#dr teeth/laszlo

[zombiedeers]

Muppetsona and selfship art dropped X]

Finally feel confident in Laszlo's design !! Enough so to make selfship art and actually just post him in general lolol

His main gimmicks is being take-apart-and-put-back-together, his limbs being able to be removed and sometimes just fall off if he falls or something similar

Also my partner helped me with ideas and notes while designing him !! <3333

[hereticpriest]

Bite

Rating: Mature?

Relationship: Laszlo Kreizler x reader

Warnings: Heavily implied odaxelagnia, period typical misogyny, period typical relationship culture, period typical discussion of a physical disability.

Note: Kincsem means 'my treasure' and szerelmem means 'my love' in Hungarian.

Warmth sinks into your back as you lean heavily against the strong legs and plush sofa behind you, chasing away the chill you might've had from sitting on the cold floor. Your upper body is wedged somewhat between bony knees and soft thighs, holding you in place in case you were to fall asleep. It wouldn't be the first time. A blissful sigh leaves your lips as you nuzzle your cheek against your arms, pillowed beneath your head and draped lazily over your dear doctor's thigh. The fingers of his non-dominant hand comb shyly through your hair, still learning to touch you with what he refers to as his deformity when he manages to speak of it.

His voice, thickly accented when he's as relaxed as he is now in the fire's crackling light with you at his feet, lilts over the words of whatever book he's chosen to read for you tonight. You haven't absorbed much of it, though you believe it to be a text rather than a novel - delving into the science behind love, how quaint - since he keeps pausing to underline passages as he goes. He doesn't ever seem to do that with novels - that's your territory. He often remarks that he likes to read some of his favourites again after you've made your way through them simply because he likes to read the little notes you've jotted down in the margins.

You let out a plaintive noise as he removes his hand from your hair, blinking open heavy-lidded eyes to look up at him with all the disgruntled displeasure of a toddler told no. His eyebrow raises at you as if to ask what you plan to do about it, and you scoff, shifting your arm ever so slightly to give you room to sink your teeth into the meat of his thigh. He yelps, fisting your hair in order to wrench your head back, and you let him. Your lips form a smug grin, eyes half-lidded and smouldering. The would-be pain of having your hair pulled bleeds into pleasure instead, sparking like wildfire under your skin.

"No biting, kincsem." He murmurs, guiding your head back down to his leg delicately for a man who’d just yanked on your hair. You wait on baited breath to see if he'll keep touching you, and hum with delight when he does, indulging you despite the fact that it reinforces your unfortunately bratty behaviour. He's been trying to get you out of the habit of biting since you met, with very little success. First, as a typist at the Kreizler Institute with a bad habit of biting the skin around your nails - stress induced, due to the pressure from your parents to marry instead of working for him. He had recommended a healthy outlet for your stress and a set of gloves to redirect you, and while the gloves did work when you weren’t actively typing, you hadn’t yet found an outlet for your stress. Then, your parents found a suitor for you willing to overlook your unfortunate desire to make something of yourself beyond a wife and mother, which led to you biting the thenar eminence of your dominant hand until you had to wear gloves to hide the marks and bruises. The gloves were somewhat of a deterrent when you wore them, as you learned to get quite adept at wearing them while typing, and had to pull them up to bite properly.

As you were reluctantly contemplating the aforementioned suitor's offer of courtship, Laszlo came to you with an offer of his own, a decidedly sweeter offer despite your parent's distaste for foreigners and lack of respect for his profession. He was still a wealthy man (wealthier than the alternative) of good standing (relative to the man they'd found for you) with a somewhat prestigious job, who wished to marry you with some level of expediency. Up until that point, you'd done your best to look at Laszlo as Dr. Kreizler - your boss first, and a man a distant second - in order to avoid any misunderstandings or scandals. You did not acknowledge his good looks, or his delectable accent, or the way his eyes seemed to see right through you. None of those things were relevant to your job. Somehow, you’d managed to do quite well in removing the man of him from the equation.

When he proposed a courtship, it had not been a way to save you from a worse fate like you might have feared it to be if you'd ever even had an inkling to the idea that he might ask. Which you hadn’t, because you had blinded yourself to him willfully to achieve a healthy working relationship. An entire world of possibility opened up between you when he forced your hand and made you finally acknowledge him as something other than your polite and kind boss, Dr. Kreizler. Your good doctor had asked you with sweetly pink cheeks and a flustered tongue, an honest fear in his eyes as he attempted quite needlessly to be forthright about his faults and how he might make up for them. You knew who he was. As you allowed yourself to think of him as an option, you realised how good of a man he truly was. He wasn’t a perfect man, certainly. He had a habit of being manipulative, and was far too shrewd not to recognize it. He lacked some social graces, which had given him the ability to see people that society had shunned, but also made him a bit abrasive at times. He was profoundly intelligent, which led him to sometimes confront people with the things they did not want to be faced with.

And yet, he was kind. Compassionate. He saw beyond your pretty wrapping to the heart of you, and appreciated both. He indulged you even when you were difficult. He gave everyone a chance based on merit, not class. His love warmed you like a fire, and very rarely burned you in equal measure. He was incredibly handsome, distinguished, and carried his age well. He dressed well, groomed himself appropriately and his voice made you quake. His arm did little if anything at all to quell your passion for him, once he lit the fire. All it took was one spark for you to burn.

It was as if the moment he began courting you, you began to see things you had never noticed before. Things that had always been there, and yet you had been completely blind to them. Despite the difficulty it gave him, he always pulled out your chair for you. He offered you his arm anytime you two had to walk anywhere together, and helped you in and out of the carriage despite having Cyrus there to do it for him. You, quite by accident, noticed him staring at you in the quiet moments in his office while you were typing up his notes for him, or taking his dictation. It wasn't the first time, though you had always passed it off as the man thinking, the direction of his gaze less important than the thoughts running through his brilliant mind. It wasn’t until you knew the fire in his eyes when he looked upon something he wanted that you began to recognize it in his gaze whenever he was looking at you.

Once, long before your courtship began, he had invited you to dinner with his motley crew of investigators at the Delmonico. You remember playfully remarking that you would have to buy a new dress for the occasion, only to find a dressbox laying on your desk the following morning when you came into work. Your insistence that he not waste his money on you was met with a disdainful look at the simple notion and a reminder that it would be impolite to refuse a gift given in earnest. Your parents would have had a fit if they knew you accepted such a gift from a man, but what they didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt you. Every compliment from Ms. Howard and Mr. Moore made Laszlo subtly preen, apparently pleased to have picked something that suited you so well. You had thought his behaviour a tad odd - inviting the group's admiration of your dress, subtle as it may have been, was certainly not the doctor's usual style.

You had kept yourselves to courtship rules, holding hands only in presence of a chaperone for your good public image, what little remained. He took you on several long, chaperoned walks in between dinners with your family, and exchanged letters with you despite the fact that he saw you nearly every day for work. Your engagement swiftly followed, perhaps a bit faster than might’ve been acceptable if your parents hadn’t been in such a rush to be rid of you. The first time he kissed you, you swore you heard and felt him whimper. He was endlessly gentle with you, cherishing you in ways you never expected. He loved you long before you even knew that was a possibility, and he had hungered. Your next bite was to his lower lip, and then his chin, and then his neck. Instead of using gloves to redirect you, he now wore higher collars or guided your nipping mouth further down under his clothing.

It was a happy marriage. It is a happy marriage. Only a couple of months in and you’ve never been happier in your entire life. Your doctor, your husband, takes very good care of you. You want for nothing, except a moment more of his time. Just one more look. One more touch. One more kiss. You’re voracious - he’s accused you multiple times of being spoiled with a fondness in his voice that said he was perfectly okay with that. You think he’s been so hungry for you for so long that it’s only fair that you suffer the same ailment.

Your doctor combs your hair back from your face, leaning over you just the slightest bit to see your open eyes before he speaks, “You, my little wife, have not heard a single word I have said for the last hour, have you?”

You smile against your arm.

“Oh, no, my love. I was definitely listening.” You correct him, and he sighs, stroking the pad of his thumb over your plush lips and inviting a bite he knows is coming. He barely even flinches as you clamp your teeth around his skin, then he does shudder when you pull his thumb into your mouth.

“Some day, I will rid you of this compulsion.” he murmurs, and you bite around the base of his thumb before letting him pull free of you. His hand slips below the neck of your nightgown, and you shiver at the wet swipe across your nipple.

“You hardly want to, husband. Deny it all you like, we both know you like when I bite.”

He smirks, his strong hand slipping under your arms to help you stand on shaky, numb legs. Despite himself, he likes when you walk like a baby deer around him, whether due to his nightly (and often daily) passions, or simply because you like to kneel at his feet so often until your legs go numb.

“Come to bed, szerelmem. I think there’s still an inch of my neck that is yet to be bruised.” He teases, and you laugh, leaning into him as he helps you towards your bedroom. You’ve no doubt he’ll find yet another way to make your legs shake before the end of the night.

[noforkingclue]

When you get the chance can you please write an Alienist one?

Where you’ve been dating Marcus Isaacson for a good while, a relationship that makes Laszlo extremely jealous because he’s had his eyes on you for as long as you can remember but you don’t like him the same

Of course I can anon! Hope you like the fic :D

Title: Looking At You

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @imjustassaneasyou, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian

“He’s looking at you again.”

You glanced up at Marcus who was glaring across the table. You looked over to where he was looking at and saw Laszlo quickly turning away.

“Who? Dr Kreizler.”

“Yes.” Marcus said through clenched teeth

You sighed as you continued to sort the paperwork on the desk. The case that Laszlo was currently help solve was a particularly involved one and you knew that eventually all the messy paperwork was going to get worse. As his secretary you always tried to keep things neat and tidy. You grabbed another piece of paper and Marcus leant closer.

“He’s always been watching you,” he said, “You know that.”

“Marcus-“

“There are other jobs,” he whispered, “You don’t have to stay here.”

“I’m happy here.”

“Even-“

“Marcus,” you whispered and put your hand over his, “Trust me. I’m perfectly safe here. Dr Kreizler hasn’t done anything to me. It’s a good job with good pay. After all,” you gave him a shy smile, “There is something we’re saving for right? We can always use the money.”

Marcus relaxed slightly and nodded, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am. Now, do you trust me?”

“With my life. And you’ll tell me if he does anything?”

“Of course.”

Finally Marcus gave you a dazzling smile and pressed his lips briefly against yours. You smiled against his lips as his hand linked with yours. You gave it a reassuring squeeze, something you knew helped relax him. It was a sign that you were devoted to him and when he squeezed it back, that he was devoted to you.

“We’re not interrupting anything?”

You jumped away from Marcus, your face warm as John’s voice snapped you back into reality. John looked between you and Marcus, an amused look on his face. Laszlo looked a lot less impressed.

“In case you are forgetting,” Laszlo said slightly harshly, “We have a murder to solve.”

“Yes Dr Kreizler.” You said, embarrassed

*

“You’re looking at her again.”

Laszlo glanced at John out of the corner of his eye before quickly looking back at you. Marcus was glaring at him but Laszlo paid him no attention as he turned back to his work.

“I do not know what you mean.” He said

“Y/n,” John whispered, “You keep staring at her.”

“I am merely ensuring that she remains focused on her work,” Laszlo said, “And not getting distracted.”

“This is y/n we’re talking about,” John continued, “She’s isn’t easily distracted.”

John briefly glance over at you and smiled when he saw you and Marcus leaning close together.

“Unless it’s Marcus being here that you have an issue with.”

Anyone else probably would’ve missed the way Laszlo’s jaw clenched at Marcus’s name. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before he lit a cigarette. It was clear to him that Laszlo was in love with you, even if he denied it to him.

“I’m your friend, Laszlo,” John continued, “I can tell that you love-“

“I do not love her.” Laszlo whispered back

John exhaled deeply at his friend’s stubbornness. It was clear to everyone, apart from you, that Laszlo had feelings for you. If only he had acted on them sooner, not that John hadn’t encouraged him to, things might’ve ended differently for the two of you. Instead, Laszlo’s hesitance to act of his feelings had led to you being introduced to Marcus and falling for you. As John looked over at you and Marcus a smirk formed as he saw Marcus press his lips against yours.

“We’re not interrupting anything?” he called

Seeing you jump away from Marcus, clearly embarrassed, amused him but it was clear that Laszlo was not. Laszlo stiffened as he looked between you and Marcus before saying,

“In case you are forgetting. We have a murder to solve.”

“Yes Doctor Kreizler.” You replied quietly

Marcus opened his mouth to snap but you put a hand on his shoulder. Marcus relaxed under your touch as Laszlo swiftly turned his back on the two of you. If only he had been a little bolder with his feelings he wouldn’t have had to learn what it felt like to have his heart break.

[rumblelibrary]

Happy birthday Veronica!

Could I request numbers 10 & 20 from the kinky prompt list for Laszlo please? I imagine them just going to bed or just waking up, maybe one of them read something about it (or tantric sex if you know it)? Thank you x

Love of My Life [Dr Laszlo Kreizler x Reader ]

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: smut, tantric sex

A/N: this came out really small but somehow I poured my heart into it. I hope you'll like it. I just want this man happy.

You woke up slowly as you stirred in your position, you rested your head on the pillow soon realising it was too early even if the room was kept dark from the heavy curtains the silence surrounding the place gave away that feeling of time.

The soft morning breeze telling you it would be a temperate day finally. You tried to doze off again, you needed it, you needed to rest because you know the day ahead would be full and you should avoid to think about it.

Plans to meet with Sara, also organising something for next Opera night, probably having to pay a visit to Violet to see how’s the baby.

You shivered as you felt your husband's lips rest against your shoulder blade, his fingertips caressing on your arm making shapes over your exposed skin. You always slept naked, it was a non displayed rule you agreed upon, you begun on your wedding night and it slowly became an habit.

Laszlo was a passionate lover in his own way, he was often insecure about his body, about the way it presented itself, but he loved you deeply and it showed in the absolute veneration he had for your body.

You were his reason to smile, to be patient, to be a better man and a better lover. You brought hope not his life, light into his darkness, courage where there used to be fear.

His mind was devoted to you, his heart tied to the solace you only could provide, and even more, his desire was doomed by you.

There wasn’t a day, a moment, a night where he didn’t wish to touch you, own you, fill you. Many people relied on cocaine or opium while he relied solely onto your welcoming presence.

You closed your eyes as his fingers moved over your stomach slowly making circles up to your breasts, slowly cupping one as his thumb played with the nipple. You shivered as you felt his lips behind your neck now, you enjoyed those touches, not daring to speak up as his touches were so delicate in a very dangerous line between relaxing and sexual.

Your skin trembled underneath him, he knew you were awake but nevertheless he took his time, his hand slowly making its way down again, caressing your abdomen then up toying over your hipbone and above your thigh. It was almost exasperating the way he was making the desire take over you.

You let out a breathy gasp when he finally dared to touch between your thighs, slowly tracing your slit like he didn’t know exactly where to go.

Your wetness already evident as he collected some of it spreading it above your clit beginning to rub you. A soft moan escaping you as he was so sapiently moving his fingers across your slit.

Truth was that he loved to touch you, sometimes he wouldn’t go this far, he would keep brushing his fingers along your body like he was blind and in need to discover you. You’d wake up in the middle of the night as your body would react to his slow inspections, sometimes you’d desire to feel him move to caress between your legs like now, but most of the times he’d just keep exploring every shape of you, the touch lulling you back to a sleep made of desire and expectation that would often follow you until the very morning.

But this morning wasn’t one of those, the light of the rising sun still faint, the sleep still confusing your mind as his fingers guided you to a new place of pleasure.

You felt him rest his chest against your back, his heartbeat melting with yours while his fingers buried inside you deeply and begun to stretch you sapiently.

He was so slow, part of your brain was screaming for him and the other part was completely overwhelmed and wanted his dear attentions to last for ages.

Still, you didn’t need to speak, your body was enough talkative to him.

You felt him pull his fingers out and move your thigh while pushing inside you with that same slowness like he wanted you to count every inch.

Your legs shook as his hot breath hit your neck when he groaned.

“Mein Liebling”

His words shot electricity down your spine as you moaned softly resting your hand over his thigh loving every attention you got.

You trembled as he knew perfectly his way around you, he guided your pleasure like a director guides the orchestra.

He went slow, he stretched every part of you as you moaned against the pillow, your back trembling lightly as his hand traced onto your lower abdomen  pushing lightly to make you feel him even more.

Your body was demanding against his, instinctively pushing your ass more toward him as his head nested between your shoulder and back, his teeth grazing your skin with tempting bites and kisses knowing every mark he will leave will be hidden by those covering Victorian clothing you had to wear daily.

To make love with Lazlo was like experiencing yourself twice both through your feelings and through him, because this wasn’t just sex, this felt like God’s creation, like the first day on earth of Adam and Eve, the world is still sleeping and you’re already at it.

A whimper followed your thoughts as his hand rested onto your chest once more and graced it with his skilled touch, his low groans alone making you wetter and needier by minute. Your heavy breaths and the sloppy sound of your sex the only noises filling the room. Once again his hand was there to blissfully touch you gracing in front of your joined bodies to stimulate you.

“Laszlo”

You moaned turning around lightly to look at him for the first time.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him, but the moment you found his dark lids staring back at you pouring desire like boiling ink, his lips on your shoulder as he leaned over you to share a kiss you, then you started trembling. He knew what it was happening, his lips parted as your tongues met, your upper leg raising to give him more room as a feeling similar to the need to go to the bathroom raised into your core.

He didn’t stop, his hand holding onto your thigh as he guided your orgasm with his sex, you squirmed underneath him, the pleasure taking over slowly and deeply like the encounter you were having, tearing you apart piece by piece. A mixed sense of urgency taking over you as you wanted to amplify it immediately but he forbid you so.

Your nails sinking into his thigh as you pulled back from that kiss, a single stand of saliva still joining you as the moan that came out from you was almost not natural as your thighs convulsed like your body trying to escape itself. That orgasm crashing over you like a wave and taking time to die out like it needed the same amount of time that it took to blossom to leave you.

When the pleasure was over you didn’t realise if Laszlo came inside you yet, too much wetness too much sensitivity in you, the dizziness forbidding any reasonable thought through you.

But you did’t worry about that, he wouldn’t come out of your body until it became strictly necessary.

“Love of my life” he whispered and you smiled at him from your overwhelmed state, his lips resting onto your neck as he hid there, your hand lazily moving behind you onto his cheek sliding through his already messy hair, his beard soft against you as he pushed his shoulders together like he was tying to hide against you.

The silent plead coming from him.

Never let me go.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone @rhymerhymerhyme  @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl @obsidianlaszlo @alindeluce @zemosimp05 @baronesszemo-blackwood @nocapesdahling

[bruhlsbees]

bloodlust ; 1/2 || vampire!laszlo kreizler x fem!human!reader

summary: after a cut to the hand, you finally accept the truth of who dr. kreizler really is

pairing: vampire!laszlo kreizler x fem!human!reader

warning: dark!laszlo, biting of flesh, blood, minors dni, 18+

a/n: the format might be a little messy as i wrote this in the car on my phone but i hope you enjoy the first part of my vampire!laszlo fic!!!

You tried so desperately to avoid him, not wanting him to catch you in your current state. You rushed from the courtyard and into the institute, going to your quarters, you held onto your own hand, the blood pooling from your palm and dripping through your fingers and onto your dress, soaking into the grey material.

It was all accidental, cutting your hand so deeply. You had been going after one of the children in the courtyard who had decided that a broken piece of glass was his current interest. You didn’t want him to get hurt and you snatched it away from him, cutting yourself in the process. It was a surprise that his little hand didn’t get cut too, but you didn’t stay long to dwell.

Looking back though, you did find it odd how you endured the cut and he didn’t. Digging deeper, you remembered seeing his eyes darken at the sight of all the blood, his tongue running along the bottom to lick his lips. You thought it was just the sight of blood that made him queasy, but soon you’d find out it was something much more sinister.

While managing to avoid more people than expected, you snuck into your room and shut the door, latching the lock behind you before going into your tiny bathroom, holding your hand under the faucet of the sink while you turned the water on, letting the icy water hit your wound to stop the bleeding.

You let out a hiss at the coolness of the water, your hand pulling back briefly to adjust for a moment before returning under the faucet. Even with the harder water pressure, the blood from your hand didn’t seem to stop. It worried you, would you have to seek higher medical attention?

It wasn’t like you didn’t know how to stitch a wound, it was stitching your own wound that troubled you. The feeling of your own pain made you queasy, light-headed. Bending down to look under the sink, you pulled out your small medical kit, opening it up to find some bandage for your palm. Once you found the roll, it didn’t take long for you to bind your hand.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, you made your way to your dresser, pulling out a clean dress to wear instead of your ruined one. You found it difficult to undress and redress yourself with one hand, huffing in frustration as you pulled your nightgown over your head. It was thin, able to see your figure underneath - the pinks of your nipples hardening and poking through the material.

It was getting darker out, meaning that Mrs. Gorenko would be taking the children to bed soon. You could retire to your room for the evening, so perhaps it worked out not being able to properly dress yourself, as you had no reason to.

The sudden knock at the door made you jump, turning and looking towards your locked door before moving towards it, grabbing your robe from the back of your chair and wrapping it around you. “Just a minute!”

You unlatched the deadbolt and twisted the handle, opening the door to see Dr. Kreizler standing outside of your door, a frown on his face.

“Oh, good evening, Doctor. What can I do for you? Please, come in.” You suddenly felt embarrassed, having essentially your boss see you in your nightgown. You wrapped the robe tighter around you, holding the front of it shut with your hand, your cheeks pink, “I do apologize, I ruined my dress not too long ago and and decided to simply retire to bed early this evening.”

Stepping beside you, Dr. Kreizler made his way into your room, standing near your desk that was beside the bathroom. You weren’t sure what he was thinking, or wanting, but for some reason you felt compelled to shut the door after him. When he heard the door click and watched you turn to face him, he caught sight of the bandage around your left hand, pointing to it.

“What’s this?” He questioned, motioning towards your hand. He looked at you for consent, nodding back as you nodded at him before crossing his left arm over him to grab your hand. He flipped it over so the palm was facing up before he sloppily began to untie the bandage.

“Doctor! It’s not yet healed, it’s rather mes-”

But he didn’t care. In fact, Kreizler was blood lusted over the sight. You noticed that his expression faltered into the same one as the boy who had the piece of glass in his hand from earlier. His darker eyes seemed to grow even darker, his mouth falling open, his pink tongue poking out to run over his lips.

You were confused at his expression, unable to point out what his gaze meant. His head dipped down, your hand pulling closer to him, until you felt his tongue run along the cut on your palm, licking the blood that dripped. Your mouth fell open, going to ask him what he was doing, but the only thing that escaped your throat was the gasp when you felt his canines sink into your palm.

They felt sharper than you had expected. Although, you hadn’t ever been bit by a grown man before. You imagined canine teeth were duller, but these felt sharp, like having a pair of scissors nick into your flesh. The initial pain from his bite soothed quickly into a low burning, however there was this pleasure inside of you building up from it.

As you watched him, you noticed his eyes staring up at you as he sucked at your palm, his moans vibrating off of your hand and down your spine. You let out your own moan, causing Kreizler to form a smirk against your palm, although it wasn’t entirely in pleasure, but more fear.

“Doctor, I- what are you doing?” You finally mustered up to ask, your eyes glazing over with tears. You tried to pull your hand away from him, but his grip only tightened, this time, a whimper escaping.

He pulled away from your palm with a ‘pop’, blood staining his beard and turning his pearly white teeth red, a sigh escaping his lips.

“My dear, you taste devine.” He admitted, licking his lips and catching as himself with a laugh as his eyes began to roll into the back of his head. He was drunk on your sweet blood, taking everything inside of him to not turn you into one of them there and now. Then again, your blood was so sweet, it’d be hard to not just drink you dry.

You stumbled back once his grip on your hand loosened, bringing your hand to your chest, ignoring the blood that dripped down your arm and onto the front of your white nightgown, now exposed. You felt your heartbeat in your ears, pounding as you suddenly became weary with Dr. Kreizler being in your room.

“Doctor, I’m tired, perhaps you should le-”

“Come now, don’t be shy now.” He took a step forward and when you took one back, you felt your back hit the door, a laugh escaping his lips. “I do enjoy this fear that is radiating off of you. Makes it even more fun to drink from.”

When he teasingly chomped your way, he seemed to find the playful behavior funny, although you didn’t find it funny at all. He sensed your growing annoyance, mixing in with the fear that already settled in. He took one final step closer to you, moving the robe off your shoulders and letting it fall to the ground around you. His fingers ran down your bare arms, smirking to himself as the cold air hit your skin, goosebumps rising.

“I could just eat you up...and perhaps I will. Would you like that? Mark you up and leave you until you are begging for the sweet release of death? Is that what you’d like?” He enjoyed hearing you whimper, shaking in his grasp until the sudden switch of desperation filled you.

You didn’t know for long now, but you did. The idea of him being a vampire still confused you, unfamiliar with the truth to it all, but the immortality aspect, that was what drew you in. That was why you were there in the first place, your obsession with death yet the immense fear of it as well that led you into your hysteria. You weren’t perfect, you had your flaws, and that’s why you were at the Kreizler Institute.

“I’m your doctor, you know...I know what you crave, what you fear. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to realize what I really am. Or perhaps you always have, and you just told yourself a lie to help you sleep at night. Although, I do find it quite sweet, how pathetically oblivious you are to your surroundings.”

You felt his left hand move to your jaw, tilting your head to the side to stretch your neck, exposing the smooth flesh, his weak hand slacked at his side. He hummed at the sight, his eyelids drooping down partially as he leaned his face forward, pressing his nose to your neck as he inhaled. He smiled against your skin when he felt you lean into him, one hand at his coat, the other on his wrist, keeping him tight against you.

“Please...Doctor, I-I don’t want to die. Let me live forever,” You begged, whimpering when you felt his beard tickle your neck. “Let me live with you forever.”

He didn’t know whether it was you begging for him to simply turn you or the fact that you wished to live with him specifically forever. Either way, it was enough to send the man into a frenzy, grabbing the back of your neck suddenly to let his fangs sink into you.

It all happened so suddenly, but the pain that came with it was unbearable. You let out a gasp and began to wither in his grip, trying to pull away from him as your vision went spotty, your head spinning and your legs shaking. It felt like you were going to throw up, but you didn’t have to at the same time.

“D-Doctor…”

He didn’t hear your weak pleads with him, your body slacking in his touch as he drank from you deeply. Kreizler couldn’t contain his thirst at this point, his mouth filling quickly with your blood before swallowing deeply, feeding off of you until his stomach began to ache, signaling that it was time to stop before you died rather than change.

When he pulled away, forcing your neck off of him, he stumbled back, gasping for air as his face specked with your blood. He didn’t mean to be so selfish, but when he finished feeding he forgot about your state entirely, leaning against your bedpost while you fell to the floor, lying unconscious in front of him.

He was gasping to try and regain his balance, frowning at the sight of you on the ground. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to lift you, given his arm, so he stayed and sat in your room until you were awake.

Kreizler fell back onto the foot of your bed, pulling out his handkerchief from the inside of his coat pocket before beginning to dab your blood from him, cleaning himself up as he waited for you to awake in your new state.

As a new fledgling, he knew you would be starving, hungry for a thirst like no other. He remembered when he first turned, the burning sensation in his throat as he begged his master for help. He wouldn’t be cruel to you though, no, he would be patient and guide you through this as his new lady of the evening.

Time passed on and you soon woke up, groaning as you rolled from your side and more onto your stomach, the pain in your neck throbbing as you blinked awake, staring ahead at the door in front of you.

Your memory was foggy, not remembering much that could explain why you were on the floor. You also began to notice the sour taste in your mouth, how your throat bubbled and tightened, craving something you never craved before.

“Ah, so she’s finally awake.”

You jumped at the voice behind you, although your body seemed to be frozen to the ground. Your eyes flickered side to side, desperately trying to think of a way to sit up. You pressed your good palm to the floor and slowly pushed yourself up, turning to look behind you.

And then it all came back to you. The cut on your palm, Dr. Kreizler coming in, the bite on your neck. Did what you think happened finally happen?

With a shaky hand, you reached up and felt the bite mark on your neck, your fingers skimming the wound as you looked up ahead at him, eyes widened. He smirked almost proudly at what he had done to you, extending his hand out to you.

“Come, you must be starving. We need to get you something to eat.”

You didn’t want to take his hand, but you felt almost compelled to. And with his help you stood, regaining your balance before looking up at him. He guided you out of your room, ignoring the sudden protests coming from you as you tried to cover yourself more.

As you continued throughout the halls, defending down step after step until you reached the door to the basement, something told you that what you were about to eat wasn’t exactly food.

[0ghostwriter0]

Nothing More | Laszlo Kreizler

MASTERLIST

Pairings: Dr Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

Summary: Dr Kreizler has made a choice but was it the wrong time. (no Mary in this Au)

Words: Too many to count

Warnings: Karen Stratton? Is that a warning in itself?

The distance seemed stupid to miss. While Dr Kreizler was only at sat at the table, the empty space between you suffocated the warmth that once joined you together. After the retrieval of the Vanderbilt baby, Laszlo was different it was like a switch had been flipped. Despite the whispers, you pushed away the idea that Laszlo had given up on you. His meetings with Prof. Stratton felt like a kick in the teeth but in your mind it was simply a meeting between colleagues.

As you stood from your position on the floor, you were leaving the corner of safety- supported by the knowledge of the bookshelves- to venture into the unknown. He knew by your inability to focus on one spot in the room that he was about to lose everything. you dropped your feet in front of Laszlo without a moment's thought and everything changed. The tears that threaten to flood the room broke past the gates.

"Y/N" he whispered not wanting to look at the fresh tears that began to stain your face.

"I don't want to listen to them. the rumours that you are leaving this all behind to follow h- but I need you to tell me if it's true." your words rushed from your mouth before you mind could reel them back.

"Y/N I have de-" you cut through his words with one sharp snap.

"No. your giving this up- your institute? Or is this because of m- You told me you would wait for me" you reached out to hold his right hand. He jolted away from you and stood abruptly from his seat. You almost fell apart at the sight of his recall from you but perhaps the density of the air around you sung songs of hurt.

"and when would you be ready? Because I have been a patient man and anyone in my position would move on; I'm tired of waiting; its all I ever do at present." His words cut like a knife, slicing off a piece of your heart. But there it was, his admission that despite the reassurance he had found someone else to consume his thoughts like you did. However, you were not surprised but his reaction. The alienist was often impatient and direct but never with you. Over the years of, some would call, companionship, you'd seen Las snap at the slow work of John or the tedious wait for his next appointment with parents who were most definitely later than arranged.

"I wish Professor Stratton and yourself all the best for whatever the future may hold" As you spoke, you knew that you shouldn't fight for a man who's heart lies elsewhere. So your plan b became your only option. Reaching into the confines of your skirt pocket, you withdrew a detailed letter addressed to the head of The Kreizler Institute.

"Y/N/N" his words sent chills down your spine but your abrupt movement to place the letter in front of Laszlo removed the warmth that only radiated between you both.

"From this moment forth, I believe it is appropriate to use formalities rather than niceties. Once you read that there parchment, you'll have no use for my service within the institute so I'll remove myself before that moment." Las' face dropped as he understood this would be the final time you would be in his life in such a permeant manner. You were resigning - leaving him. But he left you first.

You feet dragged you from the very air he breathed as you left this life behind. Once the close colleague and friend, who aided the progression of children, you became the stranger who muttered educated conundrums to the council once again. Jobless and heartbroken, you would now admit that you were lost in New York.

However, Kreizler sat in shock from the events that unfolded before him. Yes it were his actions which had caused your departure but now nothing stood of your relationship, not in a professional manner as colleague and certainly not your mutual romantic interest. He was a man of many things but he was not one who took well to speaking of his feelings.

Five months prior,

After three years of dancing around a friendship to avoid confrontation, Laszlo had been rather blunt with his address of the progression of your involvement together. He'd opened that can of worms when he requested that you resigned in order to pursue a romantic interest in your life. However, his request was met with refusal as you said and quote

"If you'd never asked to lend a hand here in order to keep me close rather than requested to start a friendship, then right now I would jump at the prospects of courting but I cannot abandon my position here at the drop of a hat. I waited for years for you to admit something before I became to deeply involved with this institute. If a courtship is something you desire, then I must beg that you will allow me the time to wrap my head around the subject."

A nod from the doctor was the end of that conversation and since the topic had not been breached. You had feared it was a spur of the moment conversation in suspicion that a woman was to be hung the following day. Perhaps it was a conversation which had eaten at Laszlo's mind as much as your own. Then Professor Stratton offered a spark of interest to dispose you from his mind. One which any intellectual would take as a sign of development and a future. The Kreizler doctor had never been like everyone else which made this moment sting more than one would be inclined to expect.

So now, you walk alone to a rented room in an apartment which you'd be sure to leave as soon as you found a new place to start again. No matter how much you prayed, you knew deep down that Dr. Kreizler was not the man who would run after you. But regardless of what happened today, you were always going to resign whether it was to finally accept his proposal of courtship or to leave with a broken heart. Nothing more would come of your time together.

or so you thought ...

click here for part two

[somethingthatsaysbubbles]

THE RIPPING CASE OF MS. DELIA RODWICK | Chapter One: The Water Lily Room

CHAPTER WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Mentions of Prostitution. Stage Names. Smoking (Cigars). Drinking (Champagne). Choking (The Non-Sexual Kind). Nonconsensual Touches/Workplace Harassment.

Word Count: ~3K

Fandom: The Alienist

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x AFAB GN!Reader

A/N: The reader is referred to only by their stage name in this chapter, but (Y/N) will be implemented in the future. In this chapter, the reader wears period-accurate, assumed-feminine clothing. I apologize for any historical inaccuracies. If you catch a typo or would like to be added to the taglist, let me know. Enjoy!

Masterpost

It was mid-winter when you met the infamous Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. Of course, you’d heard his name before—whispered over the rims of teacups and newspapers while you went about your daily errands. Just last year, the alienist solved a series of boy murders with the help of Mr. John Moore, an illustrator for The New York Times, and Ms. Sara Howard, the first woman to hold a position of authority within the New York Police Department. Everyone knew their names, but not everyone regarded those names favorably.

“An alienist solvin’ a murder of all things? I doubt tha,” your manager—a slimy, little man by the name of Mr. Wesley Sinclair—chortled over a cigar stub. “Probably got in the way more than he helped!” His eyes burned amid the acrid smoke that filled his office; he coughed, snuffing out his cigar in the ash-tray on his desk. “Godless bastard,” he mumbled as he handed over your evening wages. “And don’t even get me started on tha woman—”

You didn’t stay around to hear the rest of his rant, pocketing your earnings as quickly as they were in your hand. Though, that was a year ago, and a lot can change in a year. The sun sets. The sun rises. The grass grows. Fair-scented flowers bloom. Wide-eyed children play in rivers and dig their scuffed toes into mud banks and sandy beaches. Beeches and Red Maples blush and lose their leaves to the fluttering, fall wind. Snow blankets the streets of New York City. People die, and you end up in Wesley’s office again—tugging on a pair of opera-length, white, satin gloves while he laughs around the smoldering butt of another cigar. 

“Shoulda seen the look on tha poor man’s face!” Wesley howled, nearly falling out of his chair. He counted out bills and coins from the night’s performances with gusto. “Looked so pale, I thought he’d keel over!” 

You didn’t know who your manager was talking about. All you knew was that someone paid for a private dance with you on the behalf of a friend, and—according to Wesley—the friend was fresh to your line of work. Though, that mattered little to you. What did matter was that both clients left enough of an impression on your boss to make him break his one cardinal rule: no overtime. 

“Know you’re supposed to leave, but he was in a hurry to talk to ya,” Wesley said, tying off a few bundles of bills with a shrug. Private dances weren’t uncommon, but performing after hours was another matter entirely. Wesley was a snake, but he was a snake who adhered to a strict business plan that involved private dances being booked weeks in advance.

You laced your fingers together, resisting the urge to crack your knuckles as you replied, “Money’s money.” 

Wesley winked before handing over your evening’s earnings. Your stomach writhed, and you caught your tongue between your teeth—biting back the bile. Any other night, and you’d believe what you told your boss. Maybe, you’d even be excited by the prospect of a little extra cash in your bank account, but—as it stood—your smile was never more fake than when you were on stage just an hour ago—half-naked and straddling a carousel, rocking-horse.

Wesley knew. Of course, he did. He watched you fight to line your eyes with coal between bouts of nausea. He read the papers; he saw the headline. “Another Prostitute Found Dead!” Prostitute. As if that was all she was...

Any other night, you’d have gladly worked for the extra pay that a private dance afforded you, but you were in mourning—not that your loss mattered to Mr. Sinclair or the patrons of Bellerose. Wesley was a businessman first and a man of honor, a friend, second; you would dance when he wanted, where he wanted, and for whom he wanted. He had no patience for your grieving, but—at least—he recognized that you were an investment that he needed to protect. 

“Mr. Clayton will be stayin’ behind to take care of our client should his hands wander too far.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I appreciate your consideration.”

Wesley smiled and stood, snuffing out his cigar as rounded his desk. He walked past you and opened the door to his office with a flourish of cold, mechanical chivalry. “Think nothin’ of it! Just make him a repeat customer, understand?”

You smiled. It didn’t reach your eyes. “Of course, Mr. Sinclair. You know better than anyone that I never disappoint.” Wesley’s roaring laughter echoed down the barely-lit, backstage hallway.

“That’s my Angel!” If your boss noticed you flinch when his hand connected with your backside on your way out the door, he said nothing. “Knock ‘em dead!” Wesley closed the door behind you with enough force to shake the picture frames that lined the walls outside. They were photos of dancers long retired, their feathered boas and fans keeping their unmarred flesh safe from the camera flash—a luxury people like your dead friend, the prostitute, were not afforded. When you saw her photo in the morning issue of The Times, you tried to convince yourself that she was still alive—her bruised eyelids heavy with sleep.

The newspaper made a mistake, you told yourself. She isn’t dead. She can’t be. You drifted listlessly down the hallway like mist over the coast while your thoughts wandered to your friend. She isn’t dead. She’s just sick, you said to yourself. That’s why she hasn’t called me.

“—Angel!” You inhaled sharply as a man’s voice snapped you out of your daze. You blinked, finding yourself standing at your vanity in Bellerose’s communal dressing room. Mr. Clayton stood behind you—one wild, copper eyebrow raised in concern over the shoulder of your reflection. 

“Sorry, Mr. Clayton, my mind was elsewhere.” You forced a grin and turned to address the soft-spoken bodyguard. “Was there something you needed?”

His lips twitched in return—a sad, pitying sort of smile. You hated it. “How many times do I have to ask you to c-call me Augustus?”

You sighed, a huff of laughter passing between your teeth as you leaned against your vanity. “Right. Augustus.” Your eyes roamed down his body—taking in the simple, threadbare outfit he wore: brown trousers, suspenders, and a white, button-up. His sleeves were bunched haphazardly around his elbows. Mr. Clayton was Mr. Sinclair’s hired muscle, and they were complete opposites. Where Mr. Sinclair was crass and disgustingly boisterous, Mr Clayton was kind and quietly protective. His only failings were found in his hygiene; his breath smelled of rotten tuna, and—without fail—he looked like he worked in a coal mine rather than in a burlesque club. “Apologies,” you said as you turned your back to him—pulling out your makeup case. Your fingers moved swiftly as you touched up your rouge, ready for this night to be over. “I have a private show to prepare for.”

Augustus blushed and slid his thumbs under his suspender straps, fiddling with them nervously. “Of c-course. I c—” You smiled fondly as his stutter caught on the hard “c” of whatever he was trying to say. He cleared his throat a few times before continuing, his eyes downcast. “—c-came to tell you that your c-client is waiting in The Water Lily Room. I’ll be stationed outside should you need anything.”

Placing your rouge back into your bag, you pulled out a tube of ruby red lipstick. “Thank you, Augustus. I’m sorry that Mr. Sinclair is making you stay out so late.”

“Some lack-ck of sleep is a small price to pay for your safety.” You said nothing in response as you slid off your gloves, using the tip of your pinky to pigment your lips. Mr Clayton’s gaze focused on his shoes, burning holes into the floor under his feet. “Will you need assistance getting into c-costume?” 

“Fortunately not.” You tossed your lipstick back into your bag and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe off your hands. Spinning on your heel, you pulled on your gloves and gestured to your outfit: a royal blue evening gown with sheer, layered frills wrapping around your chest and upper arms. Your shoulders and neck were bare save for a simple, pearl choker. “I’ll be wearing this.”

Augustus’ gaze flicked up from the floor to roam the folds of your dress. “Exquisite,” he whispered, and you smiled your first genuine smile of the evening as you stowed away the rest of your belongings. You wanted to be able to leave as soon as your dance was over. 

Not a minute more than necessary.

“The Water Lily Room,” you asked, already headed in that direction. Augustus tripped over himself to keep up with you.

“Yes! Though, you should know—”

“—that the man’s likely never seen a burlesque dancer up close before? Mr. Sinclair made that abundantly clear in his office.” 

Mr. Clayton snorted, keeping stride with you. Your heels thumped mutedly against the carpet as you hurried toward your destination. “No. Well, yes. What I was going to say was—”

You stopped abruptly outside the door to The Water Lily Room and interrupted your bodyguard with a hushed whisper, “Are my fans in the room?” Augustus’ cheeks turned red as he floundered under the authority in your voice.

“Yes. Behind the chaise, as always. I wasn’t sure which ones you wanted, but Mr. Sinc-clair suggested the white, ostrich—”

“—Perfect. Robe?”

“Silk-k. Hung up by the door.”

“Music?”

“I thought George Gask-kin would be a good choice?”

A teasing smirk overtook your lips as you fell into character. “I would have preferred John McCormack.” Augustus winced playfully. “Candles?”

“Lit and placed to your preferences. Though, I will never understand why you prefer c-candles over elec-ctric-c lights—”

“—candles,” you purred, “are always better to worship by.” You took a deep breath, setting your hand on the doorknob with practiced grace. Every movement of every finger was meticulous and confident. “Remember that, Mr. Clayton.” With a wink, you pulled open the door and slipped into your performance as easily as white ribbon through a child’s hair.

The Water Lily Room was sparse in contrast to the Bellerose’s other private rooms; however, it was one of your favorites despite its lack of a miniature stage complete with red, velvet curtains and an aerial hoop. It was aptly named after a large, watercolor portrait of a lily-infested pond that took up the entirety of the room’s back wall. What the room lacked in grandeur, it made up for in intimacy. It was just spacious enough to host a white velvet, tufted chaise lounge; a gramophone; a glass bar cart; and a cream, spoon-backed armchair. The walls were a deep, dark oak engraved with twisting cutouts of ivy that reached for the rich, royal blue ceiling. A soft, cloud-like rug embraced the wood-paneled floor, and an open bottle of Champagne Doux sat on the bar cart—sweating alongside two empty flutes. 

However, the room’s well-considered finery paled in comparison to the man you found sitting statuesque in the armchair across from you. His hands were held tight to his body, his heels kissing each other in their leather shoes, and his knees were spread wide—waiting for you. He had money; you were trained well enough to know that just by looking at his brown, slicked-back hair—his green-tinted, suit jacket—his trim, tailored waistcoat—his crisp, white collared shirt, and the wooden cane that sat at his side. The man’s affluent appearance was not new or surprising; most of your customers were men with money or men who pretended they were men with money. What set this man apart from your previous clients was the way his hands tensed as soon as you entered the room—his eyes dilating with fear, not arousal. Damn, Wesley wasn’t joking. 

“Evening,” you said, your voice just cresting the cadence of a whisper. You crossed the room languidly, endeavoring to not frighten the poor man further as you held out your hand. “I believe you requested a private dance?” Your client blinked owlishly as you slid your fingers against the bare palm of his right hand. You gripped him gently, allowing him the opportunity to pull away whenever he desired. Giving him your most dazzling smile, you introduced yourself. “I am Angel de Beauchene.”

As your stage name left your mouth, a change eclipsed your client’s face. His eyes narrowed appraisingly, and his mouth set into a thin, serious line. He gripped your hand weakly in return, his voice dancing within the careful caress of a growling accent. German? 

“Dr. Laszlo Kreizler.” 

Your chest tightened, and your eyebrows raised of their own accord. “Dr. Kreizler,” you said with a nod, your smile dimming dumbfoundedly. You plucked your hand from his with purpose, doing your best to ignore the warmth that spread from his palm to yours as an onslaught of graphic, gorey newspaper headlines overwhelmed your mind. Turning on your heel, you walked to the bar cart—filling the two flutes with champagne. “You’re an alienist, correct?” “You know me?” It was not a question.

“I only know what The Times and Journal have told me,” you replied, letting your feet carry you back to your client. “Do you drink, Dr. Kreizler?”

He held out his left hand. “Yes, if you don’t mind.” You passed him one of the flutes, an easy smile resituating itself on your face. 

Is he left-handed then? That would explain the handshake.

“If I minded,” you teased, “I would not have offered.” The rim of your glass clinked against his before you took a long, savoring sip. The corner of Dr. Kreizler’s lips tilted up in interest as he mirrored your movements, and you bit your tongue—suppressing a giggle as his smile dipped in displeasure. He forced himself to swallow. “Is the champagne not to your satisfaction, Dr. Kreizler?”

The good doctor cleared his throat, schooling his expression into one of soft indifference. “It’s very sweet.”

“I prefer sweet,” you purred, drifting over to the room’s gramophone. “I take it, you prefer a nice, dry red then?”

“You would be correct.” 

“I usually am.” You smirked around another gulp of champagne, winding up the gramophone. A George Gaskin record waited patiently on the turntable. “Though, I will admit I’m rather intrigued by you, Dr. Kreizler.” Punctuating your wonder with more sparkling wine, you switched on the turntable with an effortless flick of your wrist. “I did not expect an accomplished alienist such as yourself to seek out my services.”

“Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t,” he replied—the warm, rumbling timbre of his voice coaxing a wave of goosebumps to the surface of your skin. “Your manager was adamant in making my friend and I pay for a private dance in order to speak with you this evening.”

You laughed and downed the rest of your drink, placing the lipstick-stained glass back on the bar cart. “What was so important that you elected to take Mr. Sinclair up on his offer?” Your gloved fingers slid over the gramophone’s tone arm, lifting the needle into place. 

“I need to ask you a few questions regarding the recent murder of Ms. Delia Rodwick.” 

Silence. 

Your hand hovered, gripping the tone arm tightly as the doctor’s assertion—said so easily, too easily—rattled around your mind. A hard lump of dread bled down the back of your throat. You caught your rapidly plummeting heart just before it sank into your stomach; tears welled up behind your eyes. With a deep, measured breath, you swallowed the memory of Delia’s cheerful, chirping laughter and shoved your teasing performer’s persona back into place. The needle met Gaskin’s record, and the twinkling notes of a piano twirled around the room. 

“Ms. Delia Rodwick,” you whispered, swaying smoothly to the music—moving through the beginnings of your dance like a ghost. “Ms. Rodwick was my dearest friend.” Letting your right hand fall to your waist, you swept it up the side of your bodice; your fingers disappeared from the doctor’s view before embracing the curve of your neck. “I’ll answer any questions you have.” Following your veins, your fingertips pressed into the dip behind your jaw, and you tilted your head to the side—fastening a gloved finger between your teeth. Without moving your mouth, you slid your arm out of its glove, and—behind you—the good doctor choked on his champagne.

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Read it on AO3!

[Next Chapter]

[cazzyvintage]

Hello dear,

I know you get a lot of asks, but I’d really appreciate headcanons about Lazlo where the reader maybe gets sick and scared about their future?

Whenever you have time that would be lovely.

Thank you and have a wonderful day!

- You were sure it was nothing. It was just a simple cough. These times of years everyone had them, plus what was to be expected when you lived in a city such as New York? It wasn't like the fresh air you got in the countryside. People believed it was to do with all the factories, pumping out all the smoke which you breathed in. But people grew up and lived long lives into their 60's so you were sure the factories were not causing that much harm. The cough would go away after a week.

- Yet it didn't. The cough grew worse as it lasted through the weeks to the point where you felt like you were going to cough out your insides. You worked at the institute as a Marton, helping look after the children there but when your cough grew worse you informed Dr. Kreizler you were going to have to take some time off work till it got better, as not to infect the children.

- And there you were weeks later, lying on your bed barely able to get up to make some breakfast for you, a mound of tissues to the side of you. Weakly you groaned as you heard the sound of someone knocking upon your door. Cautiously you managed to prise yourself off the bed and holding onto the walls and bannisters you pulled yourself downstairs to the door. Opening it up your drowsy eyes opened in the shock as you were welcomed to the sight of Laszlo standing before the door.

- As he looked you over his eyes widened as well, "my god y/n" he exclaimed, "you look awful" "and a charming evening to you Dr. Kreizler" you croak out. Even though he was your boss and you had to be polite with him, you truly were not in the mood to deal with any of this.

- "Why aren't you are the hospital?" Laszlo muttered. "It's a cold, I'm not going to the hospital for a cold" you groan but quickly pushing your hand to your mouth as you felt another unrest of coughs come on. You doubled over, stumbling back as not to cough in the vicinity of Laszlo but he quickly approached you, placing his hand on your back as he tried to help you.

- "I'm fine" you manage to gasp out after the coughs ended but Laszlo clicked his teeth in dissatisfaction. "You are far from okay y/n, I only stopped by to inquire as to how long you would be away but it's become abundantly clear you will not be back for some time. Now I insist if you are determined not to go to an appropriate hospital, you are to accompany me back to my house so I can keep a careful eye upon your condition" you gawked at Laszlo in surprise, your mouth moving wordlessly for a moment, "Laszlo I couldn't impose-" "Nonsense. it's the least I can do for all the hours you have dedicated to looking after the children at the institute."

- Your memory was quite hazy and you weren't really sure how you managed to get from there to riding in his calash to lying on his spare bed as he hovered over you, placing the back of his hand upon your forehead. He murmured to himself and you were unsure if he wanted to hear what you were saying or not.

- You drifted in and out of consciousness for the next day, barely registering your surroundings. At this point, you feared the worst. Often when people came down with illnesses like this, they didn't survive. Mostly it was the young or the frail who subcommand to these sorts of things but people like you could as well, it just happened to be rarer. You felt fear swarming over you as you thought about your life and suddenly everything seemed so dull. Your life, it had no excitement to it. Rather you were living as you were told to rather than living for the hell of it. As you reflected back you found you had no fond memories that you could remember to reminisce on, rather the same boring ritual again and again. You grew upset about the future you would miss out on, a first miss, a marriage, kids. Things that seemed so pointless then seem so prevalent for you now.

- What you weren't aware of was in your haze you would mutter your worries and distress out loud, and Laszlo who had taken up the position of staying beside you frequently watched you in pity and concern. He tried his best to bring you comfort. Applying a cold wet cloth to your burning forehead, attempting to feed you medication and reassuring you though he doubted you could understand him.

- The next day, however, things seemed to be taking a good turn. You woke up to find your head hurting less, your vision was less blurred and while your throat was still saw from all the coughing you did, you didn't feel a striking cough coming on. Eventually you were able to sit up in bed slightly and take in the look of the room. You startled in hearing the knob on the door turn and more so when Laszlo appeared attempting to push the door open while also holding a bowl in the same hand. He didn't seem not to notice your state at first but when he finally was able to get through the door to look at you, a smile appeared on his face.

- Laszlo had prepared you a traditional Hungarian soup dish that his ma used to make. He assured you that it would help soothe your throat from all the coughing and you couldn't be more thankful to him. "I grew worrisome at one point" he murmured to you as you finished the soup, "I was afraid you might not make it the night" you paused to look at him, not knowing what to say but then his eyes glanced up to you and he put on his smile again, "But with your strength, you were able to pull through, and you'll only get better from here"

- When you were feeling even better Laszlo hesitantly informed you of what you had been saying in your faze and instantly you were blushing like mad apologising for anything you said but Laszlo brushed the apologies away. "I understand your concerns. Often one can feel like they are simply repeating the same day again and again without truly experiencing all that life was meant for us. It's the feeling of living every day like it was the last"

- Hesitantly, you asked Laszlo if you had said anything else and to your horror, you had mumbled about not finding a partner in life. "But rest assured dear y/n, a person like you, of strong character and grace will undoubtingly find the partner that you desire"

- And Laszlo had a little sparkle of hope for who that could be.

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[aion-rsa]

Vampire Movies’ Favorite Big City Hot Spots

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New York, London, Paris, Munich, everybody talks about, um, Count Orlok? Yes, vampires are everywhere. Movies have documented them in tall mountains, small towns, icy landscapes, and in the desert wind. But why rough it in remote locations when you can enjoy all the discomfort of a torn throat in the hustle and bustle of a big city where help and danger are equidistant at all times. Netflix recently set its vampire turf war film, Night Teeth, in the neon nightlife of Los Angeles. They’d also staked out the boogie down Grand Concourse with their teen screamer Vampires vs. the Bronx.

Films and TV have done a lot to change the face of our bloodsucking neighbors. HBO’s True Blood gave them a coming out party in the Louisiana backwoods, and FX’s What We Do in the Shadows reminds us weekly about just how similar we all are. Seriously, wouldn’t you rather have your neck bitten by a vampire than your ass grabbed by a Times Square Elmo? The tourism board of Romania reshaped the bloodsucking legend of Vlad the Impaler, rebranding the scourge of the country to his original place as his nation’s hero. As Count Dracula, played by George Hamilton, said in Love at First Bite (1979), “Without me, Transylvania will be as exciting as Bucharest… on a Monday night.”

So let’s check out the hot locales Dracula and his buddies have sunk their teeth into while away from home.

New York

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” Bauhaus performed during their set in the opening scene in The Hunger. While that particular scene was shot at the Heaven Nightclub on Villiers Street in Charing Cross, and most of the movie was filmed in London, the bulk of the story was set in Manhattan. Based on a book by Whitley Streiber, the film follows the exquisitely sanguinary Miriam (Catherine Deneuve), who has been around since the days of ancient Egypt, and John (David Bowie), who she vampirized in 18th century France. Together the pair cruise New York nightclubs in a quest to stay young, hip, and satisfied.  “Nothing human loves forever,” the film promised, and as John suddenly begins rapidly aging, he seeks the help of scientist Dr. Sarah Roberts (Susan Sarandon). New York really does have some of the best doctors, but it is a cutthroat business.

As sophisticated as they are, Miriam and John don’t appear to venture below 14th Street. The pair reside in an impossibly large apartment on the Upper West Side, near Central Park, while the clinic is on Sutton Place. The Addiction (1995), by director Abel Ferrera, was shot on location in Greenwich Village and on the New York University campus, capturing the downtown grit of mid-90s heroin chic. Christopher Walken’s vampire Peina may have found the bloodsuckers’ methadone, but Casanova (Annabel Sciorra) and her newly hooked best fiend forever Kathleen Conklin (Lili Taylor) prefer to mainline the pure stuff. As does Sam, the alcoholic vampire played by director and writer Larry Fessenden in Habit, also set in a seedy Lower Manhattan.

Meanwhile Eddie Murphy leads the bridge-and-tunnel crowd to the boroughs in Vampire in Brooklyn (1995), directed by Wes Craven. His Maximillian is the last vampire on Earth, and can only replenish his supply with the blood of a dhampir, a daughter of a human and a vampire. The mix is even better when it comes in the form of a New York City Police detective, Angela Bassett’s Rita Veder.

But you need to take the ferry if you want to visit the vampires on What We Do in the Shadows. Not only is that where Nandor, Nadja, Laszlo, Colin Robinson, and their familiar/bodyguard Guillermo live their undead lives, but where they work, rule, and occasionally expire. The office of the ancient Vampiric Council is also on Staten Island.

London

For vampire fans, London is best known as the city where Count Dracula set-up his coffin after the long rat-infested voyage from his native Transylvania, but it is also the setting of the most frightening early horror films ever lost to time. Tod Browning’s 1927 silent mystery film London After Midnight, also called The Hypnotist, starred Lon Chaney as the Man in the Beaver Hat. He leads Scotland Yard through a world of smoke, mirrors, and floating vampire women with lethal smiles. All is not what it seems, though it is exactly as planned.

In Dracula A.D. 1972 (1972), the count gets down on swinging London. While he just misses the spectral heyday depicted in Last Night in Soho, the mods are also thrilled to go down for the count. It was the fifth sequel to Horror of Dracula, and the liberated early 1970s youth throws the venerated Christopher Lee an orgy of a party. One which his most trusted nemesis, Peter Cushing’s Van Helsing, feels the need to crash.

Bela Lugosi’s Count Dracula hit London during a romantic age, and The Wisdom of Crocodiles (1998), directed by Po-Chih Leong, is a vampire-of-London rom-com. It stars Jude Law as Steven. He loves Chinese takeout, has no trouble going out during the day, and wants to settle down. He’s left a trail of bloodless corpses behind him, and is looking for someone who can look past all that. Elina Löwensohn’s Anne, who enthusiastically embraced her inner vampire in Nadja, resists the allure here. Maybe if Steven raised a boombox over his head instead of throttling people with dance moves, it may have worked out?

Paris

Paris is the city of love, the epitome of romance, and a haven of vampirically promiscuous entertainers. In Interview With the Vampire, based on Anne Rice’s 1976 novel, Louis (Brad Pitt) and the eternally young Claudia (Kirsten Dunst) paint the City of Light red. The nightlife of 1870s Paris was also unlike any other. Before the Grand Guignol, Paris hosted The Théâtre des Vampires, which if you think about it, was the invention of dinner theater.

All of France’s finest would come to be entertained as appetizers to a final serving.  Interview With the Vampire also takes place in 1791 New Orleans, which under Napoleonic code, was really Paris, USA. Parts of HBO’s True Blood also took place in and around the Garden district that Anne Rice calls home, although most of the series was set in Bon Temps, Louisiana.

One of the first films of the genre was the French silent crime serial Les Vampires, written and directed by Louis Feuillade. Running 10 episodes from 1915–16, it followed a journalist chasing a story about an underground gang known as The Vampires. Critics at the time found fault with the moral center of the film, but it made quite an impression on directors Alfred Hitchcock, Fritz Lang, and Luis Buñuel. The film captures a wonderful night time world with peek-hole surveillance and mystery a la mode.

Riccardo Freda’s I vampiri (1957) is the first Italian horror film, coming one year before Terence Fisher’s Dracula (1958). It transports the Erzsébet Báthory legend to 1950s Paris and throws in elements of Frankenstein. Shot on a bet, it didn’t pay off at the box office but inspired Mario Bava and Antonio Margheriti to continue the horror tradition.

Los Angeles

Southern California’s most populous city is named after angels, but most of them are dark if the vampire movies which are set there are any indication. Yes, some of the rules of vampirism have to be skirted to accommodate the sunny beach lifestyle. In 1998’s Blade, Eric Brooks (Wesley Snipes) was a daywalking half-vampire.

The Chosen One is a Valley Girl in Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992). High school senior Buffy Summers (Kristy Swanson) leads the cheers at Hemery High School in Los Angeles, but gets the jeers from Merrick (Donald Sutherland), who has been watching, apparently disapprovingly. Directed by Fran Rubel Kuzui, and featuring Rutger Hauer as the blond bombshell of a beachcombing vampire, it fizzled in the sun, but led the way to Joss Whedon’s resurrection with Sarah Michelle Gellar dropping her pom poms for stakes.

Count Yorga, Vampire (1970), written and directed by Bob Kelljan, takes place in the gated mansions of the Southern California hills. Initially envisioned as a soft-core porn film called The Loves of Count Iorga, Donna Anders’ séance-throwing Donna, and Robert Quarry’s Hungarian mystic raise the kundalini without breaking the X-rated barrier. The film captures the erotic overtones of the Laurel Canyon music crowd as well as the shadow of the Manson family murders.

Night Teeth tells the story of a vampire gang war. It presents a lush and colorful underworld with velvet ropes and safe words. But at its heart, LA vibes with the best of the very vicious vampire vacations.

If you go to one of these towns, you might just find something similar to sink your teeth into. Or vice versa.

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The Alienist recap: 'Hildebrandt's Starling'

The Alienist recap: ‘Hildebrandt’s Starling’

The Alienist type TV Show genre Crime Drama, Historical run date 01/22/18 performer Daniel Bruhl, Luke Evans, Dakota Fanning broadcaster TNT seasons 1 Current Status In Season

For weeks, Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s team of supersleuths has been chasing a series of spectres: a man who kills, mutilates, and cannibalizes children. A man whose syphilis treatment has turned his teeth permanently silver.…

[somethingthatsaysbubbles]

THE RIPPING CASE OF MS. DELIA RODWICK | Chapter Three: It’s Cold Outside

WARNINGS BY CHAPTER:  MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Mentions of Prostitution. Stage Names. Explicit Descriptions of Arousal/Genitalia. Masturbation/Mentions of Masturbation. Graphic Descriptions of Gore and Violence. Murder. Corpses. Death. Crime Scenes. Mentions of Blood. Spoilers for Seasons 1 and 2 of The Alienist.

Word Count: ~3.4K

Fandom: The Alienist

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x AFAB GN!Reader

Insert Guide: (E/C) = Eye Color. (Y/N) = Your Name. (Y/L/N) = Your Last Name.

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Thank you so much for all of the love and support! I’m so happy that people are enjoying this. As always, let me know if you catch a typo, missed warning, or you would like to be added to the taglist. In this chapter, the reader wears period-accurate, assumed-masculine clothing. I apologize for any historical inaccuracies. Enjoy!

Masterpost

Neither you nor Dr. Kreizler said a word while you danced, guided by Gaskin’s silver-toned, Irish tenor spinning on the turntable. When the gramophone’s crackling croon came to a close, you continued to sway—the needle skipping over the record. Only the sound of feathers on skin and Dr. Kreizler’s soft, shallow breaths saw you through the rest of your dance. By the end of it, you were sweating—glowing in the glimmering candlelight. A few wild hairs were plastered to your temples, framing your face and dilated pupils. Beneath the cloud-like feathers of your fan, hidden from the doctor’s eyes—your inner thighs were slick with arousal. Your hands ached to touch yourself—to trace along the swollen, trembling parts of you.

Dr. Kreizler didn’t look much better. Halfway through your dance, he crossed his legs—his fingernails carving crescent moons into the arm of his chair. His eyes eclipsed themselves—his pupils swallowing his beautiful, brown irises—a lone, brunette curl falling onto his forehead. His velveteen mouth hung open; his teeth parted to allow the tip of his tongue room to wet his bitten lips. His chest heaved as he panted heavily. The skin of his throat was stained a captivating crimson. It suits him, you mused, marveling over how well he wore it. The good doctor looked downright debauched. You longed to see him laid out on your bed, his obscenely white shirt torn open—his perfect, accented purr moaning for more.

For a moment, all you did was caress each other’s cheeks and lips with half-lidded eyes. You envisioned each other in different stages of undress, different moments of desire. You imagined that it was not the middle of winter; you imagined that what awaited you outside Bellerose was not snowy streets or the crushing weight of your dear Delia’s death. You imagined that Dr. Kreizler was neither a customer nor an alienist sent to solve the murder of another nameless prostitute; you imagined that he was your lover, and you were luminously happy.

Wordlessly, you rose from the lounge where you laid—limp and panting. My robe, you reminded yourself—moving to the door in a daze as you used your fans to hide your body. Grabbing the silk garment, you snuck behind the lounge’s high, swooping back—shielding your lower body from view as you dressed yourself. Dr. Kreizler said nothing as you abandoned your fans on the floor while approaching the gramophone; you moved the skipping needle away from its record with a resigned sigh. It was quiet, too quiet, in the room’s contracting candlelight. Neither of you wished to break the spell you so wondrously weaved about the room, but it was getting late. Mr. Clayton would come knocking at any moment.

“Have I answered all of your questions, Dr. Kreizler,” you whispered, hiding your face from his ever-observant eyes.

He swallowed thickly. “Yes, I—”

“—If I may,” you interjected, your hands trembling on the tie of your robe. “I have a question of my own to ask you.” The good doctor simply nodded, and you felt something in your chest shatter like your mother’s fine china the day you tried to turn your stuffed horse into a Pegasus. Every carefully constructed wall around your heart and soul collapsed; Angel de Beauchene disappeared, and Dr. Kreizler found a frightened child hidden behind your beautiful, (E/C) eyes. “Do you really believe that you’ll catch him...the killer?” You continued before he could answer—your small, scared voice wavering like a flickering flame in a winter wind. “Delia was one of the closest things to family that I had left, and my world is...grey without her in it.” 

You laughed—a wet, wild sound pushing past your teeth. “Though that matters little to most! She was a prostitute, after all; nobody worth mourning.” Gesturing to the door and the world outside The Water Lily Room, you said, “The police didn’t even bother to give her a proper autopsy. Did you know that?” Gasping, Dr. Kreizler’s face blurred as the fear and grief you worked so hard to stow away swallowed you. Your fingernails dug divots into your upper arms as you sobbed. “Will you promise me that you’ll catch him?”

Your legs bowed like tree trunks in a tornado, and your knees hit the floor—a single, shaking hand holding in the horrified screams that tore at your teeth. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s—

A foreign warmth filled the side of your face, and you blinked furiously—a soft, sure pressure dragging along the underside of your eye. Dr. Kreizler kneeled before you, his left hand cupping your cheek—his fingers tracing into the line of your jaw. The good doctor’s thumb wiped away your tears, and the heat of his hand left you grappling for breath. His eyes widened in worry, and you reached your hands up—pressing his palm tighter to your cheek. His skin was so soft, so perfect. You turned your nose in toward his wrist and closed your eyes, weaving your fingers between his. A deep, unbalanced breath rattled Dr. Kreizler’s ribs. “I promise,” he whispered, holding your sorrow in his hand—wondering over the weight of his own actions. 

You moved your mouth to speak, to thank him—to beg him to never take his hands off you. Say something, you screamed at yourself. Anything! 

Before a single sound could leave you in The Water Lily Room’s dwindling light, three brutish bangs shook the door. You flinched, dropping Dr. Kreizler’s hand as if his fingers were on fire. “Just a moment,” you called, your heart hammering inside your chest.

Stifling a sob, you anticipated the good doctor would gather his things and leave you—letting you put yourself to rights in privacy. Any other customer would, but Dr. Kreizler was—as you kept realizing—different from most clients. Using his cane, he hauled himself to his feet before offering you his free hand—his thin, ambiguous smile almost cold in comparison to his earlier gentleness. If it weren’t for the warm worry that swirled inside his wet-earth eyes, you would have believed his kindness was imaginary. Instead, your lungs seized as you recognized your own pain pitied against you in his gaze—keeping you out of his soul like the tall, gothic walls of a cathedral. This isn’t sympathy, you realized. This is empathy. He knew your pain personally, and that sudden, intimate knowledge hurt worse than the death of your dear Delia.

You laid your hand in his, and he grasped it gingerly, helping you to your feet. Who have you lost, Dr. Kreizler? Who hurt you? You ripped your hand away reluctantly, afraid of your desire to draw him close—afraid of your want to be with him—afraid of your need to be near him. You knew that if you let yourself loiter, you’d fall for him. You’d fall for him hard and fast, and you didn’t know if he could catch you or if he would even want to. We’ve only just met. How can I feel this way about a man I just met? 

The plush comfort of Dr. Kreizler’s palm lingered long past the separation of your hands, and—subconsciously—you brought his heat to your sternum, staying it inside your chest.  In the silence, the alienist reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a handkerchief—presenting it to you purposefully. You smiled—soft and uncertain—and took it, cleaning the bleeding kohl from your cheeks. “Mr. Clayton will show you out when you’re ready to leave,” you said, handing back his handkerchief. You paused—watching wide-eyed as the good doctor delicately tucked the small, soiled piece of fabric into his jacket. 

“Thank you,” he replied. Though, you weren’t firmly sure what he was thanking you for. Nevertheless, you nodded and moved toward the door—your hand hovering over the simple, ceramic knob. 

“Dr. Kreizler,” you gulped—turning to meet his gaze. He looked just as lost as you felt. “Stay safe? It’s cold outside.” Wrenching open the door before he could respond, you rushed past Mr. Clayton—the bodyguard’s concerned stutter calling after you. You said nothing, letting your feet lead you to your vanity where you collapsed and cried for reasons which had nothing to do with Delia. 

It was more than a month later—in February—when Dr. Kreizler saw you again, and The Brothel Butcher—as he was affectionately named by The New York Journal—didn’t stop killing. By the good doctor’s count, The Butcher had five bodies under his belt; though, the first two were drastically different from the more recent murders. The first was a young, Irish immigrant by the name of Cara Murphy. She was employed at King’s Court, and her wounds were unsure and shallow; she bled out slowly on the banks of the Hudson. The second victim was a middle-aged, Italian woman named Eula Marcello. She owned and operated a brothel off Bleecker Street. Her wounds were more controlled and confident; a series of gaping, T-shaped gashes ran the length of her chest and wrists. The third victim was Delia Rodwick, and her death was by far the most monstrous to date. The Issacson’s counted a total of twenty-one stab wounds sundering her body, mostly centered around her face and hands. Her heart was removed and, as of the murder of Ms. Reed, not yet recovered. 

“The latest victim was cut from throat to navel just like Mrs. Ellis and Ms. Rodwick,” Ms. Howard outwardly pondered, pacing in front of the chalkboard situated in Dr. Kreizler’s sitting room. After the conclusion of their last case, the group moved their headquarters to the alienist’s house until Ms. Howard could formally secure the abandoned building off Broadway—deciding it best to hide their gruesome business from the curious eyes of the institute’s children. Sighing, Sara faced the board, documenting the details of Ms. Reed’s murder. “Heart removed. Blunt force trauma to the skull and torso. Broken ribs. Ruptured lungs—” Ms. Howard pinched the bridge of her nose, a headache building behind her eyes as she turned to face the two men helping her on the case: Dr. Laszlo Kreizler and Mr. John Moore. 

“No excessive displays of aggression as with Ms. Rodwick, but Ms. Reed’s wounds are…precise.” Sara paused, putting down her piece of chalk in a huff before turning her attention to Dr. Kreizler. The good doctor was ignorant to his friend’s frustrations, staring forlornly into the sitting room’s fireplace. He watched the flames dance solemnly as he stroked two fingers along the bond between his mustache and beard. A white handkerchief, soiled with subtle streaks of kohl, sat in his right hand; the detective asked him about it before, but the alienist refused to answer her inquiries. “He isn’t hesitating anymore, Laszlo.”

At the sound of his name, Dr. Kreizler snapped his gaze over to Sara and the morbidly messy chalkboard behind her. “He’s perfected his craft,” he offered. “He’s gaining confidence. Before, our killer only hoped that killing would bring him the release he desires. Now, he knows it will.”

Across the room, John Moore rolled his eyes. “Fantastic,” he sarcastically replied. “What does that mean for our investigation?” 

Laszlo stood up from his seat, adjusting his waistcoat as he approached the chalkboard—searching for some small, overlooked bit of information that would lead them to their killer. “It means the man we’re hunting has become even more unhinged,” he pronounced, stuffing the stained handkerchief into his pocket. Dr. Kreizler’s gaze narrowed as he picked up the piece of chalk Ms. Howard abandoned—accenting Ms. Rodwick’s name. “He’s evolving...” 

“—It means our killer is dangerous. We must find him before he escalates,” Sara asserted, moving aside to give the good doctor space while he studied the board. Popping open the pocket watch that dangled from her skirt, the detective sighed; it was nearly midnight.

John reclined on Laszlo’s couch with a groan. “As if we haven’t been trying to do that for months. Face it, Sara, we have nothing!”

“Perhaps, if you focused more of your attention on the investigation—John—we would have more to work with,” Ms. Howard barked back, and the pair broke into a heated argument which morphed into white noise in Dr. Kreizler’s mind.  

Everyone working The Brothel Butcher case was exhausted, but Sara and John were busy before ever taking on the extra responsibility of finding a serial killer. Ms. Howard balanced the case alongside her endeavors to establish a detective agency off Broadway; meanwhile, Mr. Moore was adjusting to his new job as a news reporter for The New York Times. By comparison, Laszlo’s life changed very little after the John Beechem case. The Kreizler Institute for Wayward and Abandoned Children was still the culmination of Laszlo’s career as an alienist. Mary was gone, and her memory sent cold, sporadic spikes of dread through his heart, but Cyrus and Stevie were still around even though Cyrus procured his own bar downtown and planned on leaving Laszlo’s employ. The truth was that, following the death of Japheth Dury, Dr. Kreizler’s life remained the same if a little emptier; his work carried on just as the world continued spinning and the seasons slunk by—spring squirming under winter’s white, withering embrace. 

Or, that was what the alienist told himself for fear of giving into his grief entirely. By staunchly committing to solving the murders perpetrated by The Brothel Butcher, Laszlo could find purpose. Dr. Kreizler trusted that this hunt wouldn’t leave him empty handed; he hungered for answers to the questions that Japheth Dury and Jesse Pomeroy left the world with. What drives a man to do evil? What drives a man to murder? After closing Dury’s case, Laszlo found no satisfaction for his famished soul—for the questions that unquieted him. He knew how to capture a killer, but he was no closer to knowing how to cure them—how to help them—how to purge humanity of its horrors. For all his expertise, Dr. Kriezler didn’t know what to expect from the evils he hunted; and, for all that he tried to anticipate, you surprised him.  

After his trip to Bellerose, memories of you tormented Laszlo’s mind. They snuck into every silent moment—started as nothing more than sweet glimpses of your glistening, (E/C) eyes. While he trimmed his beard the morning after your meeting, his train of thought turned to the way you smiled—tender and teasing—when he said something that pleased you. As he ate, listening to Verdi’s “O Patria Mia,” he recalled the way your hips rolled—bouncing to Gaskin’s “After the Ball.” He remembered the keen way your lips kissed his champagne flute, feathering over the memory of his mouth. Only a week later, Laszlo sent Stevie out to buy the same record you danced to; and, his memories morphed into imaginings. He dreamed of you gracing his dinner table, your hand in his—the soft, sultry skin of your palm pressed against his own. He thought of your feather, the one you ran up the length of his neck, and how the sensation made his stomach clench—a shiver working its way up his spine. He thought about seizing the feather from your fingers and dragging it down your corset. He imagined his hands stroking your stockings. 

Laszlo daydreamed about pressing his lips to your plush, perfect thighs—your eyes closed in pleasure. He was ashamed to admit that he touched himself in those moments. When he was alone in his room—the mid-winter moon hanging high in the sky—his hand found his hard cock, warm and waiting, in the dark, and he stroked himself to the thought of you—the heavy grace you gave his name like he was an intimate, salacious secret—like he was worth your time—like you really wanted him—

“Excellent news,” Marcus Issacson announced, entering the doctor’s sitting room excitedly. Behind him, Lucius barely managed to keep up with a full briefcase cradled in his arms. “My brother and I went to the latest crime scene, as directed by Ms. Howard, and—” Marcus stepped aside, sweeping his arm out toward his brother, and Lucius rolled his eyes—resting his briefcase on the table as he produced a portfolio of photos. Sara’s impatient hands interjected immediately, taking the photos from him. 

“Is that—”

“Blood,” Marcus offered, and Ms. Howard looked over the photos wide-eyed before bestowing them on Dr. Kreizler.

“A message left by our killer,” Lucius elaborated. 

Laszlo crossed to his desk, digging around for his glasses while John got to his feet. “A message,” Mr. Moore asked. “What does it say?”

Lucius’ response was cut short by Stevie bursting into the room. “Dr. Kreizler!”

“Not now, Stevie—”

“—There’s a visitor for you. Says it’s urgent.”

The room quieted as the alienist quit his search and regarded Stevie with suspicion. “Who?”

“Angel de Somethin’,” Stevie said with a shrug.

John choked on air. “Angel de Beauchene...from Bellerose?”

Ms. Howard’s lips lifted upward—intrigued by the way Dr. Kreizler’s cheeks ruddied so readily. “Yes,” the good doctor said as he cleared his throat, handing off the crime scene photos to John as he adjusted his waistcoat. “Yes. Of course. Please, Stevie, send them in. Marcus. Lucius. The chalkboard.” Stevie left with a lively nod.

“The burlesque dancer,” Sara inquired, “the one Ms. Rodwick mentioned in her diary?”

“The very same.” John grimaced as he gazed at the photos, placing them face down on the table in front of him. 

Marcus looked between John, Laszlo, and Sara with confusion while he and his brother worked quickly to cover the chalkboard. “A burlesque dancer?”

“—Dr. Kreizler,” your voice called, echoing in a breathless panic as you entered—accompanied by the muted thump of your buttoned, ankle boots. You froze at the sight of four strangers and swallowed skittishly. “Apologies for the intrusion—” 

“—No apologies necessary.” The alienist jumped to your aid, gesturing to each of his companions around the room. “Please, allow me to introduce you to Ms. Sara Howard, Mr. John Moore, and Detective Sergeants Marcus and Lucius Issacson.” Laszlo considered you with a soft, concerned smile. “They are assisting me on The Brothel Butcher case.”

You nodded in acknowledgement, looking each of your new acquaintances in the eye. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—”

One of the Issacsons, Marcus, interrupted your attempt at manners. “—Sorry. When Mr. Moore said you were a burlesque dancer, I didn’t expect you to be wearing a suit.” The other Issacson, Lucius, regarded Marcus with regret—staring him down as he landed a solid smack against the back of his brother’s head.

You blushed—looking down at your plain, tweed trousers and simple, suit jacket. Shrugging, you eyed Marcus mockingly—deflecting any worry you felt by wringing the newspaper held tightly between your hands. “Would you prefer I was naked, Detective Sergeant Issacson?” Marcus’ face flushed a brilliant red, and he averted his gaze with a cough. You smirked—turning your attention back to the alienist. Dr. Kreizler watched the interaction unfold with an amused smile, his eyes aglow with something almost akin to pride. “I need to speak with you about the case, Dr. Kreizler,” you began, closing the distance between you. “Is it true that the killer left a message at the most recent crime scene?”

Ms. Howard’s earnest, blue eyes bore into you. “Yes. Written in the victim’s own blood, it would seem.” 

“Sara,” Mr. Moore hissed cautiously before continuing, “How did you become privy to this information?” Forcing your fists to unclench, you handed over an issue of The New York Times. John looked over the newspaper’s headline with building rage. “Dammit, Bernie,” Mr. Moore muttered as he tramped past you, telling Dr. Kreizler that he needed to use his telephone.

Digging through his desk, Laszlo finally found his glasses with Sara’s help and inspected the photos the Issacsons provided. The body of the newest victim, Ms. Reed, was abandoned near her business in downtown New York. She was cut from throat to navel, and her ribs were broken open like bars on a rusted birdcage. Her heart was missing, and—as expected—a message was smeared on the brick wall behind her body. It was simple: two words.

“A name,” Laszlo said. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N)...” 

The good doctor set his glasses aside, fixing his gaze on you. His eyes were intense and unreadable, but you thought you saw concern there—the kind of panic that makes a permanent home in one’s heart. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” you answered. “It’s my name.”

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