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fallen-in-dreams · 4 years ago

Text

Mon Amant

Also on AO3. Pairing: Sakura/Kakashi. Summary: She wasn't a fantasy to him. She wasn't a wet dream. She was the real thing. For KakaSaku Month 2021. Post-war. *Mon Amant - my lover* Prompt: (Week 2, Day 4: May 13) The Heart Wants What It Wants. Rated: Mature Words: 7,346. Status: Complete.

Author note: Lots of angst and post-war life evaluation and some smut.

Thank-you so much @kakasaku-haven for hosting this. It’s already the 13th where I live so I hope it’s okay to post this now. :)

Enjoy. ^_^

. She bit her bottom lip in both nervousness and consternation. All these warm bodies gyrating, and she was beginning to think this party was just an excuse to hook up. But the funds raised were going to a good cause, so there was no point in complaining. Everyone wore their masquerade masks well, especially the man currently holding his hand out to her, silently asking for a dance. She smiled and accepted his hand, letting him lead her to the dancefloor. He had a henge on and so she couldn’t tell if his mask covered his upper or lower face, which was frustrating. But he held her delicately, danced like he owned the stage, and looked at her like she was the world, and she was quickly and easily enamoured. And when they slipped out the back to fuck, everything just came naturally. There was groping that came with one-night stands in alleyways. There was murmuring but very little kissing, as one would expect from clandestine trysts. And when she wrapped her legs around his waist, moaning at the wonderful feeling of him filling her, there was no pretending she didn’t like it rough. He was still a mystery to her, then. There was no way that he didn’t know exactly who she was, but his mask stayed on his face the entire time. .

Images of her wrapped around him, biting her bottom lip, clawing his back and scrunching her eyes as he came inside of her...they tormented him. Not because his lusting after his former student was some wet dream fixation he couldn't get out of his head. Not because he couldn't have her, and imagining her breasts bouncing as he fucked her against some random wall was a major factor of his night-time fantasies. She tormented him because he couldn't get enough of her.

The first time they had sex was in the back room of a bar during the first annual allied shinobi celebrations – a masked function that was so successful that the powers that be decided to keep the theme for every event. It was supposed to maintain the appearance of cooperation and friendship between the nations while giving people the freedom and confidence to mingle without previous prejudice. During the seven days leading up to it there were competitions and friendly tournaments but on that final (and only masquerade) night, the lines between their countrymen blurred and the drink flowed as heavily as the reduced inhibitions did.

Relations between nations had never been so good.

The original plan was to hold the masquerade in neutral areas until Naruto suggested they rotate the host between each nation. That meant that it would take five whole years for every village to have their turn, and five whole years of people hooking up with a foreign shinobi; the allure of the mystery and no-strings-attached sex brought in hordes of ninja. Not to mention the village pride that spiked during the friendly matches leading up to it. They had to have multiple festivities and new buildings set up to cater to everyone. Which was also seen as a competition between the Kage on who could hold the best event. And who could help out war victims more. And who had the best booze. The list of things they competed over were endless.

If it meant peace would reign, it was worth it. But Kakashi’s problems were more important.

Every year and new festival brought him closer to Sakura. Each time he’d don his henge and backwards mask he’d take her to a secluded area and do things to her that he’d never imagined she would love to have done to her.

Every inch of her skin was his to worship.

But the months between their trysts were the hardest. Lonely nights remembering how she felt wrapped around him were driving him mad. She would never accept him in the light of day, so he was resigned to taking those annual moments when Sakura Haruno let loose enough to fuck a complete stranger.

And he was an impatient man as much as he was a self-hating masochist.

His heart wouldn’t be able to take it forever.

.:.

As she came down from her high Sakura gripped his butt with both hands and squeezed, giggling when he jerked slightly. It wasn’t a teasing, flirtatious smile that adorned her face when he looked down at her, surprised. Was she making fun of him? She’d never done that before. Sakura giggled again, and she pressed herself further into him. She let herself relax. He was still inside her and softening but she liked it. The slow circles she traced over his back were born from laziness and contentment. It felt like she was attempting to haphazardly cover him in ninja symbols but due to the drag of her movement, he couldn’t tell which ones. “Are you drawing jutsu on me?” Sakura pulled back and looked up at him. His voice was deeper than usual. She smiled. “Are you pretending to be a shinobi?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Maybe I am.” “Hm. And I’m pretending to be Cinderella. Fuck me until midnight, but I’m the one that turns back into a pumpkin.” That was a weird thing to say to someone you thought was a stranger. He frowned. “Who does that make me?” “The Prince-who-isn’t-actually-Charming.” “Huh.” He smiled at that. “That sounds like me.” She just hummed, wiggling her butt as it started to numb, pressed against the brick-and-mortar wall behind her. Her fingers grasped at his chin, feeling bare skin and her question on what type of mask he was wearing behind that henge was answered. Kakashi’s hand flew up to grasp her quickly and she gasped at his speed and the intensity of it. He didn’t want to show her. He’d flee if she pushed him. She released her hold and he reciprocated. But Sakura wasn’t finished yet. She would push him in other ways. “Why the disguise?” .

And fucking her was the only thing keeping him sane.

That was a bad thing. He should be able to handle this post-war funk he'd found himself in without banging his former student. He was a sick, sick old man. And to top it off, she didn't even know it had been him. Every. Single. Time. They. Fucked.

Made love...they made love.

Kakashi shook his head, trying to dispel the thought from his head. It wasn't making love; they'd only ever fucked in crowded pubs and clubs or the back alley of said establishments. The end of the war saw a rise in celebrations, and everyone knew that Kakashi Hatake didn't do celebrations. He always made his excuses on that masquerade night and disappeared until dawn. He didn’t do big crowds and frolicking, so no-one questioned him.

I just do Sakura.

Bad thoughts...he covered his eyes with his right hand, fingering the flask of sake in his left hand, and groaned out loud. Sakura didn't know her mysterious lover was him. But he knew full well it was her. He was taking advantage of her. He had been since she turned eighteen, and he hated himself for it. Their first time had happened because Sasuke had rejected her and refused to let her on the list of approved guests during his stay at the new allied prison – and then when he got out, he treated her like she was a stranger; the only times he acknowledges her was in team missions, outings and spars. She had been suffering that night, which was why she’d gone to the masquerade, and Kakashi had known it.

“Kakashi?”

He didn’t turn to acknowledge Yamato; the other man had made it his mission to get Kakashi out of his funk, but it wasn’t working. Sometimes Kakashi day-dreamed about strangling the wood style user with his own jutsu. Wrapping vines around his throat while pretending he couldn’t hear his cries for mercy calmed him enough to not try it. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Just thought you should know that the council is trying to make you Hokage again.”

Kakashi groaned loudly; it was the only reaction Yamato was going to get from him, so the wood style user quietly shuffled away.

Maybe he’s finally learning to just leave me alone.

Or maybe it was just his only reason for hunting him down this time. It didn’t matter. His turbulent thoughts weren’t large enough to house concerns over Yamato’s interruptions as well. Kakashi set aside time to wallow in self-pity – over the years he’d perfected that art – and didn’t like being interrupted while doing so. But after the war that self-pity had turned into anger which eventually morphed into fear (of the future) and finally settled into what he supposed was a mix between wistfulness and regret. Add Sakura to the pile of things he did to hurt himself and something was going to burst soon.

How had his life come to this?

Kakashi frowned down at the broken memorial that once held Obito’s name. How could a rogue ninja have screwed him over so thoroughly, twice, that the only time he felt whole and complete was when he was fucking his former student? Obito’s pain had turned him into something twisted and blind but Kakashi had promised himself never to take that path. He’d fight that lingering darkness even if it meant taking something he didn’t deserve.

He groaned. That was enough whining for the day.

“You got off easy,” he told the epitaph before teleporting away.

.:.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk.” She frowned as he ran a hand down her side; letting out a sigh of anticipation. What kind of line was that? Did that really work on other women? But oh gods, when he rubbed her clit just like THAT she couldn’t complain. He hit her hard and fast, moving those talented fingers right over the spots he’d learned were her weakness. Fuck it, she needed him. But they always did it against a wall and she was beginning to think he believed it was the only way he could take her. What about a bed? What about letting her on top? But those rebellious thoughts quickly lost cohesion as he drove into her. All she was now, was a puddle of wet, slap happy moans and quivering pleas to an unknown deity. She was definitely going to have trouble walking after this. When she did finally come down from the white-hot bliss that Kakashi never failed to provide for her, Sakura decided she’d bug him about changing things up next time. But twelve months was a long time to wait for what she desperately wanted from him. .

The war had left many orphans, shinobi or not, and the homeless outnumbered the dead – most of which were civilian. This count included all nations, as it was public knowledge that the world's shinobi force had been cut by the thousands. So, in light of this, the great nations set up a number of fundraisers, the funds would go to rebuilding homes and replacing personnel. Even the Feudal Lords were getting in on it, donating money to make themselves look good – it was a political move, given that they hadn't had anything to do with the success of the war. But it was still welcomed. And needed.

And nobody deserved that praise more than people like Kurenai. She was determined to find love again, one day, after Asuma, but for now her attention was on all the children also caught by the ravages of war. She had her daughter as inspiration and Yamato’s help to set up a new complex on the outskirts of Konoha – the existing orphanages were too overrun to take them all.

It became her raison d'etre.

Kakashi knew all this because he’d volunteered his dogs as a weekly entertainment for the little brats. After the first few months he let himself be dragged into babysitting a few, nostalgic for the good old Team Seven days when someone was both surprised and in awe over his charming wit. Kurenai must’ve been doing something right because these kids were far more well-behaved than his old team had ever been.

Sakura.

Unbidden thoughts were best shoved to the back of his brain.

Kurenai’s Home for the Homeless also took over a portion of Kakashi’s life. After his role in the creating of the war he needed to give back something. The ninja nations would quickly recover their old strength, but the civilians would be slower to mend. So, he focused his efforts there.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of helping us this time,” Pakkun warned him.

Kakashi gave him his best smile. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Pakkun huffed at him but said nothing more as he dived into the group of kids who were waiting for him. Their laughter and squealing made Kakashi’s eye twitch, but he kept the smile plastered to his face. And even with his mask on – which the kids had already repeatedly tried and failed to remove – they could tell it was a genuine smile, nonetheless.

This was his seclusion away from his ninja life. So, when Sakura came into the home one late Monday afternoon, Kakashi had a moment of panic – he’d gone out of his way to either avoid her or schedule their unavoidable interactions and he never would’ve believed that homeless shelter was a place she’d willingly visit. Sakura had her own demons regarding the war; her failed attempt at a relationship with Sasuke was the least of her concerns it seemed. She frequently woke from nightmares. And he’d heard she’d had some bad news regarding her fertility.

I’m such a stalker.

So, the reminder of innocence – the children who bore the brunt of the fallout of a war that should never have touched them – should be too much to bear, right?

She looked over at him and smiled her tired smile. He found himself instinctively smiling back. A tugging sensation began at his navel and twisted and heated up as it quickly travelled south.

Not now.

But then Kurenai caught her attention and that coil snapped.

Kurenai.

Kakashi contemplated mimicking Kurenai and trying to move on from his pathetic mindset. He could ask her out, or someone out, and forget all about the calming warmth and somehow simultaneous ferociousness that Sakura invoked in him. But he knew from experience that he would just mope. He would just use it as an excuse to internally ramble about his life mistakes and hate himself. He was still going to Obito’s so-called grave, after all. The man had murdered innocents and started a war but Kakashi still mourned him.

He wasn’t ready to move on, though. Not yet. And certainly not with anyone but Sakura. Or with her.

Kakashi sighed, rubbing his eye where the Sharingan used to be. And he was still moping.

.:.

The fundraiser was in full swing again; the familiar sight of shinobi from all nations done up in masquerade and dancing and drinking warmed even the most aloof and stubborn hearts among them. The Raikage had outdone himself with floating baubles and lanterns with music that played off the masked theme. He’d imported some band from across the Northern Sea to play until midnight. Like it was some Cinderella ball and the Raikage was looking for his own prince. Sakura smiled at that as she made her way through the streets of the village hidden in the cloud. It was her first actual visit to this part of the land of lightning and she was buzzed from the excitement of it all. Ino was off doing her thing – or doing some cloud ninja, who knew – and Sakura was content to lazily explore the village while keeping her eye out for her ex-sensei. He always made excuses to not directly participate in the festivities, but he was Hokage now. He needed to at least be here. She pitied the ninja who had to remain in their home village as a part of their skeleton crew during these festivities. They were mostly just lower levelled shinobi (and those who either didn’t want to travel or couldn’t) anyway. Ones that didn’t participate in the war were usually shafted to that position too. These festivities were mostly for the survivors. It sounded elitist, but Sakura wasn’t too worried about that. They deserved this. It took her an hour to realise she was being followed – she blamed the alcohol now swarming in her system. But like she couldn’t tell who he was, the baka. He never did fully appreciate her natural talents with genjutsu. She led him on a bit of a merry chase and allowed him to catch her near the temporary accommodations for foreign ninja but the moment his hands found her waist he manoeuvred her toward the nearest alley way. What was with him? Sakura could do little other than moan as he pressed her against the stone wall, face first. He worked on her clit as he grabbed her tits, seemingly not wanting to be tender, again. When he did let his guard down and be gentle with her, they headed into territory that neither was ready for. Okay. She could go with this. Sakura pushed her arse into him, rewarding him for his attentiveness to her body. “Yes, fuck, like that! Please!” He quickly dispensed of any more formalities and Kakashi undid his pants in record time before driving into her, squeezing his eyes shut to the hypocritical mantra in his head. He didn’t want this but so desperately did at the same time. Sakura didn’t bother keeping quiet, ignoring the occasional passer-by of the alleyway who was momentarily drawn by the sound of her cries. When they realised it wasn’t someone being attacked, they quickly scuttled off. She didn’t even care if any of them recognised her as the former Hokage's protégé. Sakura came hard at that thought and trembled as Kakashi rode out the last few strokes whispering naughty things in her ear. She didn’t want this to end here. It wasn’t her orgasm making her tremble as the thought occurred to her. She wanted to see ALL of him. She pushed him to pull out of her and then shakily spun around on the spot. Sakura sucked in a deep breath for courage and forced herself to sound calm as she asked, “my place or yours, next?” Her fingers were like fire as they caressed his arm. Kakashi could only pant in response, struggling to hold himself up as she put bad thoughts in his head. She waited patiently, clearly expecting a response. Did he dare to hope? Maybe she was just basking in her own afterglow and didn’t mean it. Because she had no idea who he was. But when he finally recovered enough to pull back and stare into those unfathomably beautiful, emerald eyes of hers he realised she was serious. She wanted to know who he was. There was no doubt he was the same man she’d been fucking annually, this whole time. And she was ready to really know him… maybe? Kakashi felt shame and fear rush through him. And fled .

He was such a coward. It was so easy to love and leave her. Much easier than admitting how he felt. And infinitely easier than removing his henge and accepting whatever recriminations she had for him.

“You still sulking?”

Gai couldn’t come and annoy him as often as he used to so Yamato had taken up that mantle. But at least he didn’t wax poetic about youth and all that crap. Not that Kakashi wasn’t feeling like he didn’t need a pick-me-up, but Yamato’s style was decidedly less annoying. When sober.

He decided to humour him, since masochism was the least he deserved after that last run-in with Sakura.

“Just about the naughty fun I had in Kumo last week.”

Yamato scoffed. “I don’t drink nearly enough to be hearing that.”

“You drink enough for the both of us.”

He wasn’t going to pull the I-missed-out-on-the-war-so-I-get-to-complain-more-than-you card. Yamato may have been captured but he didn’t watch his comrades die in front of him. Not this time, anyway. Kakashi had no idea how much of the experimentation Kabuto did on him that he remembered. Did it change his chakra? Did it leave him with nightmares? Did he have to buy new sheets for his bed every week because of how much he tore them up when he could actually get some semblance of sleep?

Did he remember nothing at all?

Kakashi would’ve liked to have slept through the war, if it was still a guarantee they’d have won. That Infinite Tsukuyomi might have been beyond stupid, but the lure of peace was enticing. Still, he bore his pain. Even if he did run from it from time to time.

From Sakura, you mean, old man.

He chuckled, surprising Yamato.

“Did you hit your head, Kakashi-senpai?”

“You know you don’t have to call me that anymore.”

He was Hokage now, after all.

“Some habits are worth not breaking.”

“Hm. If they annoy me, you mean.”

“That’s the spirit. Laugh at my expense, like you always do.”

Kakashi looked over at him and felt himself relax at the teasing look on the other man’s face. It was a welcomed respite that he knew he didn’t deserve. “Right.”

“By the way, Sakura’s looking for you. Might want to head on over to her place later to find out what about or risk the almighty wrath. See you later.”

Yamato left him to his thoughts then, not knowing how dark they’d turn in his absence.

As far as he could tell she wasn’t dating anyone, though he didn’t stalk her enough to know if she occasionally scratched the same itch that he scratched every year. He didn’t want to know if some other guy had been inside her.

Kakashi was well aware that the best way to combat this would be to confess to her and hope she didn’t pound him into the ground, but like he said: he was a coward. He was too used to seeing her as his student. Too used to the self-flagellation of only getting to hold her once every twelve months. He was too comfortable with the barely-see-each-other routine they had going that didn’t make his heart race. He didn’t even know how to begin that conversation with her.

And the Hokage shouldn’t be dallying with a former student.

Kakashi sighed again, running a hand along the graffiti on Obito’s memorial.

As the years droned on so did his monotonous excuses.

.:.

This time he let her pin him to the wall. Because she liked it. And because she could. He groaned into her mouth as she worked her hand over the bulge in his pants, her knees on either side of his left leg. Dry humping seemed to make him even harder, so she kept at him, working him into a tizzy. It was going to be even harder for her this time, if she didn’t slow down. But Sakura was the one in control, so she used her strength to keep him from flipping their positions and taking charge, kissing her way up his bare neck as she did so. When she bit his earlobe, he bucked against her and Sakura slid her hand back down to his pants. But this freed him up somewhat and the disguised Hokage grasped her hips and pressed so hard she knew come morning there’d be a bruise. “Let me show you how much you deserve to be fucked.” Old words that never failed to turn her on, regardless. The fucking part of this interlude was over and before she knew it, her back was against the wall again. So he’d only let her take over for the foreplay? Arsehole. Sakura was feeling petty as Kakashi lifted her left leg over his hip and pushed into her with no more preamble. She gripped his butt harder than necessary, scratched down his back knowing it was going to scar if she didn’t heal it soon, and bit his lip when he leant into kiss her so hard, she tasted blood. “Fuck.” And he liked it. “Fuck,” She echoed his sentiments and cried into his mouth as he took her in the familiar position. She focused on hurting him wherever she could and was rewarded with his groans and fast approaching orgasm. There was no way Sakura was letting this become a once-a-year thing anymore. She wanted this forever. She needed him. “Kakashi…” Did she just…? It didn’t matter, his orgasm was ripping through his body and he was helpless to focus on anything else. Her sudden need to cause him physical distress didn’t bother him – he already had too many scars, anyway. It was a form of masochism and he wondered, as he spilled into her and screamed his release, if she would be up to donning the master title if they ever took this to the bedroom. He could be a very good slave. Fantasies drifted away from him as reality sunk in and he pressed the full length of his body against hers, his face in the crook of her neck as he breathed in her unique scent. It never failed to do him in. But this, whatever it was, needed to either stop or become something more. Sakura was the first to move and adjust her clothing. He stood there, his dick hanging out and unabashed about it, and watched her tuck her knickers back into place. “I won’t wait much longer,” she said enigmatically before turning away from him. Did she realise she’d called out his name? Sakura sashayed away from him. He watched her hips as she went. And narrowed his eyes at her. Yes. She knew. .

Sakura pressed a hand to Bull’s head as the dog stared at her blankly. Kakashi’s ninken was warm to the touch, unlike the man in question. He’d been so cold with her, except for those nights. The annual celebrations had become her ritual too, not just his. One night to forget who she really was, who she was supposed to be. To put her troubles aside and just feel again.

But her time of mourning was over. Even if she did occasionally flit between this fact and her self-pitying thoughts in her head.

Kurenai watched her quietly. As the only person Sakura had confided in, regarding her feelings for Kakashi, she was also a very good listener. The older woman didn’t know they fucked once a year, but she knew more than anyone else.

Sakura removed her hand from Bull and returned it to the brush she’d been using.

“You should ask him out.”

“He deserves better.”

“Maybe you are that better,” Kurenai said, smiling at Sakura’s snort of derision. “Just because Sasuke didn’t have the good taste to like you back doesn’t mean you’re not good enough for anyone else.”

Sakura stilled, the hand brushing Bull now shaking slightly. Sasuke had done more than just not like her back, but Kurenai didn’t know that so she forced herself to keep brushing. The repetitive motion was cathartic, and she took a deep breath, finding herself calming as she inhaled the lingering scent of Kakashi that all his ninken had.

“This isn’t about Sasuke,” she said.

Kurenai sighed. “No, I suppose not.” She stood up. “Need anything, kiddo? I’m heading to the cafeteria.”

“No.”

“Mummy!”

Sakura watched as Mirai came running in and jumped at her mother. She paused in brushing Bull to smile and take in the wholesome moment of the two talking animatedly as they slowly made their way out of the room. She knew that she and Kakashi deserved their shot. She was just so used to waiting a whole year that Sakura sometimes forgot that he was waiting for her, too.

She smiled and returned to her chore. The dogs got weekly baths from Kakashi – one of the few things he wasn’t lazy about was his ninken – so they didn’t need the pinkette to fuss over them. But they seemed to enjoy it so she kept at it. It had been a whole year since she’d first walked into this place. She’d done it to have an excuse to spend more time near Kakashi. Even though the man in question wasn’t here right now, she still did it.

Avoiding this place for her own personal reasons were no longer necessary. She could move on.

“Next?” She asked, when done with Bull. He reluctantly moved away and Guruko bounded up to her, his tail wagging in anticipation.

It was over an hour before Kurenai returned, glowing with happiness while apologetic for how long she took. Sakura simply waved her concerns away. She’d finished the grooming herself and was content to sit back and watch as the kids played with Kakashi’s ninken. The dogs were so sweet to let them pull on their ears and snuggle, the way they did. The kids adored them.

Shiba started telling them a story about how he saved Kakashi from an evil ninja by biting his bum. It had the kids in giggle fits and the other ninken rolling their eyes. Sakura knew, because she’d been there, just how embellished this story was – though Shiba had indeed bitten a rogue ninja who was about to skewer Kakashi, it hadn’t been on his arse.

“Reminds me of the good old days,” Kurenai said, interrupting her thoughts and giving Sakura a cheeky smile. “Asuma and Kakashi would argue over who had the best stories and both of them always embellished.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yeah, they were such polar opposites in so many ways.” Kurenai lost her smile and stared off into one of the adjoining rooms, where Sakura assumed Mirai was playing with the art supplies (she always did that instead of joining the time with the dogs, like she was trying to hog them; it was cute).

The older woman sighed. “One related to a Hokage and rejecting that connection, the other Hokage material who’d take the role readily, even though it never appealed to him.”

Sakura fingered the hem of her skirt absentmindedly. “He’s still griping at Tsunade for being named the sixth Hokage.”

“Who was it that really put him forth for Hokage?” Kurenai asked, teasingly. Tsunade liked making fun of the now-Hokage for not liking his position but it was clear to everyone (except Kakashi, it seemed) that the blonde had had nothing to do with it.

Sakura looked away from her, her face tinging pink. It hadn’t been until his inauguration that she found out he hadn’t actually wanted the position. Why must he hide his feelings so much? “I did.”

.:.

He left her a message to meet him at his favourite drinking spot. It was a place with a similar look to it as Ichiraku, except it sold alcohol – to shinobi only. Her shishou also knew about it and Tsunade raved about the place – it was apparently a new stall set up in the last few months. It was called Shochu, or something like that. Sakura glanced up at the sign before ducking under the flap, half expecting to see Teuchi and Ayame; it was that similar to Ichiraku.

“Welcome!” The owner beamed at her; his eyes squinted closed as a genuine smile graced his battered face. “What’ll you have?”

She glanced at the menu. They also sold Onigiri sandwiches and Renkon chips which made her mouth water just looking at. Sakura decided to splurge, since she’d arrived on time and Kakashi was bound to be late, even to this.

She swallowed nervously. Whatever this was.

“A bowl of Renkon chips and Amazu sauce,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face. “No drinks, please.”

“Coming right up! Oh…”

Sakura frowned at him as the man’s eyes opened and widened. He grinned. “It’s on the house.”

“Uh…”

“The name’s Kohaku.” If possible, his grin only widened. “And you’re Sakura Haruno. The beautiful pink haired kunoichi with a dazzling smile.”

“Uh…” She felt her face warm.

“Lunch has been paid for,” he continued. “By a secret admirer.” He handed her a note. “He also said to open this only when you’re done eating. Oh, and I’m adding a sparkly to your order. You’ll need it.”

He winked at her and she palmed her face, embarrassed. Did Kakashi set this up? And why?

As Kohaku got started on her order, Sakura fingered the note, feeling Kakashi’s chakra embedded into it. Her heart was fluttering, and she squirmed in her seat. She hadn’t realised he had a romantic side. But why lunch here? And why alone?

“Sakura?”

Her head snapped around at the other patron, not realising until now that she wasn’t alone.

It was Yamato.

“What are you doing here?”

“Eating.”

He grinned, holding up a beer. “Drinking.”

“Damn you, Kakashi,” she whispered.

Yamato frowned. “Yes, he said he was joining me for lunch this time. Even told me to tell you it’s his treat for all those times you paid.”

He burped loudly and Sakura realised he was already drunk.

Yamato seemed kind of bummed out, too. She also just noticed he had a few glasses of sake next to him, too; the beer had run out. Downing another glass before turning back to Sakura, he side-eyed her, like she was the one responsible for all his problems. “Are you just going to sit there sulking all day or is there something you need of me, senpai?”

“Senpai?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his vision clearly becoming impaired. He thought she was Kakashi, maybe? The wood style user was beyond drunk, it seemed. And in the middle of the day! She bit her bottom lip, wondering if he’d been like this since the war and she’d just not noticed. Shame filled her and she made a mental note to get the hospital psychiatrist to track him down.

Just to talk.

Or strap him down then talk, as he’s likely to be stubborn about it.

Yamato shook his head. “Oh, it’s not him. It’s you.” He patted the stool next to him. “Sit, I don’t bite my teammates.”

Sakura wasn’t convinced.

He sighed. “Lady Tsunade told me to kep… I mean keep an eye on Kakashi. He was supposed to be here drinking but in-instead I got you.” He patted the stool again. “Sit, blossom tree. Sit.”

He had to be harmless when drunk. Sighing, Sakura got off her stool and instead sat down next to him, grudgingly. “She mentions he’s over drinking.”

“No, he hasn’t. But I have.”

She sighed again. “That’s what I meant.”

Yamato just shrugged and loudly ordered a bottle of sake and another glass.

“I’m not drinking with you.”

Yamato swayed and shook his glass in her face. “Who said it was for you?”

She didn’t need this. “I’m going.”

“No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no! I’ll behave!”

Sakura was half-way off her stool when Yamato grabbed her hands and pouted at her. She sat back down to avoid making things worse and he brightened up, humming and grinning when the sake bottle and glass arrived. He slid the glass to her and, unsurprised, she accepted as he poured her shishou’s favourite drink into it. But she didn’t drink.

They waited in silence and Sakura eagerly accepted her food when Kohaku handed it over, complete with a smile and twinkle of his very white teeth. Maybe he was related to Gai sensei?

Yamato watched her closely as she ate, then darted his eyes away when she glared at him. He kept throwing her weird looks but waited until she was done and had the bottle of bubbly in her hand before asking, “so, what’s got you looking f-for drinksies?”

“I was looking for…”

Him.

They’d been shagging on the alliance celebrations for five years now and she knew very well that he knew very well who she was the entire time. Talking with Kurenai about moving on and finally being able to put Sasuke behind her, she felt different. Like she was coming out of a black haze of morosity that had been engulfing her and Sakura was finally waking up. Giving into Kakashi every year and spending the rest of the twelve months pretending nothing happened had broken her more than she realised.

And now.

Now she wanted her life back. Kakashi was a loose end that needed to either be severed or restitched. She knew which one she would choose, so the resolution to this weird tryst would depend on what he wanted from her.

Why does my love life always have to be in the hands of others?

Yamato made a grumbling noise, breaking her thoughts and mumbled something she couldn’t quite catch.

"What?"

He slammed the drink down on the counter and eyed her suspiciously. "I s-saaaaid, he has a fuck bu-buddy."

Sakura sighed, nursing her drink and wishing she didn’t have to deal with this; she didn’t really want to hear about how Kakashi had found himself a new piece of arse and how his friends were so happy for him. She knew very well that she was the piece of arse and didn’t want to know all the lewd things her sensei had told his friends.

And then it hit her.

She was just another fuck.

She was usable.

She was recyclable and replaceable.

She was disposable.

Sakura had never pictured Kakashi having a sex life – the man was so reserved; she’d begun to think his only lover was those Icha Icha books of Jiraiya’s. It was why she’d been surprised the aloof man had instigated their trysts. How often did he sleep around? She felt her stomach twist at that thought.

Am I just another toy? Is that why he’s been so reluctant to reveal himself? Is he ashamed?

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to stop the tears. This was ridiculous. A drunken comment from her former taichou didn’t determine her worth to Kakashi.

“Some of the guys thought he was gay or asexual for a long time,” Yamato went on, and the pinkette found herself frozen on the spot; her body rigid and the drink getting warm in her hand. “Not that there’d be anything wrong with th-that, you… you judgy… uh, thing.” He gave her the stink eye.

The wood style user balked for a moment, as though he was about to vomit in front of her, but then seemed to get a hold of himself, throwing back another shot and coughing loudly. “Uh… that smarts.” He wiped his mouth. “Where was I… oh yeah, turns out Kakashi-senpai has a fuck buddy.”

Yamato spun around on his stool and stopped after the second spin, peering closely at Sakura. “You look awfully familiar.”

“Hm.” She found her voice only to clamp her mouth shut.

“Well anyway,” Yamato went on, indicating to Kohaku.

But the older man shook his head. “You’ve tapped out.”

“Whaaa?!” Yamato grabbed his bottle and Kohaku swiped it out of his hand.

“No,” he said fiercely. “No more for you. I told you only three bottles.”

Yamato pouted but it got him nowhere. He turned on the stool, looking like he was going to stumble away, but he didn’t budge.

“Sakura?”

“Y-yes.”

“Why does Kakashi-senpai get to find someone special and I d-don’t?”

“Special?”

He nodded. “Wants to spend his life with her. ‘Fraid he won’t be able to.” He sighed and smacked his lips together. “I want that someone t-too.”

He groaned, turning back to the bar and flopping his head down on it. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

Sakura wasn’t paying attention to him now, sliding off her stool. "I have to go. Sorry!"

Yamato groaned; pushing his glass toward the bemused barkeep, he tapped it, silently demanding more even though Kohaku had just told him no. "Fine!" He yelled, waving his other hand at Sakura's retreating back. "Stick me with the bill like you always do, Kakashi-senpai!"

.:.

The note had very little to say, but it was his chakra that led her on. Sakura ran like the wind. This was a jutsu she’d never heard of and he was so teaching it to her later.

But right now, she needed answers from this adorably annoying man.

It didn’t take her long to realise it was leading her to his apartment.

“My place or yours, next?”

Her desire to get him into a bed had started so long ago. Was he finally relenting? She wanted more than the sex though, so if that was all he was really after…

Stop obsessing.

She slowed down as his apartment loomed in front of her and walked a natural pace up the stairs and to his door. She gasped as he opened the door and Sakura focused on the man in front of her; he looked tired by happy.

Did he really want this?

He smiled but said nothing, clearly waiting for her to start talking.

But Kakashi was averse to blunt confessions. And if she learnt anything from Sasuke she knew that emotionally stunted men – even if they were as emotionally needy as Kakashi – needed a lighter touch. Like a startled animal in the wild she needed to approach with caution.

Play it cool.

“So,” she drawled. “Shochu huh? Couldn’t afford a fancy restaurant?”

He huffed and stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?”

“I don’t know, I’ve already eaten.” He raised an eyebrow and she ignored it, continuing. “What other reason could I have to enter your apartment at this time of day?”

He chuckled suddenly, startling her. “You’re not subtle, Sakura.”

She groaned and stormed in. He closed the door and turned to face her, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You sent me the note, Kakashi. The ball’s in your court.”

“Is it?”

She swallowed heavily. How could he look so calm about this? Okay, no more preamble bullshit. She wasn’t going to try (and clearly fail) to be subtle about this anymore. She stepped over to him, palming his chest and smirking as she felt his heart race under her fingertips.

“Sakura?”

“Hm?”

“What are we doing?”

“I have no idea.”

He smiled under his mask and didn’t pull away when she touched it gently.

“But I’d like to see where it takes us.”

Kakashi tugged on the edge of his mask without pulling it down. “I don’t know. You might not like what you see.”

“I’ll close my eyes.”

“Then you won’t see all the good things, Sakura-chan.”

“Drop the chan.” Sakura inhaled deeply; the look on his face, from what she could see, was amusement. “And drop the mask.”

They’d danced around each other enough. She could feel the tension in his body as she pressed against him. He was as worried as she was, just hiding it better.

Indeed, Kakashi felt very little other than trepidation as Sakura demanded he let it go. For five years he’d hidden behind a masquerade to take what he wanted not knowing if it was what he needed. So, he talked a big game, but could he let go of the angst and self-loathing he was so well-known for?

He trembled as her grip became mildly painful. She was determined but scared, her eyes widening slightly as she stubbornly held his gaze. This was so much harder than whispering dirty words in her ear and fucking her warm, writhing body into a non-descript wall. This required courage.

But he needed to do this.

One step at a time.

And the first step was dropping his mask and kissing the woman he loved. Without shaking like some teenage virgin.

But once his face was bare, she took over.

Her mouth was on his and an instant later all the tension left his body. They pulled each other in, gently and lovingly caressing; there had been enough rough fucks, this wasn’t about that. This time they could take it slowly. And do more than just stand against walls. He steered her toward his bed as she started exploring his mouth and finally, he leant into the kiss with no self-pity or angst. Only with hope for the future.

…

#KakaSaku #kakasaku month 2021 #kakasaku month #my fanfiction #fanfiction

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symphonyofthewrite · 4 years ago

Text

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch4)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4: “Empty”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But we are not alone, says the Room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Castlevania looks away.

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

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

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

The boy looks different too.

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

And he doesn’t burn.

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

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

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

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?!

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

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

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

Vlad’s wife has been taken from him.

Dracula’s life has been taken from him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is dark. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dark things.

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

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

He is cold. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with cold things.

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

He is dead. Observes the Room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And anger wins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the Room suffocates.

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antihero-writings · 5 years ago

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If These Walls Could Talk Chapter 4: “Empty”—Castlevania (Netflix) Fic (Full Chapter!)

Fic Title: If These Walls Could Talk

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

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

Chapter Title: “Empty”

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

Chapter 4: