#dracula novel inspired

[theholmwoodfoundation]

We asked our Discord Server how to describe Holmwood, and this was the result.

What would you put to get people to listen?

PS: You can join our Discord Server for as little as £5 as part of our Kickstarter rewards where everyone spends their time bullying Dracula's Head. (Or maybe, he's bullying us. You'll have to see for yourself.)

GET INVOLVED HERE

[autumnsartblog]

Attatchment

— REBLOGS + COMMENTS APPRECIATED

[g1ngerbeer]

halloween yippee

[dimenoveladozen]

Fan Reading Project Recruitment!

Are you a fan, especially a femslash fan, who's interested in reading a funky little (~30 pp.) piece of 19th C. mass-popular literature serialized over several weeks? If so, I've got the project for you! Join us for a casual, opt-in reading group of a short 19th C. dime novel, beginning January 15, 2024!

You can sign up here if you're interested!

More on the Project:

I'm a PhD Candidate in English and Women's and Gender Studies working on a dissertation on nineteenth-century American working-class women, queer pleasure and possibility, and mass-popular literature. As part of my project, I've spent a lot of time in archives reading 19th C. story papers and dime novels, genres of degraded literature that were incredibly popular among factory and mill workers but that have received very little scholarly attention. What's fascinating is how similar this mass-popular literature is to fan fiction--not just in its sensational plots and queer elements (sometimes there really is just one bed in the cabin), but especially in how it was consumed (often in serial format, shared amongst exuberant, fannish communities who even had their own shipping wars in the letters to the editor columns!) and in how it was critiqued (before Anthony Comstock came for pornography, he led a whole campaign against this kind of literature as "perverting" and tending to promote "evil reading"). Although I'm a fan myself, I know that one person's readings can never fully capture the wide variety of responses and interpretations that a whole group of fans and consumers can have, which is where you all come in! For the final chapter of my dissertation, I'll be serially disseminating chapters of a short dime novel for a group of participants to discuss in a private Discord to explore the creative possibilities of fan reading practices.

You're welcome to be as involved as you would like - maybe you just end up reading along and reacting to the comments of others, or perhaps you find yourself writing fan meta or even making memes and other creative responses! If you have any questions, feel free to DM me here!

If you'd like to sign up (which doesn't obligate you to participate), you can use the following Qualtrics link, which provides more information about the project, including the study number for the IRB-issued exemption: https://umich.qualtrics.com/jfe/form/SV_1HAkpIJDEaUfWOa

[thecandlewasters]

[characterssaythedarnestthings]

"Ow, fuck-" exclaimed Count Dracula, his mouth bleeding after accidentally biting his tongue for the third time this week. "Ow."

[myfanfictiongarden]

Alright, I’m gonna be that one person and state the fact that No, Mina was not deserted by God, and no, she wasn’t punished for any uncommitted sin either! That is not what the novel tells. 

Do you really think that bad things only ever happen to bad people? In our real world, you really think that tragic accidents, events or illnesses only come upon people who deserve them? No! You can be as prepared in life as you want for any possibility and still things may come that beat you down. Van Helsing thought excluding Mina from further vampire-investigations would prevent her becoming Dracula’s next target, turns out it happened anyway! That has nothing to do with “God´s Will”, it’s all upon Dracula because the monster he is.

Speaking of Dracula, it’s not like he represents the Devil himself in the novel, he is more like an agent of the Devil here on earth, not the Lord of Hell himself. He is a willing instrument who gave into darkness and eagerly attempts to spread it. You know what our heroes are? Agents of Light, they are literary instruments of God´s love on earth fighting Darkness. Neither God nor the Devil interact personally in this story (or irl for that matter) but it’s up to the mere humans to know what path to choose. 

It’s kinda like in Lord of the Rings. In that universe you do have powerful God-like beings, but after the first battles they decided never to interact personally anymore because continents literary go under their powers. Thats why in the actual story we have ordinary people doing the work, humans, dwarfs, hobbits. Do you know how many times Frodo, a good and kind Hobbit, wonders why this heavy burden came upon him? How did he deserve such suffering and pain? His whole body is becoming marked by the power of the Ring, he is afraid his soul may slipp too. (Seems familiar? Well, Mina is going through the exact same thing!) In this story, they are not battling Morgoth (the Devil) himself, no, they are fighting Sauron, who simply put to use all that he learned from his Dark Master.

On Oct 4th in Jonathan’s diary he mentions Mina saying “perhaps we are all the instruments of ultimate good”- God acts through us (like the Devil may too), so isn’t it wonderful what power we have with love&faith?

Dracula has superpowers? So do our heroes in the form of Love and Faith.

God is Love, and they have Love in abundance.

[jojotier]

I see now that it was a mistake to send you such a letter in dire haste. Had all my wits been about me I would have burned that letter the moment its composition had ended and scattered the ashes. That way you needn’t lie awake so desperately hoping for one more frenzied reply. That way, you wouldn’t read how my heart appears to have taken permanent residence in my throat.

In answer: Lucien is still safe in bed. Since the moment he laid down he did not rise but to toilet, and even then did so unwillingly. I have kept vigilant watch.

Even as I write this he rests lightly. The delicate rise and fall of his chest rustles the silk linens and I pause in writing from time to time just to watch him breathe.

He used to tell me the habit was ghastly morbid. I wonder if now the thought has changed, as the pallor of his skin has deepened; as his lips crack with abandoned movement; as his expanding ribs, at times, stutter in rhythm.

In further answer: I am to blame for Lucien's burning.

You know this and yet you refused to accuse me in your letter; thus, I confess to the crime. It was gross negligence that led me from your brother’s chamber in the waning light of the evening and a misplaced hope.

I had been under the impression that Lucien was beginning to recover. Not fully; but enough. The deep yellow bruising which tanned his hide had lightened to sickly pallor. His hands still shook. His breath was still shortened from time to time. But he began taking deep lungfuls of air from the open window and had begun to unfurl the heavy hunch of his back where he walked. That hated play of his was left to the wayside, the notes of his obsession slowing, and when he held my cheek it was simply to look at me.

Lucien had passed his thumb over my cheek and sighed, “My love,” so gently. His eyes still held those deep bags beneath, but there was light there, the brown of his eyes warming as oak. Yesterday afternoon, I sat and read to him, and he didn’t say a word; merely laid his head upon my shoulder and peered at the pages to read along.

After I’d served supper, Lucien had asked me, “What are they playing in the theatre?” His lucidity had been much improved since the day previous, and his voice was clear, if still somewhat faint against the general noise of Market Street. To say nothing of the relief I felt, knowing this creature of the playhouses longed to return!

I told him that As You Like It had returned and would serve as preulde to the production of Twelfth Night.

“No, my darling, you must be mistaken,” Lucien said, playing with the tips of my fingers, “I had heard Twelfth Night wasn’t until December,”

I informed him that December was a scant fortnight away.

“And is it not Camille this week?” 

It will be next.

“Hm.” He’d said, “I fear someone in my acquaintance is lying to me.”

I smiled, and asked him whether he accused his Jonathan of the act. I received no smile in return.

Where before my Lucien might have smiled, dimples etching themselves anew into his pretty face, now his eyes remained still. The tide of attempted joviality buffeted against the stone of Lucien’s gaze until its forced retreat to lowness and Lucien answered, “Not you. Never you.”

For days, I have spent all of my waking hours waiting upon Lucien’s bedside. You know already that we have entertained your company; we’ve entertained Leon’s company, and we’ve entertained the company of your wife, God bless her. What you don’t know is that Lucien has not permitted any other visitors in all this time. It has only ever been his dearest few.

I asked him who was lying, then- what were the contents of the lie, and what could they possibly gain from the lying? But Lucien shook his head. No matter how I pressed, he would not speak to it.

I was half-convinced that it was some game borne of his ill humors and that perhaps the lucidity was somewhat of a lie. It was at this point that he asked me if I trusted him.

Had it been any other time, the answer would have been instant: yes. A thousand times yes, with the strength of every vow that could be made to heaven, yes. Lucien is, above all, my dearest heart.

But when I opened my mouth, I imagined that damned play, hiding beneath the mattress. The script written in increasingly harried hand. My Lucien's voice, so feeble in his delirious cry of no mask? No mask! to the audience of pestilent spirits at the door. In that moment, my voice had been seized.

And yet I still told him yes. He bade me not speak of this, but I told him yes, and I tell you all.

I sat on the bedside, a man condemned, as I told Lucien I trusted him with my heart. Yes, it is no lie. If nothing else, I trust him so with all my heart.

But is it not a lie, that I was beginning to suspect his mind?

To distract from the hypocrisy I was brewing, I asked him the same, attempting to be light: "Could you trust me, then, while I keep you stuck abed?"

“Were God to kneel an oracle at my feet,” Lucien told me, “I’d sooner kill prophecy than believe Him, if you thought Him false.”

The melody of his previous lyricism bubbled from beneath the pallor and the boils. It made me wonder how long he’d spent writing even without a pen; how he conjured words from the river-fog which had been choking his mind. It made me wonder how long he’d been waiting to say this.

His gaze is heat itself. It is his charm as an actor; intensity, a roiling fire in his eyes bellied by the low thrum of his voice weaving spells. This magic bound thousands at a time and now it was meant only for me. There is nothing I could do under the force of such sincerity.

I told him I loved him. It may be hard for you to understand, Devon, but I do love him. More than any lyric could sing of it.

He asked only for me to retrieve some of the play bills. He missed seeing the illustrations on the fronts, of seeing the little cast sheets sandwiched in among the advertisements and promises of further entertainment. I agreed.

The errand wasn't too terribly long. It took but fifteen minutes in total. Market Street was slower in the moments before the evening rush of playgoers stampeded by. The valet who gave me my copy was commenting on what a shame it'd be, seeing Pulitzer send Cockeril off to New York, as though the news were not lime dust by then.

I was preoccupied by the peculiar conversation as I made my way back to the apartment. I had been musing on how a little light murder could be excused if one simply wrote most sensationally, and it was then when the scent of smoke rose from the open window of our apartment.

From there, I dare not say more. It pains me to think of the fire; to see the furls of Lucien's pretty script erupt into mere fantasy. To have seen Lucien staring, entranced, the flames licking up his wrists...

It is more than one man can bear. Yet I would never ask you to bear it with me.

From here, I know not how to finish this letter. You know the ending of the account. You know that your brother lays, asleep, under my evermore watchful eye. You know as much as I do.

My only plea then is that you might come soon and stay long. Stay long, and then stay longer than you believe is long enough.

Your business will survive without you for a while. Your wife will keep all well, and I have no doubt that you might leave messengers with her who might deal with the more ignoble clients of yours on her behalf. Leon has mastered the commute between work and leisure and Lucien as well- so why not attempt the skill yourself?

I hope only that I did not cause you undue stress. I hope that you know how much your presence means to Lucien.

But above all- please, please forgive me.

Jonathan

(November 19th, 1883)

[argyleheir]

The caliber of Dracula fan writing is so excellent that I think maybe I’ll just hang up my spurs and let everyone else do the hard part while I get to enjoy the fic 🥰👌

[stjohnstarling]

I've been astonished by how much people seem to love my weird and experimental project held together by duct tape and string, especially since so much of it flies in the face of the way I've been taught publishing is supposed to work. The conventional way authors survive online is to release books for sale as frequently as possible - whereas I've been focusing on giving each project as much time as I can, and releasing them slowly (so far I've done a Dracula-inspired novel.) I’ve been making the sort of transgressive queer writing that mainstream publishing is too nervous to touch right now, and I've been giving it away in my newsletter for free.

I want to keep telling stories for free, forever. Only there's one problem: I'm going to need A Lot more subscribers to my newsletter. I have just under 5000 readers right now - I’m going to need at least double that.

Conventional wisdom also says that Tumblr is a dead end, but I'm convinced that this is one of the last places on the internet that capable of fostering real, counter-cultural queer expression - precisely because we are so often left out and forgotten by the mainstream. Half the reason I'm on this website is because of the culture of absolute resistance to advertising. Unfortunately, that also makes my job here rather hard. If things continue to go well, between Patreon, sales of special editions, and a couple small ads, I think I can just about get away with doing this. But I need your help.

If you're someone who's hungry for good stories and:

❧ You're sick of being sold superficial, safe, and sanitized queer stories that shy away from genuine expressions of socially unacceptable desire

❧ You see sexual freedom as inseparable from queer liberation, and you want to see that explored in metaphor via a vampire seducing a priest

❧ You want to read modern queer fiction that's aware of the deep and rich history of queer culture

❧ You want to help foster a project that would create new avenues for underground and transgressive forms of queer expression

Then you should subscribe to What Manner of Man! It's sexy and boundary-pushing and kinky, with fire in its veins.

If this works, I'll be able to take on bigger and more ambitious projects than I ever have before (it's mad scientists next, and I have some pretty mad ideas!)

Thank you for your time! Reblogs deeply appreciated.

[prokopetz]

Can you go over what is going on with Paladins and Clerics in DND, not from a mechanical or in universe perspective, but from what different sources/genres/tropes they are drawing on? They always seemed to have too much overlap in the basic concept to me to make sense as separate things in the dnd classes/stock character line up.

Clerics originated way back in the pre-OD&D days, when the game that would become Dungeons & Dragons was still a fantasy roleplaying add-on intended to be paired with your favourite historical wargame. One of the players in Dave Arneson's original Blackmoor campaign had an army whose commander/player character was a vampire named Sir Fang, who proved to be sufficiently overpowered that a mechanical "hard counter" was desired.

This ended up taking the form of a vampire-hunting priest character heavily inspired by Peter Cushing's turn as Abraham Van Helsing in the 1958 Christopher Lee adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula; that vampire-hunting priest in turn developed into what would become one of original flavour D&D's three core classes (the other two being the fighter and the wizard – the thief/rogue came later).

The paladin, meanwhile, was originally a direct, 1:1 lift of Holger Carlsen, the protagonist of Poul Anderson's 1961 fantasy novel Three Hearts and Three Lions, and was introduced as a subclass of the fighter – rather than a class of its own – in the 1975 Greyhawk supplement. Over the game's editions it's wandered from being a fighter subclass, to being a high-level "advanced class" to which qualifying characters can switch at 10th level, back to being a fighter subclass, and finally to a core class, where it's generally remained.

So, in short, the cleric was originally a purpose-built hard counter to vampire PCs loosely patterned after Peter Cushing's Abraham Van Helsing, while the paladin was originally for people who just really wanted to be one specific Poul Anderson character.

(I'm sorry if that's not a terribly satisfying answer, but you need to understand that practically everything in old-school D&D is a 1960s or 1970s pop culture reference – it just doesn't read that way to modern audiences because nobody gets the memes anymore.)

[ryttu3k]

"[redacted] has taken THE classic horror novel and dragged it into the twenty-first century in this fabulous, feminist, and fierce retelling. Mina Harker was one of the most passive women in literature, representing Victorian virtue until she is attacked, and then is considered soiled because of it. The Mina of [redacted] is intelligent, flawed, and fiercely relatable. She takes matters into her own hands, and forms a band of badass women, reimagining Stoker's boys club in a manner that will leave you pumping your fist in the air with triumph."

Tell me you've never read Bram Stoker's Dracula without telling me you've never fuckin' read Bram Stoker's Dracula -_-

Mina knows Jonathan is in trouble before anyone else does. Mina prevents Lucy from being killed that night in Whitby. Mina travels to Hungary to retrieve Jonathan herself. Mina puts the stories together. Mina transcribes all of Jack's recordings. Mina collects the Demeter logs. Mina inspires Renfield to fight back. After she's attacked, the remaining characters do pretty much everything possible for Mina, but more to the point, Mina is continuing to be actively involved in the investigation (with everything from pushing back into Dracula's mind to track his movements, to memorised train timetables, no less!) And in the epilogue, Van Helsing more or less says that all of their successes and triumphs were due to Mina. She is the emotional heart of the book and the characters know it.

Claiming this book is a ~feminist retelling~ is ignoring the fact that Mina is already the emotional heart of Dracula. She's already intelligent, flawed, and fiercely relatable, and she already takes things into her own hands!

'One of the most passive women in literature'? Yeah, no. I don't often say 'read the book!', but if you're going to review a retelling while bashing the original, read the damn book first.

Edit: @spiciestmarinara has a review of the book here! Sounds like a decent book in its own right, but pretty terrible as an adaptation of Dracula, and thus of Mina as a character.

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

Don’t know if you take writing prompts so if you don’t feel free to ignore this I have an idea for a dcxdp crossover ghost hunger au ( but only if you want otherwise it’s just Danny being able to eat anything and everything literally )ghost prince Danny au Redeemed Vlad au Vlad x Maddie x jack 

 Halfas were mistaken for a lot of things in mythology and being very rare they were often considered the “special ones” of whatever species they were mistaken for and the last halfa before Vlad was the one that inspired the novel of Dracula Yes there are vampires, but the one from the story of Dracula was not a vampire

Anyway, Danny trying to hide from the GIW decides to lean in on the mistaken identity, and what better city to do that in then Gotham, the one rumored to have monsters already patrolling its streets anyway Danny, gets mistaken for a vampire and Danny decides to roll with it setting up shop in an abandoned cathedral while trying to get the undead of Gotham back into the zone ( Grundy, the talons, Jason, and possibly a few others)

And Vlad occasionally has him going to galas for business (and practice for when Danny is the ghost king ) and of course, Danny continues the vampire act there too tone down, but still enough to give off an otherworldly vibe

I love this idea! I think I've only ever seen one other story about fake vampire Danny.

I'm not really able to write an actual story with world building or anything nice like that (trust me I've tried not pretty🫠😆), my stuff is usually just gibberish that I clean up a bit before posting, so I'm really sorry if you wanted an actual mini story.

~

But I'll try to do a little prompt!

~

Tell Me What I Am

There had been some odd rumors going around Gotham.

Those who were more sensitive said that the dead becoming aware, most didn't pay much truth to all that was being said.

Still everyone was more alert feeling like the entirety of Gotham was in the presence of something Other.

~

Jason didn't enjoy going to the galas when he was young and now as the recent 'No Longer Dead Wayne Child" he was forced to go once again.

He looked around trying to avoid all the rich snobs that were trying to push their daughters practically into his arms

He snorted at his thoughts, "Very much not my type."

Distracted he bumped into someone and oh-speaking of his type.

~

Danny didn't mean to bump into someone especially the guest of honor of the gala but it had been a while since he was able to properly eat something that actual filled him up and not just distracted his mind a bit before it came back,

So forgive him for being distracted and-

oh

oh?

Oh!

"You smell divine" he mumbled in between his suddenly overly sharp teeth

"..Wha-Thanks I guess?"

Danny's foggy mind suddenly snapped back into sharp focus once he felt Vlad call for him.

He quickly fled from the man

' Shit I almost bit him what the hell! '

~

Jason thought back to the night of the gala

"Hey B, do the Masters seem...odd to you?"

Bruce glance up from his work

"Did something happen?"

He thought about the sharp fangs suddenly in the young man's mouth alongside his comment feeling almost like prey under his intense gaze that pinned him in place with the sheer hunger and want in them.

How the older man pulled him away but not before Jason saw his eyes flash red for barely a second.

"....Maybe."

~

Just an Idea

Hope this was to your taste Anon!

[susiephone]

wtf is dracula daily?

i’ve seen a couple people ask this question on my posts about it, so i thought i’d go ahead and clear it up here!

ok so, the classic horror novel “dracula” is an epistolary novel - that means it’s told via letters, diary entries, ship logs, and news articles. (technically the term “epistolary novel” refers to works told solely through letters or emails, but many have expanded it to mean any work that is told via in-universe documents, hence why diaries and logs often get included as well. “frankenstein” is another classic example; the whole framing device is robert walton is recounting the story he heard from victor to his sister via letter. a modern example would be “several people are typing,” which is told via slack messages, or “the perks of being a wallflower,” which is told via letters from charlie to his anonymous pen pal, which is functionally more like you’re reading his diary.)

because of the nature of the narrative, we actually know the exact day nearly everything in dracula happens - the letters, news articles, diary entries, etc. are all dated.

“dracula daily” is a substack project where the novel is broken up into parts, with people who are subscribed to the project getting emails every day something in dracula happens - for example, the novel opens with jonathan harker’s journal entry on may 3, so on may 3, subscribers are emailed that entry. the action of dracula takes place from may 3 - november 6, plus an epilogue set some years later. the project started in 2021 (i think), but fucking BLEW UP in 2022, and they’re doing it again this year! lots of us are very excited - especially people like me who fell behind last time.

why not just read the book?

valid! due to some parts of dracula being told out of chronological order, dracula daily does reorder some things. for example, the first section of dracula is told entirely from jonathan harker’s pov, then the second section switches the pov to mina murray. their sections have some overlap in the timeline, so dracula daily jumps back and forth between their perspectives.

if you want to read the book as bram stoker intended, dracula daily may not be for you. but for a lot of people (myself included!), it breaks up a very long text into easily digestible chunks (....mostly. there is one entry that is 10k words), and the fact that it’s a big project means there are a lot of people reading along with you.

i think there’s also something valuable about experience the slow revelation of wtf is going on along with the characters. the book which you might otherwise get through in a few days is stretched out into months of suspense and agony as you wait for the other shoe to drop, and it’s great.

plus, the whiplash between “jonathan harker’s neverending horror” vs “lucy is basically on the bachelorette” that you get in dracula daily is very very funny.

how do i sign up?

right here! and if you sign up and fall behind in the emails, no worries - the dracula daily website posts past entries so you can catch up.

what if i prefer audiobooks?

have i got great news for you!

like i mentioned before, i couldn’t keep up with the emails last year. part of it is that it is much easier for me to focus on an audiobook or keep up with a podcast than it is for me to sit down and read, especially with longer entries.

this year, there is going to be a podcast titled “re: dracula” that was inspired by dracula daily. every episode will be a dracula daily entry, with a full voice cast! (seriously, if you listen to british podcasts, you will recognize some of these names. the magnus archives and wooden overcoats girlies are WINNING.) you can find that here.

there is also a podcast called “cryptic canticles” that has an already-completed audiodrama of dracula that i’m told is also extremely good, and was also broken up by date. you can find that here.

why do i keep hearing about paprika/the boyfriend squad/lizard fashion/cowboys?

you’ll see.

oh god am i gonna hear about this nerd shit for the rest of the year

yes. sorry.

[netmors]

Mr. Bridger looked at Lady Sabine's sketches with irony, hoping to cheer the girl up a little in such a depressing situation: - So who was it? Miss Wren? I don't believe you saw a living dead person? Your thoughts are frighteningly correct, Mr. Bridger, - Alexander joined the conversation. - According to the found records of old Captain Pellaeon, he personally witnessed the death of the admiral at the Battle of Bilbringi… Hera turned even paler. Five hundred years… Impossible. - Wait, Alexander, but that was over five hundred years ago! How could he? How can it be alive now?! - I would like to know this as much as you, Miss Syndulla. - Arghhhhh, I am more concerned about those who were with him in the castle and attacked me, Mr. Kallus and Mr. Jarrus. They do not seem like his usual pawns. They were… not very kind. - Hm, calm down, Mr. Orrelios, that's what we're trying to find in the journal. Presumably, they're not as free to act as the former Grand Admiral. - After they dealt with Pryce and chased us, I'm not so sure of your words. - Oh, here it is!

…."On my deathbed, I can finally tell, no, I can forget these terrible memories of that fateful day. I will never stop thinking about what happened that day, and I will blame myself until my last breath on this mortal world, but… But, Force, I… I must go… Go before they come! The traitors who dared to go against the will of the Emperor! Who turned their back on their Grand Admiral! Those he came for in their final hour!"...

Mr. Kallus finished reading the last entry, and the company sank into an uncomfortable silence. Then, sighing, the former Imperial said: - Well, things are starting to make sense… Other records from the Coruscant archive mentioned two allies of the Grand Admiral, supposedly responsible for Thrawn's death, however… Years later, they also died. - As you can see, no, - Miss Wren summed up the conversation gloomily, and then looked at Alexander. - Apparently none of the former Imperials can find peace even in the afterlife. Or… Unless they followed him voluntarily…

Making the text in the "style" of the 19th century turned out to be more difficult than I thought.

Inspired by the first half of Bram Stoker's novel "Dracula", this unusual art post for Halloween turned out.

Soundtracks:

Secession Studio - All Your Rage, All Your Pain

Secession Studio - Be Bold and Be Brave

Secession Studio - Veil of Shadows

[zaldritzosrose]

Carpe Noctem (Modern Goth!Aemond x Goth!Reader)

Summary: Aemond enjoyed the darker side of life; the morbid, the macabre. He reflected his outside with how he looked on the inside, ignoring the unusual stares he would get from passersby. His world revolved around it, losing himself in dark and fantastical worlds...and then he met you. His real life gothic heroine.

CW: MINORS DNI, afab reader, she/her pronouns, gothic coded reader, gothic Aemond, dark/morbid fantasies, outdoor sex, graveyard sex, mild exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, phone sex, innuendo, profanity, (yes this is probably my truest self insert, sue me), Aemond wishes he could live in a gothic novel.

Words: 4535

Surprise I posted earlier than expected!

Happy Spooky Season! This is my second fic submission to our Fan Frankentober Event (masterlist will be found here) in collab with a few lovely moots! Head over to @fandomeventcenter for more info!

There was a darkness in Aemond. A darkness that had been left unconsidered and unloved until he had met you.

Aemond was a lover of all things macabre and morbid. It had started when he and his family had moved houses, living just a short walk from a cemetery. Horror stories had always fascinated him. Tales told to scare around a campfire or in a darkened room. Stories meant to get the heart racing and the hairs to stand tall on the neck.

The older he got, the deeper he delved. Collections of stories, ranging from the well-known classics to lesser-known fables, lined the walls of his room.

His interests soon followed. His music reflected his darker curiosities, from haunting musical classics to heavier, grungier sounds of heavy metal and gothic rock. And his clothing choices followed not long after, modelling himself after his favourite artists and horror icons. Even covering his injured eye – a mishap in his childhood – with a bespoke leather eyepatch.

Aemond lived his life by the darkness he always felt within.

You had always felt a little outcasted, though some of it was self-inflicted. You preferred solitude, with the only company being the fantastical beings within the pages of your favourite books.

Your love of art and photography helped you channel the morbidity within into something beautiful. Wandering around derelict buildings and darkened graveyards. Styling your images after the scenes in your novels.

Holding an affinity for the tragic heroines and broken damsels in your books, you began to create art of yourself. Posing for timer taken photos in intricate costumes. Collating the photos and creating your very own spooky, fantastical online presence.

That’s where he found you. He had joined the site to follow his favourite authors, artists and musicians. Simply to immerse himself further into the world he enjoyed.

He had been scrolling through posts, mindlessly passing time while his siblings bickered about something or other. And there you were.

It was like you had been pulled from one of the novels on his shelf. The layers of lace that draped over your body, the red as deep as freshly spilled blood. Makeup dark and deathly. Before Aemond knew it, he’d opened your page. Trawling through photo after photo, slowly getting lost in the dark, ethereal draw you seemed to hold.

After weeks of keeping himself updated with your posts, he decided he had to know you. No matter what happened, he had to try.

Tentatively, he opened his messages and, inspired by your ‘Spooky Season’ posts most recently, he chose one of his favoured quotes from Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

“I have crossed oceans of times to find you…your work is beautiful, almost as beautiful as you.”

Aemond could feel his heart beating hard enough he feared it might burst from his chest. Was that too weird? Was he too forward? Would you find him creepy?

There wasn’t much he could do now; the message was out there and deleting it would be even more suspicious.

So, he waited.

Your phone dinged and the message notification surprised you. A message from the username ‘truetooneanother’. You instinctively checked the profile first; it wouldn’t be the first time a stranger had messaged you in response to a photoshoot. Most were harmless, but you were always cautious.

A quick scroll showed almost exactly what you expected from a Frankenstein inspired username. Aesthetic pleasing images of books, his cat, shots out music gigs and records. Even a mix of beautiful photographs of what you guess was where he lived – perfectly framed images of graveyards, lakes, and some of the most gorgeous gothic architecture you had ever laid your eyes on.

But what you wanted, was a picture of whoever this stranger with classic horror knowledge was. And some deeper scrolling came up with your prize. One of few shots of your mystery messenger. A posed photo lit by what you guess was a fireplace or candles. The profile of his face was in main focus, and you were sure you could see what looked like an eyepatch, maybe?

A couple more scrolls and you found a full image of his face and you could have sworn your jaw dropped just a little. There was just something about him that had you intrigued.

Immediately, you reopened his message.

“That’s very kind of you, and how did you manage to choose one of my favourite literary quotes?”

You hit send and waited. Soon, you could see that he had read your message. You were surprised that you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach. You had never been like this over a stranger online before. But when your phone pinged again to say he’d sent a message, you were chewing your lip in excitement.

“Because it is my favourite, I can’t count how many times I’ve read Dracula. And your last post inspired it, you looked like you’d fallen from one of its pages.”

You could feel the blush on your cheeks. No one had ever spoken to you that way. Complimenting you without making you feel uncomfortable. Most comments or direct messages were failed attempts at flirting, sexual innuendo or just downright creepiness.

This time it felt different.

“Classic horror is one of my greatest inspirations, everything in those books is pure darkness and fantasy…making it real is a passion. Can I ask your name?”

There was something about the words he chose, the way he wrote his messages that gave you butterflies. How could you be so fascinated about someone you didn’t know?

“Aemond. May I ask yours?”

“Then you manage it perfectly, it suits you.”

Those two messages only made you blush deepen. Why was he having such an effect on you?

You gave him your name, feeling the heat radiating of your cheeks as he continued to compliment you – almost poetically.

You and Aemond continued to talk, moving your messaging from you social media to giving out your phone number. Those messages soon turned to phone calls, his voice bordering on hypnotic. You could barely get enough.

His phone calls were as poetic as his messages. The gentle timbre to his voice would sink into your mind and settle there.

A few more weeks and those phone calls became video chats. Hours spent talking about books, music, films. Where your favourite places were to photograph – for you it was where to set your shoots, for Aemond it was the places he wanted to create art from.

It wasn’t long before things turned a little more…x rated.

Behind the scenes pictures of your photography outings, showing off the variety of corsets, barely there lace dresses you would don for your ideas.

This was how you’d found out Aemond also enjoyed fencing. It was both expected and unexpected. When you’d learned his surname, you realised he came from a pretty well known Westerosi family, so higher class pursuits weren’t too far out of the question.

But the picture he had sent this morning, post training but pre-shower…

It had set your whole body on fire. Silver hair let loose and hanging over his shoulders. Clad only in his white fencing trousers and no shirt. Pale skin, lean torso on show. And his caption had waves of arousal coursing through your body.

He was beautiful. Like a dark character from one of your fantasy novels. It took you a moment to formulate a reply, and what you gave was far from your usual ability.

“Are you trying to kill me off?

You’d ended your message with a couple of emojis, the hot face emoji and the winking face. It wouldn’t be the first time you and Aemond had shared more racy messages, but this had been the first time he’d sent a photo like that.

And your heart was in your throat, desire wet between your thighs when you saw him typing.

“I would never, but nice to know you find me that attractive… you could see this in person if you wanted?”

“Fuck…” you muttered aloud, staring at the screen in disbelief.

A cheeky thought entered your mind. A picture for a picture was only fair, right?

You made sure the angle was perfect, showing off the shape of your body, your hand tucked seductively between your thighs. Your shirt bunched up to show a little skin. You added only a few dirty emojis and one word.

“When?”

Aemond almost dropped his phone when you sent that message back. Between the photo and your message, his skin felt hot, the crotch of his trousers getting tighter the longer he looked at it.

Fuck, you were stunning. Seduction and sensuality personified. His hand was tucked into the waistband of his trousers before he could stop himself. His other frantically messaging you back.

“Next week? You have that graveyard shoot planned right?”

Aemond’s hand shook as he typed. He needed release and he needed you.

“You have no idea what you do to me…I crave you…you have witchcraft on your lips.”

You fingers were like lightning as you replied, your own hand still nestled between your thighs. Part of you wanted to call him, hear his voice talking you through the desire that was thick in your veins. Your fingers dipped beneath your underwear, the ones holding your phone hovering over the call symbol.

And then the phone rang. Aemond’s name flashing on your screen. You barely even said ‘hello’, your voice soft as you dropped back onto your bed.

“Talk to me, please just talk to me…”

Aemond let out a soft chuckle, ending in a groan as his hand settled entirely into his trousers.

“Do you need me, sweet girl? Did my bare chest turn you on that much?” his voice was in that tone you adored.

Low and soft, almost a whisper. It sent a shiver down your spine in the most delicious of ways, settling deep within your core.

“You have no idea. Now I know what you hide under all that black and leather.”

Aemond only hummed in response, the rustling of material telling you exactly what he was doing. But you wanted to hear his voice. The soft sound of his breath told you he was as aroused as you were. Sometimes, the simplest things were enough to get the two of you going.

“Oh, darling, I hide a lot more than that. How badly do you need me?”

The tone, the implication behind his words had you sighing softly, fingers toying with your pearl. Circling softly at just the thought of what the rest of him might look like. You tried to calm yourself, to muster some of the darker more erotic poetry you had read on his recommendation.

“I…oh...I want your lust to tear the flesh of my bones, fuck…and leave me ravaged…”

Aemond felt his good eye roll into the back of his head. Having you read that poetry was one thing, but hearing it fall from your lips and mixed with sounds of pleasure. He could have come there and then.

“And ravage you I will, my darling…”

He could hear the movement of your hand against your body, the faintest sounds of your slickened fingers pushing you closer and closer to orgasm. His own hand working himself furiously at just the thought of having you beneath him, moaning his name. He laid himself entirely back on his bed, his phone on his chest as his hips began to rut up into his hand.

“I’d like to taste you in ways my tongue dare not speak…”

That was all it took to have you softly sighing his name down the phone, your release coming like waves over your body. Aemond followed soon after, rough grunts matching the rhythm of his hand.

Both of you panted as you calmed, the silence falling comfortably until Aemond spoke.

“I can’t wait to meet you.”

The day had come. Months of messages, calls, video chats had all led to this. You were going to see him in the flesh. And he was going to see you.

You had both agreed to meet just as you finished your planned Halloween shoot – a bit on the nose admittedly but you had chosen a graveyard near your hometown with your favourite horror heroines as your style inspiration. Ranging from classics like the Bride of Frankenstein to newer icons such as Morticia Addams. Simply, the shoot was entirely self-indulgent for you.

You knew you wouldn’t miss him. A few friends had come to help you out, setting up the camera, getting changed into another costume and all that. But other than that, the graveyard was relatively quiet.

Your focus remained on the shoot. Remembering your poses, the props, what you envisioned for the final images. But you could see the silver hair in the distance, contrasted against the entirely black palette of his outfit. Aemond kept his distance, leaning against a headstone as he waited patiently for you to be done.

The shoot was done, you had changed into what could only be described as a more casual combination of the costumes from the shoot. A flowy black dress, paired with Victorian inspired boots and a lacy black shawl you’d had since you could remember.

You could see Aemond walking towards you, your friends having long packed up and dispersed – most of them knowing what you had planned afterwards. Nerves set in your stomach.

What if he didn’t like you? What if, despite seeing you through the screen, he was no longer interested?

But all of that disappeared the second he stood in front of you. His long, lean form clad head to toe in layers of black. From the thick wool of his coat to the silken fabric of his shirt and the leather of his boots. That eyepatch laid perfectly over his eye – you had asked what happened and despite being a little unwilling, Aemond explained he’d injured it as a child but said no more. It was almost as though he enjoyed being mysterious.

“Aemond…” you smiled, moving to slip down from your perch on a stone wall.

Your smile only widened when Aemond held out his hand, offering his assistance to help you down. And you took it gladly, letting his fingers wrap around yours without hesitation.

Aemond kept hold of it, toying softly with one of the rings you wore.

“That shoot was truly a sight to behold,” Aemond whispered, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

He knew what it did to you, you knew he did. You were sure that he would choose that tone purposefully in calls to rile you up. And you loved it.

“So, you liked it? Horror Queens wasn’t too obvious for Halloween?”

Aemond laughed, and you let him lead you to a little clearing in the gravestones. Everything felt comfortable, his hand holding yours, the feel of him stood next to you. It just felt right.

“You were perfect, as always. Even now it’s as though you’ve stepped from, dare I say, one of Shelley or Stoker’s pages.”

You squeezed his hand in response, not knowing how to respond to such a compliment. But you were struck even more silent when you saw where he was leading you.

A large blanket was stretched out on the ground, perfectly placed between a group of headstones. A small gift, wrapped in black and red paper and finished with a velvet bow sat beside a hamper filled with food. More specifically, your favourite foods.

“Well, aren’t you a romantic?”

You sat down on the blanket, stretching your legs out in front of you as Aemond sat at your side. His arm instinctively wrapped around your waist. It was like you’d been beside each other for the longest time, everything felt so natural.

“A romantic? I am simply a man who wishes let you know how important you are.”

Aemond felt a need to restrain himself a little. Part of him wanted to spout all of the poetry and stories that wandered around his mind, to declare his love for you.

But he had just met you, in the literal sense. And he’d be damned if he scared you off now.

You, however, liked that about him. How open he was with how he felt. How he wasn’t afraid to give in to every emotion he felt.

“So, tell me. Don’t you know how much I enjoy your poetry?” you said it almost shyly, feeling Aemond’s arm tighten around your waist.

Aemond felt he could have melted there and then. But at the same time, the idea you enjoyed his words so much set a fire in his veins that he didn’t expect.

“Then you will very much like your gift, my darling.”

He leaned away, tugging the neatly wrapped gift towards him. Part of you felt guilty, you hadn’t bought him anything. But at the same time, you knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t mind.

His fingers brushed yours as you took the present from his grasp. As carefully as possible, you tugged at the ribbon and unwrapped it. They felt like books which didn’t surprise you at all, from Aemond. But what they truly were would surprise you.

Two beautifully bound notebooks, in black with shades of purple and red. Your breath caught in your throat as you opened the first one.

Pages upon pages of both of your favourite quotes, lines from poetry. You were already overwhelmed by the time you opened the second.

Handwritten versions of the poetry Aemond himself had sent you. The lines he had written to express his feelings towards you now preserved in his equally beautiful handwriting.

“Aemond…this is…”

You simply couldn’t find the words. So, you did the one thing you felt could express what you were feeling. You kissed him.

You almost threw yourself at him, the books discarded at the side as Aemond scrambled to catch you. Arms wrapping immediately around your waist and holding your body to his. Your legs straddled his waist, and you poured every ounce of affection and desire into your kiss.

Soon, Aemond reciprocated. Sliding a hand into your hair as his other gripped at your thigh.

He’d imagined everything about what kissing you would be like. How your lips would feel, how you would taste and how your body would feel beneath his hands.

The reality was more than he could ever imagine. And he wasn’t about to waste a single second.

Your own hands roamed over his body, gripping the soft, silk of his shirt while the other began to push the coat from his shoulders. You didn’t care that you were outside, there was no one here anyway.

All you needed was him.

Aemond shrugged his coat from his shoulders. The moment the fabric slid from his body, he moved to lay you on your back. The picnic could wait. You were the only meal he wished to devour.

Your dress bunched around your waist. Aemond slipped easily between your legs, and you could feel just how much he was enjoying the kiss. The swollen length of him pressing against you with only his jeans as a barrier.

His hips instinctively began to roll against yours, the hand on your thigh pulling your leg up to wrap around his slim waist. His lips began to trail down your neck and your head tilted back to let him continue his path.

Your breath came out in soft pants, your hand tangling into his hair as his lips settled on the exposed skin of your chest. Just as the first moan left your lips, Aemond pulled back.

His eye found yours, the blue entirely eclipsed by his pupil. Pure lust settled in his gaze.

“Shall I ravage you as I promised, my love?” Aemond leaned down, teeth nibbling at your ear lobe as he spoke.

You pushed your hips up against his in response. Words were failing you, but you could see in the look he gave you that he wanted your words.

“Please, Aemond, please…”

Your voice was embarrassingly whiny, need dripping from every syllable. And his response was immediate, latching his lips back onto your neck with a little more force this time.

“Whatever my love wishes, she will have. Your pleasure will know no bounds…”

His words were muffled as he buried his face into the swell of your chest, but what he said didn’t really matter anymore. All you both needed know was the touch of the other.

Your eyes rolled back as he continued his descent down your body. Pushing your dress higher as he reached your core. Your hand tangled tight in his hair, the pain only spurring Aemond on.

This was like a dream. The softness of your skin, the scent of your arousal as he licked a stripe over your clothed cunt. Aemond wished to commit every second to his memory.

He draped your legs over his shoulders, feeling you shift to rest on your elbows. The idea of you watching him had a heat licking up Aemond’s spine in the most delicious way.

Slim fingers tugged your underwear down your legs, a smirk thrown your way as he tucked them into his jeans.

“A souvenir?” you asked, chewing on your lip in anticipation as the cool air hit your slick folds.

Aemond didn’t answer, head dipping back down and settling between your thighs. His breath hot against your skin, sending goosebumps over the flesh of your thighs.

The moan you let out as his tongue licked over your core was almost sinful. Echoing through the empty graveyard as your head dropped back in pleasure. The sound only spurred Aemond on, now lapping at your folds as if he was a man starved.

“Delicious, so fucking delicious…” he almost growled the words into your body, sending vibrations through you that only heightened your desire for him.

His lips latched onto your pearl, suckling it between them and relishing the high-pitched keen that fell from your lips in return. He could already feel your thighs tightening around his head and Aemond was desperate to taste you on his tongue.

Your hand tightened to the point of pain in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that had him moaning into your cunt. He was rewarded with a fresh gush of slick over his tongue. Your fleshy walls pulsing around his tongue as he delved back in.

His name was like a prayer on your lips, chanting it over and over again as you felt the knot in your stomach tightening.

“Come for me, my beautiful creature…” Aemond grunted out the command as you tugged his face harder against your body, rolling your hips against his face.

Everything had sparks of pleasure biting at your body. His tongue licking at your walls, the slope of his nose rubbing against your clit in the most perfect way, his grip on your thighs almost painful.

You came with a scream of his name, a final pull on his hair earning you a hiss of pain but Aemond didn’t relent. He lapped up everything you gave him until you had to wriggle away from overstimulation.

“Fuck…” your voice was barely more than a whisper as you pulled Aemond back up your body.

Your skin was flushed, your cunt still pulsing as your high slowly left you. But Aemond’s hardened cock pressing against your damp core reminded you that he still needed to be taken care of.

And Aemond could see the look of mischief in your eyes. Your hips canting up to press your soaked core against him.

“Insatiable, hmm? Do you wish me to take you here, among the dead?”

You pressed your lips to his, sliding a hand between you to palm at the thick bulge in his jeans.

“I would let you take me anywhere; I am desperate for you…”

Your teeth tugged at his lip, his eye rolling back in his head.

“Besides, you did say you would ravage me.”

You punctuated your words with a squeeze of his cock, rubbing your palm down the length of it as he dropped his head to your neck. A few more touches had his cock twitching beneath your palm. Your fingers made quick work of his belt and zipper. Aemond came back to his senses just enough to push his jeans and underwear down just enough to free himself.

He immediately lined himself up with your entrance, slowly pushing inside. The head of his cock stretching your walls in a way that had your sighing out his name.

The day had gotten darker, but it only made the whole experience more perfect. The sun beginning to set just as Aemond began to thrust into you, the orange glow illuminating him from behind. His silver hair painted gold and his skin almost glowing.

“Yes, oh, yes…”

Your moans were the only sound Aemond ever wished to hear. His name had never sounded more beautiful that when it fell from your lips in pleasure.

His hands tangled with yours as he held them high above your head. His thrusts slow but punishing, feeling like he was filling every inch of your core.

“You are everything I need, my darling. A dream come true, a dream I never wish to wake from…”

Aemond’s words were answered with your mewls and moans, your heels in the small of his back spurring him on. His rhythm sped up in response, all but pounding into you with abandon.

You were both now solely chasing your pleasure. The only sound aside from your joined moans was the rustle of leaves and the faint cawing of birds.

Aemond’s lips locked with yours as he felt your walls clench around him. Pleasure overtook you and he drank down every one of your cries as his own release was milked from his cock with every twitch and pulse of your cunt.

His movements slowed, but he wasn’t ready to pull from your body just yet. He released your hands, resting his head against your chest. Your hands found his hair and back, calmly stroking as you both relaxed.

Neither of you knew what to say, but you both felt it. A calmness, a connection that tugged at both your hearts.

Aemond had known you were meant for him from the moment he had seen that first photo. But you, you believed it now. No one had made you feel as he did for the longest time.

It wasn’t love; it was more. Something darker, deeper.

You felt empty as Aemond pulled out of you, finding something to clean you up with. But it wasn’t before you were wrapped in his embrace again.

“I’m so happy I met you,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Though I fear I cannot be without you now.”

Aemond pulled away, tilting your face up to his.

“Darling, you’re already in my veins.”

The kiss he pressed to your lips was filled with nothing but love and promise. Promise of a darker, deeper love that you had only ever read about.

A love you would now get to experience.

Aemond Taglist:

@legitalicat @anjelicawrites @sylasthegrim @aemondsbabe

@aemondsbabygirl @blissfulphilospher @elaratyrell @multyfangirl

@thenameswinter99 @tumblin-theworldaway @kaelatargaryen

@hoosbandewan @thought--bubble @mysticalendings

@towriteloveontheirarms @arcielee