1!!!!

2!!!!!

3!!!!!

The entire stadium flew into a chaotic celebration, with screams, cheers, chants and more! Confetti cannons blasted off down the entire ramp runway and fireworks set off, filling the night sky above. 

“She’s done it! Y/W/N has done it! We have a new champion! We have a new champion!” 

The referee unlocked the cage door and Finn, Dom, Damian and Rhea came bounding through tackling me to the ground. Their smiles, cuddles and kisses were almost enough to block any pain signals my body was sending, instead a flood of emotion took me out in waves as Damian hoisted me up onto his shoulders, parading me around the ring. 

Rhea was quick to take Liv Morgan by the scruff of the hair and send her headfirst out of the cell, dusting her hands off and turning away. 

“Get out of here, Puta!” Rhea’s accent had such a way when she spoke Spanish, I could feel my inner core heating up and Damian knew it. He bent down and Dom helped me off, grinning and planting a soft kiss on my lips. 

Finn came over, kneeling down in front of me and held out the ‘Women’s World Championship’ belt. 

“You did it Lass, our champion” he smiled, standing and pinning the belt around my waist. 

Finn put his arm around my neck, waving the others over to join us. 

There we stood, a full family hug in the light of the full moon under the glow of a million fireworks and the love of a million adoring fans. 

But no love as true, no love as strong… as theirs. 

“I made you a promise Y/N, you are a champion. Our champion…” Finn smiled, “Now, bring on those distractions!” 

I did it. 

I was their champion. 

‘To get over the past, 

You first have to accept that the past is over. 

No matter how many times you revisit it, analyze it, regret it, or sweat it, it’s over. 

It can hurt you no more’ – Mandy Hale

The End. 

[ellesnorthernstar]

THINGS TO SCRIPT IN YOUR DR 2.0

• your social media algorithm is only for YOU. (no weird stuff, no bots, no ragebait… just the things YOU want to see)

• you always find your desired clothes your size. it’s never sold out.

• your hair never gets matted and is easy to detangle.

• you can buy alc after 12 am. (in america, you can’t buy alc after 12 lol)

• if you’re american, the age to smoke and drink is lowered. (controversial but i understand!)

• predators don’t exist.

• you can visualize in 1st person.

• you can remember everything you study in a heartbeat.

• everything you want is always on sale and never sells out.

• inflation doesn’t exist. groceries & rent are cheap.

• you’re always the first to know parties, live shows, etc. no matter the source. 

• you get complimented a lot.

• weed is legal. #420everyday

• you are thee wordsmith. you are the master of speaking and using your tongue!

• whatever you like is #gatekept to an extent. (TRUST ME, i get it.)

• you get to school/class on time, no matter how bad the traffic is.

• your dorm is extremely spacious! (+ you have your own bathroom.)

• you (and if you have friends) are always on a fun, risky side quest. you make it home safely always.

• sanitary products (pads, tampons) are free. so is water.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

What do you think each of the crowd would smell like? Not to be creepy, I just want to smell like Inej Ghafa

Interesting question; I’m afraid that Inej canonically smells of nothing according to Kaz, except for during the bathroom scene when he says that she smells of the hotel soap she just used. Nina does say when on parem that the table where she healed Inej’s stab wound smells of her but it’s strongly implied that the parem gives her the ability to distinguish the scent of one person’s blood from another and it’s the leftover blood she can still smell even after the table has been cleaned and know that it was Inej’s blood.

Nina canonically smells of the perfume that’s used to falsely scent the White Rose’s flower arrangements at the start of Six of Crows, according to Matthias, and later on the Ferolind during the journey to Fjerda smells of the toffees she stashed and has been eating.

During Crooked Kingdom, Nina and Jesper (and Kuwei, if you’d like to include him) canonically smell of coffee because they’re wearing it all the time like perfume to hide from the possibility that the Kerghud soldiers can smell the difference between Grisha and otkazats’ya

That’s all the canon mentions of people’s scents that I can recall off the top of my head, but if anyone remembers any others let me know, and as for headcanons:

Wylan probably spends most of the books smelling of the chemicals he uses in his explosives, Kaz claims that the scent of smoke can cling to people’s shirt cuffs and I expect that would ring true for Wylan. Pre and post canon he probably smells of fancy soap and, if it exists in the Grishaverse, nice curl cream or other products that he uses on his hair, but even if that does exist in the Grishaverse I very much doubt he had access to it during canon.

Jesper most likely often smells of smoke and gunpowder, pre and maybe during canon he probably often had the smell of alcohol on his clothes as well, and perhaps post canon fancy soap and the tinge of engine oil.

The Barrel may smell terrible but that doesn’t mean Kaz has to reduce himself to it and he most definitely won’t; he probably smells of soap and leather most of the time, plus he clearly puts a lot of effort into his suits so you may be able to smell whatever they’ve been so well washed in. Also quite possibly blood. I’m now thinking maybe he would deliberately choose scentless soaps because I read a book where lingering perfume was recognised at a crime scene and he would want to avoid anything that might be recognisable.

We know for a fact that Hellgate was a disgusting smelling place with poor access to hygiene and clean water, but after he was freed I imagine Matthias became hyper aware of cleanliness because of this limited access to hygiene products and kept himself very neat and clean. He probably smells of soap most of the time. Pre canon I imagine there were pretty strict hygiene and general cleanliness rules for the Drüskelle so again he probably smelt quite clean, but also had something of the rugged air and cold Northern winds about him. He also may have had the scent of some kind of shampoo since he had very long hair that the smell would remain clinging to, but I expect that whatever he used was standardised amongst the Drüskelle.

At home Inej probably smelled of spices and perfumes and chalk, and at the Menagerie she probably smelled of cheap, overpoweringly strong perfume. It’s a combination of both of these factors that make me think she was actively choosing to avoid scent during the duology, hence Kaz saying “she didn’t even have a scent”, and choosing scentless soaps. Post canon she probably smells of salt and the sea most of the time, and would maybe pick up a scented soap every now again to practice testing her limits and branching out since we know she actively pushes herself with some of the smaller things like this that she finds difficult

Honestly I’m not sure if i have any particular headcanons about Nina, though I think she would avoid rose-scented perfume post canon

Thanks for the ask! This was pretty fun to think about <33

This has been another episode of DK Finally Gets It Together And Answers Her Asks Because It’s About Damn Time (Working Title), thank you for joining me, if you’d like to see the rest of the series you can find it in the tags or if that isn’t working (again 🤦‍♀️) then in my pinned post <3

[popatochisssp]

favorite scents of the boys??!

Scents are something I’ve thought about a bit, though more in the context of what they might smell like.

Still, some of that does touch on the kinds of scents they like, so I’m gonna answer it like that anyway!

Sans (Undertale): Probably his favorite scent is cheap rubber, the kind that goofy novelty items tend to be made of—rubber chickens, whoopie cushions, groucho glasses—and yeah, he smells of it pretty often for the amount of them he keeps on his person at any given time. He’s also a fan of the smell of ketchup, but only smells of it himself rarely, when he’s recently been partaking of it…or if he pulled the ‘loose ketchup bottle’ prank on somebody and caught some splash-back. A lot more often, unfortunately, he bears the faint yet persistent smell of hot dog water…which could be worse if he wasn’t using water sausages for it, a little more pine-y than your typical cased meat odor, but it is still hot dog water so… Alas.

Papyrus (Undertale): His likes ocean-y scents the best, salty and fresh and powerful, just like him! All his most favorite colognes and deodorants are under that umbrella, so it’s probably his most typical scent. If he’s been going on any culinary adventures recently, trying to find his elusive perfect spaghetti recipe, he may smell a bit more marinara than marine…which he doesn’t mind, there’s nothing wrong with a good tomato! A perfectly excellent fruit, that he will probably shower off of himself soon, but nonetheless! …He’s loath to admit it, but he’s also acquired a fondness for the smell of crafting glue, from using it so often assembling models and customizing action figures. He won’t go out of his way to smell more like glue, but if he already does, well…he doesn’t hate it…

Sky (Underswap Sans): His favorite scents are plant-y, fresh and natural but not floral. Aloe vera and cucumber are the big ones vying for the top spot in his arsenal of bathroom products, so he’ll most often smell like that. If he’s been putting in a lot of time at a bar, though, you might catch him smelling more like some kind of booze or other—he’s surrounded by it and people spill, the stuff sinks in whether he wants it to or not. And he does fall into the ‘or not’ category, but less because he dislikes the smell(s) and more because he knows it gives off a bad impression, without context. Luckily, working at a bar usually has him smelling even more strongly of citrus, cutting up limes and lemons for juice and garnishes on behalf of coworkers a lot more susceptible to bar-rot than he is, and citrus smells he does like!

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Old paperback books are the best smell in the world to him, if he could huff it all day long, he……… Well. He kind of does, admittedly, with the amount of old paperbacks he has. He doesn’t actually smell like that himself very much though, since (much to his dismay) it just doesn’t linger long. Probably most of the time, he smells like cloves, because that lingers and it’s the most assertive scent he tangos with. It’s pretty prominent in the Dog Treats he smokes and tends to soak in everywhere, so he’s at least lucky that it’s pleasant and something he doesn’t mind smelling of. On occasion, he also tends to pick up the scent of pencil shavings—he’s a writer, and a traditionalist who just loves something about the feel of a real wooden pencil…but they do need a lot more regular maintenance to stay sharp than the mechanical ones, and the byproducts…tend to stick to hoodies.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): His favorite smell is wood-smoke, hands down, no contest. It’s what Grillby’s smells like, and he’s been haunting that joint since he was practically a kid, so it’s familiar and comfortable—and yeah, since he’s there so much, it’s all over him too. As far as when he’s not there, he’s enough of a greasemonkey privately and professionally that he gets a lot of crud on him from that, motor oil and gas and transmission fluid, et cetera. He doesn’t love those smells, but he doesn’t really notice or care about them much either, so it is what it is. Regrettably, he will also often smell of mustard. It’s mostly on his breath but it is his favorite condiment to put on anything, and sometimes that means a bit of spillage here and there. Alas.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): He loves the smell of leather and wouldn’t be able to tell you if that love came before or after the amount of it he’s amassed in his wardrobe. He even likes the artificial stuff that they put in leather cologne, so even when he’s not actively wearing leather, he probably still smells like leather. He also has his own unique musk—obviously strongest during and immediately post-workout—and while he makes all appropriate efforts to be cleanly and not reek, like some brothers do, that never really goes away and he’s not-not a bit partial to it, personally. Sometimes, rarely, his hands will pick up a bit of a faint rosewood scent, from the fretboard of his—wait, no, the reason’s not important, they just do, and it’s a perfectly fine and acceptable smell that he’s neutral towards!

Mal (Swapfell Sans): If he had to choose a favorite scent, it would probably be cedar wood. He himself only smells like it occasionally, when he’s been furtively whittling, but he’s got a bit of a Pavlovian calming and focusing response to it, so he likes it around. Mostly he smells like talcum powder, since it’s a favorite of his for keeping dry and not sweaty after the workouts, strenuous military patrols, and wildly psychologically tense political situations he’s had to navigate throughout…his life in general. He smells clean and calm and pleasantly neutral, he’s never been stressed even once, have you seen him sweat? No. …That said, if he happens to be unwinding in his private time, after a not-at-all-stressful day, he will probably smell strongly of whatever wine he’s been drinking—almost always something red and dry, naturally.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): He adores the smell of coffee, definitely his favorite. Muffet’s was always a safe place for him, so a lot of it is tied up in some of those memories, but he still drinks it a lot (at inadvisable times of day) and he just generally finds the smell of it pleasant. Chocolate has a similar effect, since he has a major sweet-tooth and tends to store a lot of little treats on his person for later…and sometimes he ends up smelling like it too, when he forgets about those treats and they…melt. If he’s not actively smelling like one of those two things, though, it’s probably pen ink, which is his favorite medium for sketching and pretty far up there on his list of preferred scents, even as strong and chemical-y as it is. It mostly only rubs off on his hands, if anything, so it doesn’t linger too long and he finds it meditative for as long as it does last.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): He’s pretty passionately in love with the way most things in the Allium family smell when being cooked, but garlic is at the top of the list. He could smell it all day long and be a very happy man, and he preps and eats enough of it—garlic bread, confit, pasta, pizza—that he’ll sometimes get it on his breath or his hands. A lot more prominently and frequently, though, he’ll smell like dog, or cat. You know the smell, it’s indescribable, but he works with animals and tends to come home stinking like them, and honestly, he doesn’t really mind the smell at that much, himself. It’s a good stink. …But of course, not everyone agrees, and the fur is a bitch, so sometimes he also smells like the dryer sheets he keeps on him to get some of that hair off and mask the dog-smell.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): His favorite scent in the world is flowers! He doesn’t really have a strict preference, but he does like magnolias, jasmine, gardenia… Sometimes he does smell floral, because he definitely prefers soaps that smell like his favorites, or because he’s out in his garden tending to the flowers and the vegetables. The latter is also how he gets a lot of fresh-cut grass and dirt smells into his gardening clothes, which is absolutely a blessing because he loves those scents too! Possibly the only thing he tends to smell like on a regular basis that he doesn’t love is antiseptic. It’s pretty harsh and chemical, but as much as he’s not a fan, it’s a necessity for a nurse—you work a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, antiseptic is probably one of the better things you can come home smelling like. Rest assured he showers immediately when he gets home, he doesn’t like the hospital stink either.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): His favorite smell is a little particular, the way cloth smells when it’s kind of old and worn. Cotton is preferred but linen is also perfectly acceptable, just something about broken in, familiar clothes or sheets or even couch cushions makes him happy and—with the amount of those that he has on and around and over himself on a regular basis—he does pick up a bit of that scent himself fairly often. Still, he does have a brother in the picture who refuses to abide him smelling like musty cloth all the time, so a lot more often he’ll be smelling like fabric softener from the freshly washed pile of laundry he grabs his sweaters out of. He likes that smell well enough too, so no issue there. Sometimes, more frequently than you might guess, his hands (and sleeves) pick up the smell of dish soap, from a chore easy enough that even he can handle, in between rests.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He’s an absolute sucker for the smell of vanilla, nothing makes him happier. Every candle and air freshener and cologne he gets his hands on is vanilla-scented because he just loves it so much. When he’s not busy smelling like vanilla, however, he’s probably off in the kitchen smelling like bread instead. He does plenty of cooking and baking, and getting lightly floured and saturated in the ambient scent of rising dough is pretty much inevitable—albeit not especially long-lasting. Another not-uncommon smell around him is sweet, light florals, like plum blossom or honeysuckle. They’re just under vanilla as far as ranking his personal preferences might go, so a lot of the soaps and body washes he gets tend to be something like that, if he can find it.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): As far as a favorite scent goes, his is probably WD-40. It’s a little weird and a little specific, but he’s fixed up enough things around the house with it that his love affair with how useful the stuff is has fully extended to what it smells like. If he knew there was a cologne that smelled like it, he’d probably wear that shit all the time, but since nobody’s told him about that, he only smells of it himself when he’s been doing the handyman thing. If he’s been working a lot, knitting or buying and sorting yarn for knitting, he’s at least somewhat likely to have some lanolin smell on and around his fingers—since his preference is generally wool yarn over acrylic and that has the straight-from-the-sheep aroma built-in. He’s more or less neutral to it. If he knows ahead of time that he’s going to be going out somewhere, though, he’ll freshen up properly with some body spray, something in the amber or oaky range of scents, warm and woodsy with a little spice to it. That, he likes.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): He’s not a fan of most strong scents, less so if they’re noticeably artificial. Probably his favorite is cocoa butter, since it’s soft and pleasant and not overwhelming, so the majority of his soaps and other toiletries—and the man himself—smell like that, and that’s the way he likes it. If he’s been meditating recently or otherwise trying to center himself, he might pick up a faint tinge of sandalwood from the incense he burns, but again, since he favors light scents it’s bound to be subtle and probably won’t last long outside of his meditation room. He will sometimes get some long-lingering fruit scents on his hands, since it’s something he likes to do, peeling or otherwise unwrapping fruits for himself, or ducks and geese at the park, or for someone he cares about. It’ll be apples and oranges, mostly, but sometimes he’ll make a go of a pomegranate, and his spindly talons will be fragrant for awhile and that’s…fine.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): He’s a little different, depending on whether you catch him before he’s solved his DT problem, or after. In both cases, he’s liable to often smell like something sweet, thanks to his home-baking business—almond more than most things, since he favors it for texture, or as extract, or as flour for a gluten-free option, but sometimes frosting, compotes, or plain old powdered sugar will cling to him a bit outside of the kitchen too. He doesn’t love it, but he’s fine with it, especially with what it covers up when he’s regularly destabilizing. The DT in his body is an overwhelming presence, to the point of having a noticeable scent when his magic spikes—an iron smell, harsh and metallic…and if he happens to lose control of himself and start melting, the smell of liquidizing bone is equally strong and unpleasant, something chalky and like…corn chips? Understandably, he’s…not a fan. He tends to mask it where he can with strong citrusy colognes, orange and lemon and yuzu, which he does like and will continue to wear for special occasions once his Issue is sorted. But his favorite scent…that’s probably orange blossom, which is just a little too subtle to assert itself over liquid bone and charged DT, but perfect on its own, after everything’s fixed. It’s his favorite kind of soap and he doesn’t really bother with anything else.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Like his brother, he also has a lot of DT in his body, just not as much and he’s in control of it. Still, that does mean he sometimes smells strongly of it, that thick and harsh iron tang, but usually only when he’s really, truly angry—just a bit of grump or peeve won’t cut it. His method of covering it up, when it does happen, is with some original scent Old Spice body spray, which he thinks is infinitely better and a classic, timeless scent to wear. He’s not necessarily wrong either, since he’s not a teen boy using it as a replacement for showering, so he doesn’t ever empty a whole can onto himself, but that’s a low bar. As much as he does like the Old Spice smell, the honor of favorite has to go to any combo of fruit-and-cream, and of those, orange creamsicle wins with him by a mile every time. He only has a few soaps and sanitizers in that category, but he’ll replace them immediately when he runs out, to make sure it’s always around.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): No hesitation, his favorite scent is blackberry and herb—his preferred cologne has it with bay leaf, but he’s found it in soaps and sanitizers paired with basil or sage and finds that equally pleasant. He uses it more to accent than cover up, and he thinks it pairs nicely with his own natural musk. If he’s been working out or boxing a lot, that musk will come through a bit stronger and blend with some other distinct things—neoprene, chalk, hand-tape—to give him an overall ‘gym smell,’ which he’s aware of but maybe only slightly negative on, at worst. He can always wash up after… Probably the only other thing he smells like regularly is chlorine or bromine, since he loves pools and jacuzzis and taking a nice dip in either, and those have to stay clean somehow. If pressed, he’d say he likes that smell in the same way some people like the smell of gasoline—it’s chemical, but there’s something about it to like, even if sniffing it too much directly would probably make you sick.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): His favorite smell is tea, freshly brewed. His general preference is probably more for black teas, but the occasional herbal tea is nice too. His fondness for it is mostly in the act of steeping, pouring, holding, sitting with and sipping the tea rather than only the smell, so he really only smells of it himself when he’s actually made or drank some. More than anything, he tends to smell like marker ink, from his persistent habit of doodling all over himself. It’s definitely chemical, but he does kinda like it, brings back nice memories for him and makes him feel creative and happy. Add in a somewhat compulsive cleaning habit, and you also have him kitchen-lemon-scented whenever he’s at his most sleepless and anxious, and understandably he doesn’t especially love that one, but hey, at least it’s clean and fresh.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): He loves the smell of cola, a little syrupy but sharp and cut with carbonation bubbles, it just hits all the right notes of ‘pleasant’ for him and makes him feel relaxed. He does drink it, but not so much that he overly smells of it anywhere but his breath if he’s actively in the middle of a can or glass. Mostly, he smells a little grassy and warm, like vetiver or lemongrass since those are the kinds of soaps and body washes he prefers—nothing too strong or overpowering, just clean! ………And sometimes, in odd moments of high emotion, when things feel weird… he smells………like nothing? But something. Kind of like…petrichor, the scent that hangs in the air when it’s about to rain, but…not that, something more charged and…dark. …He doesn’t like that one.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): Like his brother, he too sometimes smells like something and nothing, some kind of undefinable electric darkness that he can’t put a name to…and quite frankly, he doesn’t like it either! What he does like are herbal scents, the more assertive, the better—like mint, he loves the smell of mint! Rosemary is also nice, or eucalyptus, but nothing quite beats a crisp fresh mint aroma in his heart. The only time he’ll really stray away from those kinds of botanical scents on purpose is when he’s looking for cologne to wear, and then he’s very unpredictable in terms of what he goes for. He seems to find himself almost magnetically drawn to the most abstract and loosely defined concepts. What is lunar cologne, what does it mean to smell like the moon? He can’t really say, but it seems like it would be good to impress new people—acquaintances, colleagues, perhaps a date… He’ll keep wearing it for the fancy occasions.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): His favorite scent is the ocean—not artificial approximations of it, or combinations of scents that someone has decided to label ‘marine,’ only the real thing will do. It’s mostly the experience of being there that resonates with him, so similar standing bodies of water (like lakes and Great Lakes) will also come close for him, but it just can’t really be bottled, what he’s after. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your perspective), he does occasionally smell like sea or lake water himself since he often decides to walk right in whenever he visits one, and that scent lingers even after he’s dredged himself back out. He doesn’t especially mind it, but other people do, and if he then has to be around some, it tends to be easier to…find…some new clothes, preferably some overstock from mass-produced fast-fashion brands just sitting in a warehouse somewhere. So, a lot of the time, he’ll smell like that—the strong dyes and starches and other chemicals that linger in fabric before the first wash. He’s pretty neutral to it, since it fades anyway the more he wears it around. When the weather’s hot, he may pick up the slightest scent of silicone rubber from his body components heating up, but he’s very well-constructed, so that’s the worst of it.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He doesn’t have a favorite scent, it’s not a sense he has anymore. Which he’s fine with! Lots of smells are gross, and he’s gained plenty of other senses and capabilities with his lifestyle change to counterbalance it, so he really doesn’t miss it much ever. He himself does have a scent though, to an extent. His hard-light form smells a little like how static electricity smells, sharp and tingly, and the more fully solidified he is, the stronger the scent. If he was told about it, that would be his favorite scent by proxy. Sometimes as a precursor to his appearance, the air itself tends to sharpen and smell crisp, the way it does in cold weather—this, he wouldn’t especially like, since it takes some of the surprise out of him showing up if someone happened to notice it as a trend, but of course there’s nothing he could actually do about it anyway. It’d be hard to notice, but occasionally, devices he’s tampered with or poked around in might have a faint aroma somewhat like hot plastic, fleeting and easily put down to just the object itself overheating or something. He wouldn’t really like to know that either, no fun if he's so noticeable but again, it is what it is.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans):  His favorite scent is a sweet berry medley, not all that particular about which ones, as long as there’s a couple different kinds of berries mixed in! A lot of his soaps and body washes will be of that ilk, so it’s probably also the thing he smells like more often than not. He also likes to burn incense, but it’s mostly gifted, or sticks and cones picked up incidentally from all over, so he’s not very consistent with any one scent. White sage pops up a bit more than some of the others, but there’s a whole laundry list of incense aromas he could pick up by proximity. And on occasion, especially if he’s been frequenting pottery studios, it’s entirely possible that he could have a bit of a clay smell stuck to him…or actual clay, on him, it can be messy stuff but super fun and he loves it—even when it’s wedged in between his phalanges.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): His favorite scent is definitely bergamot. He himself smells like it often, since it’s the feature of every cologne he wears, and most of the body washes and potpourris he keeps around his home. He’s also fond of the way magazine paper smells—he keeps a steady supply of them in circulation to keep on top of lots of different trends (and to see if any inspire him to participate)—but that’s a scent that doesn’t especially linger, maybe a bit on his hands if he’s been at it awhile. What does linger, whether he likes it or not, is bird smell but he only picks that up when he’s been whistling too many birds onto his fingers, or if he’s been petting learning how to handle raptors in the hopes of some day soon getting to keep a falcon. What the bird smell actually smells like depends entirely what kind of feathers he’s been preening and for how long, but either way he kind of likes it.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): His favorite smell is metal, brass and copper and steel. Mostly, they don’t have a smell of their own but they do when someone’s touching them, or if they’re being actively cut and machined, and that’s the kind of smell that he likes. He smells of it personally every now and again, since he does have a passion for tinkering with most anything he can get his hands on, and on his hands is where that scent tends to linger a bit. Way more often, what he smells like is ozone, a kind of heavy electrical smell, like lightning’s about to strike—or already has. It’s at its worst when his magic is in high supply and lightest if he’s running low, and most of the time at a ‘Huh, storm’s coming’ level that he's…admittedly nose-blind to, so he has little opinion on it. If you’re up close and chatting, something you’ll definitely catch of whiff of is the cinnamon gum he prefers, but that’s a calculated move, premeditated on his part. Nobody likes rank breath, best to keep it smelling like something nice if he’s going to socialize, right?

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): His favorite smell is soap. He has a strong preference for softer ‘clean’ scents, something like Dove soap, vaguely floral and light and not overpowering or chemical. He never really had a choice in anything what he used to clean himself with before, but now that he does, this is one of the easier choices he’s made. He also has an odd fondness for the scent of still, stagnant water—even when it’s heavy on the mildewy, algae notes. He doesn’t much smell like that himself, unless he’s been maintaining his aquariums recently, but he certainly doesn’t mind the mustiness of it as much as some might. If he’s been working, he’s liable to pick up any of a dozen scents common around a job site—sawdust, gravel, paint, spackle—whatever’s around and whatever he might’ve been tasked to do…but those will get replaced by the scent of soap in short order.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): His favorite scent is definitely ginger, extra points if it happens to be gingerbread, but he likes it in most other things as well. It’s something of a special treat for him, so he doesn’t indulge in it very often and he’s in the habit of hiding any evidence, but if he lets his guard down it’s possible to catch a faint whiff of it on him, rarely. Probably the most notable smell on him is balsam fir, which he prefers for a cologne. It’s a good strong scent, woodsy with a balance of sweet and spicy, and makes a subtle enough statement about himself…though naturally, he goes without it whenever he doesn’t want to be noticed. Every now and again, he may also smell a bit like apricots, coinciding directly with the summer months when they’re in season and it’s an ideal time for him to get a whole bunch and make illegal booze out of them. He likes the smell inasmuch as it can be a conversation starter to ask if anyone is interested in a bottle or two when it’s ready, but he’s not especially passionate about the smell for its own sake.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): If you ask him, the best smell in the world is wet earth, or just plain old mud. It’s sharp and gritty and real, and he loves catching a whiff of it under his soles or even his palms whenever he’s been outside long enough. He does wash, sometimes, so he doesn’t always smell like literal dirt, but his preference for a juniper berry body wash keeps him smelling pretty outdoorsy most of the time. Under all that, there’s also his own natural musk which he doesn’t much care to hide—after all, it blends so nicely with the smell of fresh air and trees that cling to his clothes after he's come back from a run or parkour through the woods…or at least he thinks so. Why would he want to douse himself in fragrances to get rid of it?

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): He likes the scent of nutmeg the most. It smells warm and spicy and little bit bitter, and he likes that—but mostly in beverages, like coffee, so he only occasionally smells of it himself. Also faintly on him is the scent of formaldehyde, from when he’s working. He’s less susceptible than any human coworkers to some of the more astringent chemicals in his line of work, so a lot of the mixing and handling is left to him, which he’ll surely make wry comments about but actually doesn’t mind so much. Even faint, the smell seems to be a bit of a subconscious deterrent for most humans, once they get close enough to notice it. Most of that, however, is sadly rendered ineffective by the strong floral scent he often picks up, mostly roses and lilies, from setting up, moving, disposing of (and occasionally absconding with) funeral flower arrangements. …Even so, he can’t bring himself to truly despise it. He does enjoy flowers.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): He likes flowers too! Certainly a lot more than he enjoys the scent of dirt, when he’s working, or the scent of rot, when he’s trying to obtain new animal bones for his collection. To that end, he’s definitely also a collector of dried flowers, and he keeps them on his person anywhere and anywhen he thinks there might be unpleasant odors that could sink into his clothes—lavender and hibiscus and lotus are common choices…but even so, none of them are his favorite. That honor goes to rhubarb! It’s so fresh and fruity and lovely, almost every cologne and soap and toiletry he buys features it as a key note, if not the only note, and he feels at his best when he’s wearing it. Rarely, he may sometimes smell a bit smoky. Just candle wick smoke, since he likes to burn a lot of candles and then has to go around blowing them all out so as not to leave them unattended and that scent clings for at least a little bit. It’s not his favorite either, but he doesn’t mind it at all.

[mysticmikalla]

Bachelor and Bachelorettes from Best to Worst smelling

I don’t think anyone is particular* smells bad but they must be ranked!

Bachelors

Elliot without a shadow of a doubt smells the best out of the boys. You know those people whose hair holds onto their shampoo scent for days? That’s my mans right there. Wears high quality cologne. Godly scent

Harvey - not only does he takes really good care of his hygiene, but he also smells like coffee and a clean doctor’s office. Comfort smell for sure

Alex goes a bit crazy with the deodorant/body spray before and after his workouts but he’s also pretty good about his hygiene and appearance. A very manly musk

Sam - boy next door smell, just smells of soap and like… Pantene lol. Not the best at keeping his laundry always fresh tho. His idea of cologne is just sort of deodorant spray all over

Sebastian - only reason loml isn’t higher is because of the smoking. It lingers onto his clothes and while some people like the smell, it does’t make your breath smell the nicest. Otherwise I don’t think he neglects his hygiene like a lot of people do & smells like generic cheap soap

*Shane - listen I’ve been depressed enough to neglect showering and even brushing my teeth for days at a time. I get it. Don’t think he smells bad per se but can get a bit unpleasant. Definitely bottom of the list. Smell of alcohol doesn’t help either

Bachelorettes

Haley like yall can’t tell me she isn’t the best smelling person on the planet. Youever smell any Moroccan Oil products? She embodies that scent. Go to your local Sephora and smell them and then come back & reblog this bc I’m right

Penny smells like spring, fresh and floral but not overwhelmingly so

Emily is like Haley and Penny where she doesn’t like to feel or look dirty, but she doesn’t go to the extent Haley and Penny do to smell like literal perfection

Maru on the other hand doesn’t mind if her hair gets a bit greasy and doesn’t love to wear perfumes or body mists but she is particular about keeping a good hygene so she also will always smell good

Leah doesn’t care about being a bit dirty after spending the day outside or doing woodwork. Doesn’t smell bad at ALL, has good hygiene but not top of the list

Abigail on the other hand… does not care if her hair is greasy or pits smell after not showering for a day or two. It’s just gonna get dirty again as soon as she fancies a trip down the mines or to stand outside the Wizard’s house for hours on end so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[forkz07]

my list of hc’s for mialotte (the nursery nurse) cause we need more content of it

M: Black Cat

C: Golden Retriever

M: okokok

C: lalala

M: loves coffee ice cream

C: loves strawberry and vanilla ice cream

M: hands always warm

C: hands always cold

C: has relatively quick showers

M: has long showers and has a full like cupboard full of products she uses

C: doesn’t really like to go out, but does so anyways

M: loves to go out on dates, even if it’s just a walk

M: tequila/red wine

C: champagne/white wine

C: prefers autumn/spring because it’s not too hot, not too cold

M: prefers summer and winter because she loves the beach, and she thinks snow is pretty

C: prefers series

M: prefers movies and series

C: says she doesn’t get scared by watching horror but gets scared

M: barely gets scared in the slightest

C: dog person

M: cat person

C: wears cheap and comfy stuff

M: wears expensive and uncomfortable stuff

C: only dances/sings when drunk or persuaded

M: randomly breaks out into dance/song (has no shame)

C: doesn’t take long to get ready, an hour at most

M: takes at least two-three hours to get ready

M: believes in karma and bad juju

C: not sure what she believes

M: physical touch/gifts

C: words

M: smokes

C: hates it

‘Arrested by police’

M: she just stands there like this is a normal thing (it is), maybe has a confrontation

C: very worried and concerned, thinks they’re gonna go to jail forever and rot

M: spends hundreds of dollars in one shopping trip on clothes, house stuff, etc

C: bought like 30 dollars worth of groceries and that’s it

C: daytime

M: nighttime

M: hates bugs, especially spiders. won’t go near them unless she has to

C: hates them but isn’t too bothered. she’s had to deal with them loads because of her kids

M: uses instagram religiously

C: likes all her posts

M: connects to music on a spiritual level

C: connects to music on an emotional level