#i had a dream last night of this exact scene

[silentheiss]

SQQ: Disciple Shen Yuan is weak, useless and is in no way related to this master

SQQ: *catches 14yo SY cursing and kicking cowering SQH behind the woodshed*

SQQ: This master has never been more proud and also, he birthed A-Yuan out of his own body

[earlysunshines]

love at your door

minatozaki sana x fem!reader

synopsis: you wake up on the couch to find out that it’s actually not your couch and oh my god why is your hot neighbor sitting across from you watching tv???

warnings: sana is a FLIRT ; reader is a loser ; sana is a losersexual ; pacing is iffy but it’s bc i wanted it to be short ; alcohol ; anything else i didn’t mention ; not proofread so prob spelling errors idk i wrote most on my phone

a/n: based off the time i got drunk and fell asleep in the wrong room… anyways my love for sana will NEVER DIE guess who’s BACK.

you wake up with a groan, face smushed against a cushion that's definitely not yours, and the first thing that hits you—aside from the dull pounding in your head—is the faint sound of a tv playing in the background. 

slowly, you crack your eyes open, blinking against the morning light. you finally realize you’re not in your room, and the couch you're sprawled out on… also not yours.

you sit up too quickly and regret it immediately, head spinning, the room around you momentarily blurred. but then it sharpens, and your heart nearly stops when you spot her. sana, your neighbor—your gorgeous, gorgeous neighbor that you’ve been eyeing since you moved in—sitting across from you on her armchair, completely unbothered with her legs tucked underneath her, eyes fixed on the tv but clearly aware you’re awake now. 

she’s holding a ceramic mug in one hand, and for some reason, that little detail makes everything so much worse.

because—how did you end up here?

you glance down at yourself and, of course, you’re still in your luigi costume from last night. the tight green tank top clings to you under the denim overalls (one strap purposely loose and falling off your shoulder because you’re desperate for attention in these trying times) which you had decided to wear in some ill-fated attempt to look “hot” while still committing to the theme. you had succeeded, at least you think, judging from the compliments you vaguely remember through the drunken haze of the halloween party. but now, under sana’s gaze, you suddenly feel a lot less confident about it.

“jesus christ,” you mutter, rubbing your temples, trying to piece together what happened. “what—”

“morning sleepy,” sana says, finally looking over at you, lips curling into a small, amused smile. “you came stumbling in after the party. i figured it was safer to let you crash here than send you back to your place like that.”

this has to be a nightmare.

her voice is casual, like this isn’t completely mortifying for you. like this isn’t the exact scenario your sleep-deprived, engineering-major brain has dreamed up in countless fleeting moments when you’ve caught glimpses of her in the hallways (well, you figured you’d be in a less embarassing scene) but now it’s real, and your heart is thudding painfully loud in your chest, and you can’t decide if you want to disappear or if you never want to leave.

(the first option might be the smartest)

you clear your throat, pushing down the urge to bury your face in your hands. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t—i didn’t mean to crash here like that. i must’ve been drunk out of my mind i— fuck, nayeon, that bitch… im sorry my friends they’re—“

“don’t worry about it,” she waves off your apology, taking a sip from her mug, her gaze briefly dipping down to your outfit before flicking back to your face. “i never knew luigi could look this good.” she adds, a smirk playing on her face that renders you weak.

you feel heat rise to your face instantly, and you’re pretty sure it’s not just the aftermath of all the alcohol you consumed last night. her words hang in the air, teasing, but there’s something else in her tone that sends a jolt through you. something that makes you suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you feel, the snug fit of the tank top and the way her eyes had lingered on your exposed skin just for a second.

“uh—” you start, but your voice comes out strained, so you clear your throat again, scrambling for a response. “thank you…?”

she grins at your awkwardness, a soft, almost mischievous smile that only adds to the rising tension in the room. “you’re welcome.”

you force a laugh, trying to ignore the way her gaze makes your skin tingle. “right, well… thanks for, uh, taking care of me. and not letting me do something even more embarrassing.”

“more embarrassing than this?” sana raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your discomfort. she gestures toward your outfit with a nod, and you can’t help but huff a laugh this time, the tension breaking just a little.

“point taken,” you mutter, swinging your legs off the couch to stand, only for a wave of dizziness to hit. sana’s on her feet in a second, steadying you with a hand on your arm, her touch gentle but firm.

“easy,” she murmurs, and you freeze, suddenly way too aware of how close she is. her hand lingers just a second too long, and when she finally lets go, you feel like you can breathe again—but it doesn’t stop your pulse from racing.

her eyes dart down to the base of your neck and the intensity of her gaze is amplified.

“quite a hickey, huh?”

“what?” you had to be drunk drunk. you can’t recall anything about kissing girls, you’re not the type to be like that when under the influence. “that’s— i can’t even remember.”

“had fun, didn’t you?” sana looks back into your eyes, making you shrink despite her smaller frame. you feel sorry, you want to apologize for something you can’t even remember—you have no clue why. she’s just your neighbor. she’s the neighbor down the hall that greeted you kindly when you had moved in to town. the same neighbor that you had to blink multiple times at before realizing she’s not a fairytale princess that’s creeped out of the books.

you glance at the door, needing an escape, even though a very large part of you doesn’t want to leave just yet. but standing in her living room in yesterday’s clothes with your head still buzzing is doing nothing for your nerves.

“i should, uh, probably go,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the door.

sana steps back, giving you space, but her expression shifts into something playful as she watches you. “right. but hey—if you ever need a place to crash again, my couch is always open.”

you blink, not sure if she’s joking or if there’s more to that offer. but before you can overthink it, you nod, mumbling a quick, “thanks, i’ll keep that in mind,” before heading for the door.

and just as you’re about to step out, sana calls after you, her voice teasing, warm. “hey, luigi.”

you pause, turning to look at her.

she leans casually against the doorframe, eyes glinting with that same playfulness, and she gives you a slow, once-over before her lips curve into a smirk. “seriously. never knew luigi could be this hot.”

your heart stutters in your chest, and all you can do is laugh, a nervous, breathless sound, before quickly slipping out the door, your mind buzzing as you head back to your place.

sana always caught your eye, but now… now you’re pretty sure you’re never going to stop thinking about her.

—

the whole day you’re quite literally losing your mind. as soon as you crash onto your bed when you get back home, you cringe at how much of an idiot you are, and at the fact that you accepted every single drink handed to you by nayeon.

and then the next day, you’re still replaying the entire morning in your head—how sana’s words lingered, the way her eyes had flickered over you with that teasing smile. it’s been driving you to distraction all day. you couldn’t focus during class, barely heard a word your professor said, and by the time your last lecture ends, you’ve come to a decision.

you’re going to do something about it.

(you’re undeniably an idiot, but everyone in your circle knows that anyway.)

so after class, you stop by the small flower shop near campus. it’s not something you’d typically do—flowers and chocolate, that’s so cliché, right? but somehow it feels like the right move. sana had caught you completely off guard yesterday, and maybe it’s time you do the same.

you have a small conversation with the florist, who recommends her favorite assortment of tulips. you don’t want to do too much, so you settle with yellow tulips, their petals delicate and bright. simple, but thoughtful (you hope).

next, you pick out a small box of chocolates, nothing fancy but enough to show you’ve put some real thought into this. because somehow, leaving things the way they were feels unfinished.

you can’t possibly just leave it like that, you can’t have the only real memory and meaningful interaction between you and sana consist of you flat out drunk and at a loss for words.

you’re already a loser as it is, and especially when sana is around—whether that’s when you two both end up at the mailbox together, with you losing the ability to speak when she simply smiles and compliments you; and also the simple greetings when you two arrive at around the same time on wednesday’s and thursdays (not that you take note of it—you definitely do). 

when you get home, you scribble out a short note on a small card:

hi sana,  

thanks for letting me crash on your couch yesterday. i’m really, really sorry. 

here’s a little something as a thank you. hope you like tulips.

and chocolate.

– luigi 

you read it over twice, fighting the nervous energy bubbling up inside you. it’s playful, casual, but maybe—hopefully—it’ll make her smile. you take the flowers, chocolates, and the note, placing everything neatly in a small brown paper bag before heading down the hall.

when you reach her doorstep, your heart is pounding. you place the bag gently on the ground, adjusting the flowers one last time so they look perfect. then, you take a deep breath and knock, firm but quick, before spinning on your heel and rushing back to your own place.

you barely make it through the door before the nerves fully hit. your heart races, and you lean back against the door, letting out a heavy breath. what if she doesn’t like it? what if it’s too much?

but before your thoughts spiral too far, you hear the faint sound of her door opening down the hall, followed by the quiet shuffle of her picking up the bag.

there’s silence for a bit before you hear the door close again, earning a sigh of relief.

if your friends were to find out literally everything that had happened in the span of less than forty-eight hours, they’d tease you until you had to move out again.

—

the next night, you’re at your desk, buried in the engineering assignment youve been given that same day. something about fluid dynamics, a dense problem set that has you scribbling equations and checking graphs on your laptop. it’s not exactly easy to focus—your mind keeps wandering back to sana, the flowers, the chocolates, and really just everything about her. every time you think about her, a small smile tugs at your lips, despite the headache that’s building from the workload.

then, out of nowhere, you hear a knock at the door.

you blink, glancing at the clock. you’re not expecting anyone, and for a second, you wonder if you imagined it. but when the knock repeats, you push your chair back, setting aside your notes. still a little distracted by the assignment, you take your time getting up, stretching briefly before finally heading to the door.

when you open it, there’s no one there. just silence, the hallway empty. but as you glance down, you spot something on the floor—a folded piece of paper. your heart skips a beat, and you can’t help but grin as you bend down to pick it up, already knowing who it’s from.

you unfold the note, and sana’s handwriting greets you:

so, you’re kinda cute even in that luigi costume—i couldn’t stop thinking about you

(i think you’re cute in uniform and not) 

though i have to ask—what’s with the hickey? did luigi have a little too much fun?  ;)

anyway, i liked the flowers. i liked the chocolates too. 

but i think i like the person giving them more.

you should come over in five minutes if you’re not too shy. i mean, you weren’t that shy the other night ;)  

– sana <3

your face heats up instantly as you read the hickey line, hand instinctively reaching to touch your neck. there’s no way, right? you don’t remember—

then it hits you. fuck. it wasn’t a hickey. nayeon had bullied you about how you ran into something that night at her party, some broom? wall? maybe momo elbowed you? or something. you’re not the type to just fuck random girls, not when you’re loyal to your neighbor that you utter maybe three sentences a week to if you’re lucky. but the thought of what had happened that night isn’t even important because now your mind’s racing, thinking about how sana’s teasing you. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you all giddy and nervous.

you reread the note, feeling that familiar nervous excitement grow. come over in five minutes if you’re not too shy. your pulse picks up. there’s no way you’re saying no to that.

without bothering to change out of your hoodie and sweats, you grab your keys, locking the door behind you as you head down the hall. your heart’s still racing, and your mind’s swirling with a mix of nerves and anticipation as you stop in front of sana’s door.

when she opens it, she’s standing there with that same playful smirk—sultry, seductive, and somehow so cute at the same time. her eyes gleam like she already knows exactly what’s going through your mind. 

"took you long enough," she says, stepping aside to let you in, her voice warm, teasing. "for a second, i thought you’d be too shy to show up."

you huff a laugh, shaking your head as you walk inside, glancing around her apartment again. “i’m– i’m not.” it sounds unconvincing, but the woman in front of you thinks it’s adorable.

she quirks a brow, then smiles at that, closing the door behind you. "good to know." she says, handing you a small glass of wine and suddenly everything is a little bit too intimate. 

the two of you end up sitting on her couch, the tv still softly playing in the background like it had been the other morning. the conversation flows easily—there’s that natural comfort between you now, even with the teasing tension that lingers under the surface.

she talks about herself and you talk about yourself too, piquing both your interests. small talk grows into something bigger and you two enjoy the newfound information you’re both learning about each other. you’re breaking the ice, maybe easing into the cold waters in comparison to splashing into it.

“so, about that hickey,” she says, leaning back into the couch, her grin widening as she glances pointedly at your neck. her leg crosses over the other and she holds the glass in her hand near her lips, a small smirk tugging at one corner. “i’m just saying, it looks a little suspicious.”

you roll your eyes, your face heating up again. “it’s not a hickey. i swear.”

“uh-huh,” she teases, clearly not letting it go. “sure it’s not.”

“apparently i hit a broom or wall—something like that.” you shake your head, laughing lightly, but there’s an undeniable pull between you two. 

the way she looks at you, the way her smile lingers a little too long, and the way her knee brushes against yours every now and then—you have to hold yourself back from saying and doing a lot of things. it’s in the way her voice lowers when she speaks, soft and reeling.

you spend the next hour just talking, laughing, sharing random stories about classes, her teasing you about your engineering homework, and you teasing her back about her terrible taste in tv shows. every time she smiles or laughs, it feels like a small victory, something you want to keep chasing. and every time you speak her eyes are in deep contact with yours, spiking your heartrate without fail.

eventually, the conversation lulls, and there’s a moment of quiet where she looks at you, her eyes softening just slightly. “you know,” she murmurs, “i’m really glad you came over. this… was nice.”

“yeah,” you say, smiling back, your heart racing in your chest. “it was.”

“i always thought you were really cute,” she says before sipping on her white wine, “but i’m not a chaser.”

“is that right?”

“unless you count me responding to your apology, then yes.”

you laugh, setting the empty glass down. 

“well,” you begin, biting your lip. “i like to pursue.”

“quite forward isn’t it?”

“you invited me over for wine, it doesn’t get more forward than what you’ve brought to the table.”

“is that so?” sana hums, tilting her head. she bites the inside of her lip, looking at you with narrowed eyes. “i think it can get more forward.”

your breath hitches in the slightest and you can tell sana’s noticed when she lets out that signature chuckle. 

“well, i think it’s time to end the night. you were working on assignments prior, no?” you frown at the suggestion.

“i— yeah, you’re right.” 

there’s a knowing smile on her lips, but you ignore it and stand up with her as she walks you to her door. 

“i had a great time pretty girl,” she puts her hand on your forearm while saying it, her touch burning your skin. “hopefully we can be much more forward next time.”

you laugh. “i like the sound of that.”

“mhm, goodnight.” she says, grinning at you before meekly closing her door.

you purse your lips before walking down the hall and reaching your door. your hand lingers on the doorknob before you turn it and head in, feeling a sense of regret.

…

sana hears a knock at her door ten minutes later, turning off the sink and drying her hands before walking over to see what’s up. 

the moment the door opens and sana sees you standing there, the look on her face is priceless.

“what—” she starts, raising an eyebrow, clearly confused, but before she can finish, you step forward, your hand reaching out to grab her forearm gently. you pull her just a little closer, your heart pounding as you look at her.

“i want to be more forward,” you admit, voice low, the question hanging in the space between you.

for a second, she just stares at you, wide-eyed, before a soft laugh escapes her. she gets it now. “oh, we’re moving pretty fast, aren’t we?” she teases, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “take me out to dinner.”

you grin, and she hesitates for a beat, but then she nods, and it’s enough—enough to send your pulse racing, enough for you to lean in. before you can close the distance, though, her hand comes up, fingers lightly brushing the base of your neck, and you feel her shiver as she touches you.

“you say that like,” you pause, observing the surprise and allure in her features. “like you didn’t eye-fuck me the other night.”

her cheeks flush as her fingers linger on your skin, and you catch the way she bites her lip, trying to hide her own smile. you don’t wait any longer.

you lean in and meet her lips with yours, melting into it just as she does. 

it starts soft, just a gentle press of your lips against hers, but it quickly deepens as sana lets out a quiet, surprised sound that turns into something more—something she’s clearly enjoying a little too much. her hand moves to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and the way she kisses you back sends a thrill through you.

before you know it, she’s dragging you inside, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other guiding you back toward the couch. the door closes behind you, but you barely notice, too focused on the way her lips move against yours.

when you finally pull back for air, she’s breathless, grinning like she’s just won something. “you should’ve been this forward earlier,” she teases, her thumb brushing against the side of your neck.

“yeah?” you ask, a little breathless yourself, but you can’t stop smiling.

“yeah,” she murmurs, eyes flickering down to your lips before she leans in again, kissing you slower this time, savoring it. sana is a great kisser, the type of kisser that leaves you wanting more and more. after a moment, she pulls back, just enough to whisper, “maybe you should stay a little longer.”

you can’t help but laugh softly. “you sure you can handle that?”

“please,” she says, eyes twinkling with that familiar mischievous look. “you weren’t that shy the other night.”

“well i was drunk and—“

before you can even finish your response, she’s kissing you again, and this time, you’re more than happy to let her pull you even closer.

[prythianpages]

But the Worms | Azriel

Azriel x Green Witch | Azriel is woken up by your daughter in the middle of the night to answer some of her questions.

warnings: fluff, dad Az

word count: 943

a/n: Just a short little fic that can be read as a stand alone. This was inspired by a scene from Bob's Burgers lol.

Rain pattered against the window steadily, accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder. Every so often, the sky would flare with a jagged streak of lightning, briefly illuminating the room with a cold, blue light before plunging it back into shadow. The storm was a familiar, comforting backdrop to Azriel’s slumber.

But his shadows, ever vigilant, stirred with a whisper of unease.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open, drawn by the shift in his shadows. That’s when he heard them. The faint, hurried sound of small footsteps. His shadows fluttered toward the door as they sensed the hesitant shuffle against the wooden floor.

He didn't need his shadows to tell him who was on the other side. Had it been his first born, he'd never hear the steps as she loved to sneak up on him,. The door would've been open abruptly with no hesitation whatsoever but it's been years since she last had a nightmare. A nightmare she didn't welcome, at least.

That was not the case tonight. It was his second-born. Sweet little Alora, who, true to her name, should be dreaming of unicorns and rainbows as she loved to recount to him every morning, rather than being awake.

His gaze flickered to you. While Azriel was a light sleeper, you were a heavy sleeper and truth be told, you were sound asleep, back turned toward him. A shadow tenderly caressed your back before he shifted his attention back to the door. He was already sitting up in the bed, blinking away the sleep or at least trying when the door opened quietly, muted with the help of his shadows.

Alora stood at the door. Her hair, the exact shade of yours, was disheveled, the bangs she cut herself last week splayed over her forehead awkwardly. A rite of passage, you had called it, reminding him that your first born had done the same.

Her eyes, the exact shade of his, were wide and glistening, and there was a pout on her face.

Azriel’s chest tightened at the sight, wanting nothing more than to soothe whatever troubled her, despite his fatigue. He extended his arms out, and Alora ran right into them, her small frame immediately enveloped by his.

Cradling her to his chest, he pushed her bangs back and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “Did you have a nightmare?” He asked, voice still heavy with sleep.

“No. I haven’t slept at all,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Azriel frowned, glancing at the clock. It was well past midnight, and his eyes were begging for sleep, lulled by the rain falling outside. “Is it the storm?”

Alora placed her hands on his chest, pushing herself up slightly. She spared a glance to your sleeping form before leaning in closer to her father, careful not to wake you with her voice. Though, Azriel doubted you'd wake at all.

Her hazel eyes, so innocent and pure, stared into his own. “Do you think worms have dreams too?”

Azriel's heart softened further. Her worries were so small, so wonderfully trivial compared to the burdens he had carried as a child.

“I’m sure they dream,” he murmured, gently pulling his daughter's head back to his chest, wishing for her to always have such simple worries. He also hoped she’d be content with his answer and finally drift off to sleep herself.

“But what do they dream?”

“The same things you do.” He replied, trying to stifle a yawn. He snuck a glance at you, still oblivious to your daughter’s insatiable curiosity.

“Do they get nightmares too?” 

Azriel fought back his groan. He loved his daughters deeply and strongly. He would go through all ends of the world for them. Any other time, he would entertain this conversation fully, but it was late, and Alora should be fast asleep like her sister. 

“Mel says worms come out when it storms so that we don’t hear their cries.”

Speak of the little devil herself. Mel was sure to get an earful from him. Tomorrow morning, or rather, in a couple of hours. Azriel took a deep breath, trying to muster the energy to explain, his body aching for rest.

Azriel could hear the thoughts swirling through her mind as she continued. “Why would they cry? Is it because of the bad dreams?”

“Don’t listen to your sister,” he said gently, running a hand through Alora’s tousled hair.

“But you told me to listen to her yesterday morning.”

“I did,” Azriel replied with a slight grimace, regretting that decision immensely at this very moment. Granted, he had said that after Mel told Lor to stop riling up Sprinkles, her pet scorpion. “But that’s different.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain tomorrow,” he said, his voice a mix of patience and weariness.

“But the worms–”

“The worms don’t have nightmares and they come out during storms because they love the rain. Now, go to sleep. Please.”

Alora let out a small gasp, her hand losing its tension against his chest. “You promise?”

“Yes.” Azriel replied quickly, not certain what exactly he was promising. He'd deal with it later.

“Okay.”

When he finally felt her body relax in his arms, he let out a breath of relief. He held her tighter in his arms, shifting them to face in your direction before settling Alora between you both. He didn’t have the energy to take her back to her bed.

He gladly gave in to the heaviness of his eyelids, his eyes closing shut and ready to embrace sleep under the comfort of the rain once more--

"Daddy?"

He didn't bother opening his eyes. "Yes?"

"I love you."

His lips tugged up into a smile. "I love you too, my sweets."

Alora snuggled closer to him, tiny hands grasping onto his larger one and placing it over her face. She always found comfort in his touch, despite the scars that marred his hands. It was something that never failed to make his chest swell with warmth. Along with the way both his daughters always looked up to him, eyes full of affection and admiration.

His thumb caressed her cheek, soothing her as his shadows settled back into their corner of the room, curling into the bed Alora had gotten them for Solstice this year.

For centuries, his shadows had slept among other shadows, usually underneath the bed or in the corners of rooms. But Alora had felt bad for them one night, and when shopping for Solstice this year, she had asked you to take her to the pet store and picked out the softest bed for Azriel’s shadows.

Though his shadows had never complained or shown any interest in comfier sleeping habits, they had vibrated with excitement at the sight of the gift. Now, they slept there every night, happy and content, snuggling amongst one another and curling into a ball.

As his thoughts began to blur and drift, the world around him softened, the edges of his awareness becoming fuzzy and indistinct. Now that he knew your daughter was okay and her curiosity satiated, he could go back to sleep.

His breathing slowed, deep and even, matching the gentle rise and fall of your own breath. Just as he was about to give in to the sweet embrace of sleep–

“Daddy?”

He could barely manage a grunt in response.

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”

Oh, this was definitely your daughter.

series tag list:@fxckmiup, @aria-chikage

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human, @mrsjna

[munson-blurbs]

Summary: An evening in the Wheeler basement reveals what you've been trying to deny about your best friend, and longtime crush, Eddie.

WC: 827

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, unrequited love, mention of sex. You've been warned.

--

Eddie “Speak First, Think Later” Munson struck again. 

A rainy spring Saturday had the Hellfire Club gathered for an impromptu meeting in the Wheeler basement. Eddie whipped out a campaign that he’d been saving, somehow just as detail-rich as the ones he’d meticulously prepared for regular Friday sessions. It had gone on for hours until Dustin, the last player standing, rolled to cast a fireball and was met with utter failure. 

“Damn, and here I thought this was one of my weaker ones.” Eddie popped a sour cream and onion chip in his mouth, crunching down with a triumphant grin. “Looks like I’m unstoppable. Impenetrable. Invincible, even.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Gareth muttered, but there was no missing his own smile as he added, “tell that to Chrissy Cunningham.”

Chrissy Cunningham? Your stomach dropped at the mention of her name. You’d noticed him glancing over at her table in the cafeteria, and saw him at her locker a few times, but that didn’t mean…

Jeff snorted. “He can’t tell her anything without looking like a total moron. ‘H-Hey, Chrissy. Nice hair, um, thing.’” 

“I do not sound like that, asshole.”

“Dude, you said that exact sentence in algebra yesterday. It was a direct quote.”

Your throat was scratchy from shouting during the game, but you cleared it and forced yourself to speak. “What’s going on with Chrissy?”

Grant ignored the glare that Eddie preemptively gave the rest of the guys. “Our fearless leader is smitten with the Queen of Hawkins High,” he teased. Mike, Dustin, and Lucas all underscored his statement with obnoxious kissy noises. 

“Shut up!” Eddie yelled, but it only further spurred them on. 

“Don’t be shy,” Dustin said through his laughter. “Everyone knows you loooooove her!”

You didn’t. Okay, maybe a part of you did, but your optimism—or perhaps naivety—dismissed the idea. Because if he loved Chrissy, that meant he didn’t love you. It meant the long hugs and arms slung over your shoulder were platonic. That the deep conversations late into the night were simply between friends. 

“I don’t love her,” Eddie retorted, his pinkening cheeks giving him away. “I just think she’s cute, okay?”

“Cute?” Lucas said. He rolled his eyes. “Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Babies are—”

“Fine, I think she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life!” Eddie snapped, but a soft smile tugged at the ends of his lips. “Are you idiots happy now?”

The most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life. In his life. 

Happy? You were the farthest thing from happy. 

Your eyes blurred with tears, blinking them back and timing a sniffle with the crinkling of the chip bag as Mike passed it to Lucas. If you could pull yourself together, you could excuse yourself before you broke down completely. 

“Dude.” Jeff looked at Eddie, pulling his gaze to you despite your reluctance to even glance his way. “She’s a girl.”

“Oh, shit.” Eddie chuckled, snagging his Mountain Dew can from the snack table and taking an extended swig. “It’s not like I’m gonna have sex with my best friend, though.”

Gareth feigned a pout. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not having sex with you either.”

You watched as Eddie finished his soda, crushing the can in his fist and tossing it at the drummer’s curly mop of hair. 

It’s not like I’m gonna have sex with my best friend. 

Not even a pause. Not a moment of consideration. Nothing close to the movie-esque scene where the boy realized that the girl of his dreams had been right in front of him the whole time. 

Mustering up a half-smile, you pushed yourself off of the couch. “I’m gonna head home. I’m pretty beat.”

Beat. Broken. Destroyed. Shattered. 

Eddie sat up, brushing Lays crumbs onto his jeans and leaving them shiny with oily residue. “Let me drive you,” he offered. 

You shook your head. “N-No, I wanna walk.” 

“It’s raining,” he protested. 

“It’s fine.”

That may have been the first time you’d declined the chance to spend time alone with him. You lived for the days you’d climb into the passenger seat of his van after Hellfire, resting your head against the window as it vibrated from the bass of the radio speakers. 

Eddie shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, turning his attention back to the guys. 

He didn’t come after you. You heard his laughter echoing around the basement as you ascended the stairs, barely managing to close the door before you burst into tears. 

Everything you wanted Eddie to feel for you, he felt for Chrissy. The thought of watching his eyes follow her around the cafeteria on Monday roiled a sickness within you. 

You wished you’d never showed up to the Wheelers’ today. Although it wouldn’t have changed Eddie’s love for Chrissy—or his lack of love for you—at least you could continue pretending that there was hope. 

Now, you had nothing but a broken heart.  

--

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 17

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"If he's a serial killer, then what's the worst That could happen to a girl who's already hurt?"

summary: joel went back to town for help

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 17

masterlist!

previous | chapter 16

next | chapter 18

Joel sat in the dimly lit truck, gripping the steering wheel as his mind raced. Every passing motel sign felt like a twisted beacon of hope, and yet, nothing—just more dead ends.

He couldn’t stop.

The thought of you out there, taken, in some nightmare he couldn't quite piece together, was enough to drive him insane. He didn't know who this man was, didn't know his name, but Joel remembered the handwriting—he'd seen it in guest books at motels, on receipts left behind, under fake names, always a step ahead.

He slammed his fist into the dashboard, frustration bubbling inside him, pulling him under like a riptide.

The FBI was after him, every second ticking down like a clock he couldn't stop. Joel had become the face of a crime he didn't commit, and now the world believed he was the monster. His brother Tommy had no idea about the depth of this nightmare, and Joel wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep that secret.

Ellie kept calling, desperate to find him, but he couldn’t answer her. He couldn’t risk it—not when the only thing that mattered now was finding you. The guilt gnawed at him like a relentless beast. He couldn’t protect you. He had failed. But he wouldn't let it end here.

Hotel after hotel, state after state—the same fluorescent vacancy signs blinking back at him, taunting him like the glow of distant stars that could never be reached.

He had been here with you, in these places, laughing in the safety of their anonymity. But now, those memories had turned to ash in his hands. Every room felt hollow, stripped of meaning, just like the heart inside his chest.

The guest books were all the same—fake names, neat handwriting, the kind that made Joel’s skin crawl with recognition. The bastard was mocking him, leaving a breadcrumb trail that twisted and turned like a sick game of cat and mouse.

And Joel, in his desperation, was losing—losing time, losing you.

Two weeks had passed since you were taken, and each second since felt like it carved another piece from his soul. His temper flared now—small arguments turning into wild eruptions with motel clerks who wouldn’t let him see the guest books.

More than once, his hand found itself tangled in the collar of some poor receptionist’s shirt, his voice hoarse, demanding, begging for information. Every time, he had to stop himself, had to remember that he was a fugitive. That the world had turned against him.

Disguises, fake hats, beards—he did what he could to move undetected. But he couldn’t hide from himself. The nightmares came every night, slithering into his dreams like poison, filling him with scenes of you screaming, of blood, of hands he couldn’t reach.

He drowned it out the only way he knew how—pills, whiskey, whatever he could find. His body was exhausted, his mind unraveling thread by thread, as the days bled into each other.

And then the questions started, sharp and relentless, piercing his already fraying sanity. What if you weren’t taken? What if you had seen the news about him? What if you knew everything—Ben, Jamie, the blood on his hands—and you ran? Fled from him, from the monster he had become.

His heart clenched at the thought, a black hole opening in his chest. No. He couldn’t believe that. You wouldn’t. But the thought twisted inside him, planting seeds of doubt he couldn’t shake.

Was it safe to go back? Could he risk returning to town, even in secret, just to see Tommy? To beg for help? But would you be there? What if you were hiding from him? The questions swarmed like locusts in his mind, buzzing louder and louder until he couldn’t think. He had to go back.

***

Ellie slammed her fists on the table, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Tell me where the fuck he is, Tommy. I need to see him.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His hands rubbed his temples as he tried to keep his composure. “Ellie, I don’t know where he is.”

“You lied!” Ellie snapped, her eyes wide with disbelief. “He’s out there, hunted, I need to find him!”

“I said I don’t know, Ellie!” Tommy barked back, his voice strained with frustration. “We were supposed to meet in Miami, before all this shit happened. But now? I don’t know where the hell he is.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ellie’s voice trembled with anger and fear, her fists clenched tight at her sides. “You know something. You have to.”

“Ellie, stop!” Tommy’s voice cracked, the weight of the argument pressing hard against him. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and filled with a desperation he hadn’t shown before. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

Maria stepped in between them, her voice a soft but firm plea for calm. “Both of you, stop. This isn’t helping. We need to think straight about this.”

Silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears. Ellie turned away, frustrated, pacing the living room like a caged animal. She had been staying with Tommy and Maria since Joel had vanished, their home feeling more like a prison with each passing day.

That night, the house was quiet. Tommy and Maria were asleep, their babyboy, Luke, stirring occasionally in his crib. But Maria heard something.

A noise—a creak in the floorboards that didn’t belong. She slipped out of bed, moving with the cautious grace of a mother on high alert. She headed to the kitchen to prepare formula for Luke, but then… she heard it again.

Her heart raced, fear crawling up her spine. Was it a burglar? An intruder? She called out for Tommy, but no answer. Grabbing Tommy’s golf club, Maria moved carefully down the hallway, her knuckles white around the handle.

And then a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

“Shh.”

She froze.

The hand let go, and she spun around, her heart pounding in her chest. “Joel?!”

Joel’s face was gaunt, shadowed by exhaustion, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. He held his hands up, trying to calm her, but Maria’s body shook with shock and fear.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hissed, backing away slowly, the club still in her grip. The news reports about Joel raced through her mind—murder, fugitives, everything. She had seen him as family once, but now… she wasn’t sure.

“Maria, please,” Joel whispered, desperation seeping into his voice. “I need to talk to Tommy.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Maria’s voice was small now, shaking. “I—" she looked down the hall toward the bedrooms, fear clutching her chest.

“I didn’t do it,” Joel said, stepping closer, his voice low, almost pleading. “I didn’t kill the Gibsons. I swear it.”

Maria swallowed hard, her eyes wide with disbelief. “But you killed the pastor. And the boy.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with a storm of emotions. “I had to. I had to get rid of them to protect her.”

Maria took another step back, her body trembling. Joel could see the fear in her eyes—she was afraid of him now, the weight of his actions hanging between them like a noose.

“Please, Maria,” Joel whispered. “I need to talk to Tommy.”

Tommy awoke to the sound of Maria’s voice, low and strained. He stumbled out of bed, heading toward the kitchen, his heart sinking when he saw who was there.

“Joel? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Joel’s head snapped up, his face a mask of desperation and grief. “Tommy… I need your help. She’s gone.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, gone?”

Joel’s voice broke as he stepped forward, his hands trembling. “She’s been taken. I—I don’t know what to do.”

Tommy stared at his brother, his eyes wide with disbelief. Joel stood before him like a ghost—hollow, ragged, a shadow of the man he once knew. His face was drawn, eyes sunken with sleepless nights and too much whiskey.

His clothes hung off him, sweat-stained and worn, like they had been clinging to him for days. Tommy could hardly recognize the man in front of him. His brother was now a broken mess, standing on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go but down.

“Come on,” Tommy muttered, glancing back at Maria, who was still clutching Luke protectively. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

Maria nodded nervously, holding Luke tighter against her chest, and Tommy led Joel into the living room, the air thick with tension. Once they were alone, Tommy turned to face his brother, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with restrained fury.

“What the fuck, Joel? What have you done?”

Joel’s hands shook as he rubbed his face, his mind racing, searching for words that made sense. But nothing about this made sense anymore. “I didn’t… I didn’t kill the Gibsons. Tommy, I swear to God—someone’s trying to trap me.”

Tommy’s heart raced, every fiber of him wanting to believe his brother, but the weight of everything he’d heard pressed against his chest like a stone. “Trap you? You expect me to believe that? You fucking killed the pastor, Joel! You killed the boy!”

Joel flinched as if Tommy’s words were a physical blow, his shoulders slumping under the guilt he carried like a cross. He looked down at the floor, his voice cracking. “I didn’t have a choice, Tommy. I had to protect her.”

Tommy's stomach churned as he stared at Joel, disgust twisting in his gut. “You had to? Had to what? What the fuck does that mean?” He felt betrayed, a deep wound splitting his chest open. “You lied to me, Joel. You lied to me.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and he lifted his gaze, his eyes bloodshot and full of desperation. “I did it for her. I had to get rid of them to keep her safe.”

Tommy’s head pounded, his world spinning. “Keep her safe? You think killing people is keeping her safe?” His voice rose, barely contained, anger flooding his veins like wildfire.

“The fucking FBI is after you, Joel! Do you understand that? The FBI!” He was yelling now, his words slamming into the walls of the room, reverberating like a storm.

Joel clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "I know that! You think I don’t know how bad it is? I didn’t want this, Tommy, but I’m trying—”

“Trying?!” Tommy cut him off, his voice laced with venom. “You fucking murdered people! And you’re telling me you’re trying?” His hands trembled as he stepped closer, his eyes burning with a mix of rage and sorrow.

Joel’s eyes were hollow, filled with an ocean of guilt he could no longer drown. He took a breath, but it came out ragged, as if the very act of breathing was becoming too much to bear.

“I know… I know I fucked up, Tommy.” His voice wavered, soft, broken. “But I need your help. I need to find her.”

Tommy’s heart twisted painfully. He could see the desperation in Joel’s eyes—the same eyes that had always watched out for him, always protected him.

But now, those eyes were clouded with something darker, something Tommy couldn’t reach. “You lost her?” Tommy’s voice was quiet now, raw with disbelief. “What do you mean you lost her?”

Joel’s hand pressed against his forehead as if he could somehow hold his mind together through sheer willpower. “She was taken. Two weeks ago. I don’t know where she is, and I’ve searched everywhere. I’m losing my mind, Tommy, and I need you to help me find her.”

Tommy stepped back, his hand running through his hair as the gravity of Joel’s words hit him. He had never seen his brother like this—not since Sarah, not since Jane. Back then, Joel had crumbled, but this... this was something worse.

The cracks were deeper now, like his soul was unraveling before Tommy's eyes, and every piece that fell apart took something vital with it. Tommy’s anger began to ebb, replaced by a gnawing worry.

“Joel…” Tommy’s voice softened, heavy with concern. “Tell me everything. What happened?"

Joel sat down heavily, his hands trembling as he reached into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled letter. His fingers, stiff and rough with callouses, were unsteady as he handed it to Tommy.

“This man… he’s been followin’ us. Watchin’ her. I didn’t notice at first, didn’t see it until it was too late.” His voice broke, thick with guilt. "I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve protected her better."

Tommy took the letter, unfolding it carefully, the paper soft with wear, the ink smudged from being handled so many times. As he read, the air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing in around him as the words sank into his chest like stones. The man’s words were obsessive, possessive. A predator circling his prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“How the hell did you not notice you were bein’ followed?” Tommy’s voice was a low hiss, disbelief and frustration swirling in his mind. “How could you let this happen?”

Joel’s head dropped into his hands, his fingers gripping his hair tightly as if trying to hold himself together by sheer force. “I don’t know, Tommy. I don’t fucking know. I was tryin’—God, I was tryin’ to protect her, but I didn’t see him… didn’t know.” His voice cracked, and the weight of his own failure bore down on him, suffocating him.

“I can’t get them outta my head. The pastor, the boy… I see their faces every time I close my eyes. I did what I had to, but it’s like their ghosts are hauntin’ me. And now she’s gone, and I—"

Tommy's jaw tightened. Joel wasn’t just running from the law. He was running from himself, from the blood on his hands. The guilt was eating him alive, and now, with you gone, it was suffocating him. Tommy didn’t know if his brother could survive this one.

“We can’t go to the cops, Joel,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head. “They’re after you. You step one foot outside, and they’ll hunt you down. You’re a fugitive.”

Joel's eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, locked onto Tommy’s. "I don't care about me," he rasped. “I just need to find her. I can't lose her, Tommy. Not her too. If I lose her…” His voice faltered, and for a moment, he looked utterly broken.

“I can’t go through that pain again. I can't. It’ll kill me.” His voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Please, Tommy. Please help me.”

Tommy’s heart twisted. Joel had been strong his entire life, but this—this wasn’t strength. This was a man drowning, clutching at anything to keep himself from slipping under.

Before Tommy could say a word, the sound of footsteps echoed softly behind them. They both turned, and there she was.

“Joel?” Ellie stood in the doorway, her voice quiet but full of confusion. Her eyes were wide, full of questions she didn’t even know how to ask yet.

Ellie stood in the doorway, her small frame tense with confusion and concern, her eyes wide and full of unspoken questions that seemed to hang heavy in the air.

For a moment, neither Tommy nor Joel moved—until Ellie broke the silence, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around Joel. The reunion was wordless, raw, and desperate.

She was mad—furious, even—but beneath the anger was relief, deep and overwhelming. She clung to him like a lifeline, her face buried against his chest, and Joel felt the knot in his heart loosen, the guilt he had been carrying since the day he left her finally beginning to lift.

“Ellie…” His voice was rough, laden with everything he couldn’t say. His arms came around her, pulling her close as he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. She was here. Safe. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm so fuckin' sorry."

Ellie pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “What the fuck, Joel?" Her voice cracked, caught between anger and the ache of missing him. "I thought something happened to you. I thought you were dead."

Joel closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the wave of guilt that surged through him. He swallowed hard, the weight of what he had done pressing against his chest.

"I miss you every day. But I—" His voice faltered, thick with regret. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm sorry I left you.

Ellie’s gaze softened, and the anger seemed to drain out of her. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, softer.

She hesitated, looking around the room as if searching for something. "Where is she?"

Joel’s heart sank, and he looked away, his jaw tightening. “She’s gone,” he whispered, the words like knives in his throat. “Someone took her.”

“What?” Ellie blinked in shock, her brows furrowing. "But… who? Her parents are dead. Joel—" She paused, her voice lowering. "Did you… did you kill them? Did you kill her parents?"

“No!" Joel's voice was sharp, defensive. "I didn’t kill her parents, Ellie. But I—" He hesitated, his throat tightening.

"You killed Ben and Jamie." Ellie said bluntly. There was a brief, Ellie stared at him, her expression unreadable for a moment, before she exhaled sharply.

“You had to,” she said, her tone flat but understanding. "You did what you had to do." Her words were blunt, as if she'd already accepted the brutal reality they lived in.

“They fucking deserved it.”

Joel nodded, the relief almost too much to bear. He’d been so afraid of losing her too, afraid she would look at him differently. But Ellie, somehow, understood. She always had.

Tommy finally spoke, stepping forward. "You can’t stay here, Joel. The cops are lookin’ for you. The FBI is breathin' down our necks. You stay here, and they’ll catch you. Worse than that, they’ll lock you up for life—if they don’t kill you first.”

“I know,” Joel muttered, his voice low, thick with frustration and dread. “I gotta find her. I have to.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, his mind working through the possibilities. “But we gotta be smart about it. No cops. I’ll handle the heat here, keep 'em off your trail, but you—” He pointed at Joel. “You need to figure out who the fuck took her. Any clues? Anythin’ at all?”

Joel’s head spun, trying to piece together the broken fragments of memory. Then, like a flash, it came to him—Chicago. The man, the one who had been following them.

He had seen him, once, back when you had met the man. "Chicago,"

"She tole me about him, I--I don't remember his name, I was too mad at her for talking to people," Joel murmured, his brow furrowing as the memory sharpened. "I gotta go back there."

Ellie, who had been standing quietly, suddenly cut in, her voice determined. “I’m coming with you.”

“No," Joel shook his head, his voice firm. “It’s too dangerous, Ellie. I can’t drag you into this.”

Tommy backed him up immediately. “He’s right, kid. You’re stayin’ here, with me and Maria. We’ll keep you safe.”

Ellie’s eyes flared with frustration, her voice sharp as she threw back Joel’s words. “Like hell I’m staying here, Joel! She’s my friend too! You think I’m just gonna sit around while you go off, risking your life? No fucking way. I’m coming with you. I don’t care what you say!”

Joel’s heart clenched at the fire in her, the same fierce, stubborn defiance that once belonged to Sarah. For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension, like the calm before a storm.

“You stay here, Ellie,” Joel said again, his tone cold, trying to distance himself from the heat of the moment. "You can’t come with me."

Ellie shook her head, her jaw tightening. “No, Joel! I’m not letting you—"

“Ellie!” Joel interrupted, his voice growing sharper. “Ellie, stay here! You need to listen to me.”

She was relentless, her words flying out faster than he could rein her in, her emotions flooding over her like a wave. "I’m not a kid anymore that you can just leave behind! I come with you!”

“Ellie. Ellie!” Joel’s voice started to crack under the weight of it, but she wouldn’t stop.

"Ellie! ELLIE, LISTEN TO ME!"

His shout echoed through the room like a gunshot, halting everything in its tracks. Even Tommy flinched. Ellie froze, her wide eyes finally settling on Joel’s face, the sheer force of his voice cutting through her resolve.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and suffocating, like the air had been knocked from the room. Ellie’s breath hitched, her defiance faltering as she saw the raw fear in Joel’s eyes—the kind of fear she hadn’t seen since the days they fought to survive together.

Joel exhaled, his voice softer now but broken, each word trembling on the edge of his guilt and his need to protect her.

“I can’t risk you, Ellie. Not you. You stay here, with Tommy and Maria. I need you to be safe, I need you to be somewhere I know you won’t get hurt. If anything happens to you, I... I can't forgive myself. I can't lose you too, not after everything.” His words faltered, but they were laced with the kind of agony that made Ellie’s heart twist.

He took a step forward, his rough hand reaching out, but Ellie pulled back slightly, her face hardening again, though there was now a flicker of something else—something like fear.

"Tommy," Joel turned to his brother, his voice quieter now, as if every word was scraping at his throat, "keep her safe. If I... if I don’t make it back—”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Ellie’s voice was sharp again, her hands curling into fists. “You are coming back, Joel. Don’t give me this bullshit! You always come back to me!”

Joel looked at her, his expression full of something heavy and unspeakable. He took another step closer, and this time, when he reached for her, Ellie didn’t pull away.

“Listen to me, kiddo.” His voice was rough but tender, the words thick with a sorrow that Ellie had never heard before.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leavin’ you, for not bein’ the dad you needed. I know I’ve failed you in a lot of ways. But if something happens to me… if I don’t come back, you need to promise me somethin'. Don’t... don’t blame yourself. Don’t blame anyone. You need to keep going."

Ellie’s throat tightened, her breath coming out shaky. She shook her head. “No. No. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to leave me.”

“I don’t want to leave you, Ellie,” Joel said, his voice cracking like a dam under too much pressure. “But this man—he’s dangerous. And I... I have to protect her. I have to protect you. And if I don’t—if I can’t, I need you to live. I need you to keep going.”

Ellie’s hands clenched tighter, and she felt the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. Her vision blurred, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You don’t get to do this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You come back. You have to come back."

Joel cupped her face in his calloused hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears she didn’t realize had fallen. “I’ll try, kiddo. I swear. But if I don’t…” His voice broke completely, filled with the raw pain of a man who had lost too much. "If I don’t make it... I need you to be okay.”

The room felt suffocating, the gravity of the moment pulling them both into an abyss of uncertainty, where words like “promise” and “safe” were fragile, almost meaningless.

Ellie pressed her forehead against his chest, her fists clenching his shirt as if holding him tighter could stop the inevitable. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Please don’t go.”

"Don't leave me, Joel."

Joel’s heart shattered into pieces in that moment, but he couldn’t show it. He couldn’t let her see just how terrified he was, how the thought of leaving her again felt like a death sentence. “I'm sorry,”

Her tears soaked into his shirt, silent but heavy, each drop a reminder of how much he had already failed her—and how much more he stood to lose.

Joel swallowed thickly, his grip on her tightening for a moment longer before he finally let go, stepping back. “I love you, kiddo. More than you’ll ever know.”

Ellie’s breath hitched, and she looked up at him, her eyes full of the kind of fear Joel wished he could take away. But he couldn’t. He could only hope that this wasn’t goodbye.

***

You don’t know where you are anymore. The days and nights blur together in the darkness, the air thick with the stench of rot and decay. It’s been weeks—maybe more, maybe less. Time doesn’t exist here. All you know is the basement—the cold, damp stone pressing into your skin, the stinging scent of mold in your nose, and the unbearable silence, only broken by the occasional scrape of his footsteps above. Negan.

He’s the one who took you.

You barely knew him, barely interacted with him. So why you? Why now? What had you ever done to catch his attention? The questions buzz around in your head like a swarm of wasps, painful and without answers.

The walls seem to close in on you, the darkness thickening with every second. And then you remember—Negan had come to your house once, a visitor to your father. He was "Mr. Smith," you remember his last name.

But you didn’t think anything of it then. Just another face, another stranger. But since that moment, he had been watching you.

Negan had stalked your every move, following you through the shadows like a predator sizing up its prey.

When he visits, he talks. Always talks. As if the sound of his own voice fills the silence. "You and that ol' man of yours... too busy wrapped up in your own little world, huh?" He chuckles, the sound rough and mocking. “Joel’s a damn fool. Thinkin’ he could protect you, thinkin’ he could keep you safe. Hell, he’s worse than I thought, fallin’ for a broken little thing like you.”

His words cut like shards of glass, and each time you hear them, they reopen wounds you’ve tried to keep hidden deep inside.

Negan paces the room, his boots echoing in the small space. “Joel thinks he’s clever, doesn’t he? Killin’ Ben and Jamie to keep you all for himself.” He laughs, dark and low, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the basement. “He’s too damn stupid to see what’s right in front of him. Me.”

The way he says it, the way his eyes linger on you, makes your skin crawl.

“He let his guard down,” Negan continues, crouching beside you. “And when he finally let you out of his sight? Well, sweetheart, that just made things a hell of a lot easier for me.”

You want to scream, to lash out, but you’ve barely eaten in days, and your body feels too weak to even stand. The cold stone beneath you feels like a cage, holding you captive as much as Negan’s gaze does.

“What do you want from me?” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

Negan tilts his head, a cruel smile pulling at his lips. “Want? Sweetheart, I don’t want anything from you.” He leans in, close enough that you can smell the stale scent of smoke and leather clinging to him. “I just want you. That’s it. You’re mine now.”

The bile rises in your throat at the possessiveness in his voice, the certainty in his eyes.

For the past few weeks, he’s tried to feed you, bringing down food that you refused to touch. You’d rather starve than accept anything from him. Negan would sigh and shake his head, annoyed but patient. "You need to eat, darling. Can’t have you wastin’ away on me."

His words feel wrong, as if there's something hidden beneath them, something dark that you can’t quite put your finger on. There's always a certain gleam in his eyes when he brings the food—like he’s savoring a secret that only he knows.

And then there’s the smell.

That unbearable, suffocating stench that lingers in the corners of the basement. It smells like death. Like something rotting. But when you ask him about it, Negan just laughs. "Basements get like that," he says with a shrug, but the way he says it, so casual, so dismissive—it only makes you more certain that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

Sometimes, when the hunger gnaws at your insides, you almost consider taking a bite, but something deep inside you tells you not to trust it. Not to trust him. You’d rather die here, in the dark, than give him what he wants.

Negan crouches in front of you now, holding out a plate of food, his voice deceptively gentle. “You need to eat, darling. Can’t have you all weak and broken. I like my girls strong. Healthy.”

His words send a chill down your spine, and though you don’t know why yet, you can feel it—the creeping horror hiding just beneath the surface. There’s something wrong with the food, with him. Something monstrous, lurking in the shadows of his every word.

But what?

You swallow hard, shaking your head again, refusing the meal he offers. Negan’s smile tightens, but he doesn’t push. He never pushes. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he rises to his feet, looking down at you with that same dark amusement, like he’s playing a game only he knows the rules to.

“You’ll come around, sweetheart. One way or another.”

As he leaves, you’re left in the dark, your mind spinning, haunted by the rotting smell and the quiet, nagging fear that whatever is happening here is far worse than you could ever imagine.

The cold seeps into your bones, chilling you from the inside out, but it’s not just the temperature. It’s the gnawing fear, the isolation, the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

You can’t stop thinking about Joel. Where is he? Is he safe? Are the cops after him like Negan hinted? The thought tightens in your chest, like a vice slowly crushing your heart. You can barely believe that Joel—your Joel—killed Ben and Jamie. But as much as it shocks you, a part of you understands. He did it to protect you, didn’t he? The idea brings a strange comfort, a warmth amid the cold. Joel, with his strong hands and quiet resolve, would do anything to keep you safe. You liked that. You needed that.

But then, guilt slithers in, twisting and coiling itself around your thoughts. He did it because of you. Because you’re the one who caused all this. Joel shouldn’t have to bear the weight of it all. He can’t be the one to carry the consequences of what’s happened. You wonder if you’ve become a burden, dragging him into this nightmare where death and destruction seem to follow you both like shadows.

You think about the way he used to look at you, the way his rough exterior would soften just for you. His voice, gravelly but so full of warmth, whispers in your memory. You miss him, desperately. His touch, his scent, the quiet strength of his presence. It’s like a piece of you has been torn away, leaving you raw and bleeding, open to every cruel word Negan speaks, every cold gust of air in this filthy basement.

At night, when the world is silent and the shadows stretch long, you imagine Joel’s arms around you, holding you close like he did so many times before. You imagine his breath against your ear, telling you everything would be alright. You wish it were true. You wish Joel were here, with his fierce protectiveness and the way he could shield you from the world, even when it seemed like everything was falling apart.

But you are alone. Alone in the dark with nothing but the echo of your thoughts and the suffocating weight of fear. You’re terrified—terrified to death, even. And it feels like no one will ever find you, like no one will ever know the hell you’re living in. The walls around you seem to close in, and the only thing that keeps you from falling apart is the image of Joel’s face in your mind, his voice a faint whisper in the endless night.

Still, the fear gnaws at you, a ravenous beast. It claws at your insides, making it hard to breathe. You are alone, helpless, and trapped. And yet, in the deepest part of you, there's still a small flicker of hope. It burns for Joel. For the possibility that he’s out there, somewhere, fighting to find you. Because if anyone could save you, it would be him.

Days blurred together in a hazy fog of fear and despair. You knew it was days because each morning, Negan would rouse you from the dark depths of sleep with a cold, menacing presence. He brought food—always meat, always raw and dripping with something that made your stomach churn. You could tell he could cook; the way he handled the food had a practiced ease, but you wanted nothing to do with it. Your heart raced as you shrank away, clutching your knees to your chest, desperate to be invisible.

Today, something shifted in him. His patience seemed to fray like an old rope, unraveling under the weight of his anger. “You can’t keep like this! You need to fucking eat!” he shouted, his voice reverberating in the tight confines of the basement like a thunderclap. The plate of meat he hurled at you missed, clattering harmlessly to the floor as you recoiled, your hands shaking, your body trembling with fear.

Negan had always been rough but strangely composed, treating you with a twisted kind of care. But now, his anger was a raging storm, and you were caught in its eye. He lunged forward, grabbing your face with a grip that felt like iron, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Why don’t you fucking eat, huh?” The fury in his eyes burned, igniting a primal terror deep within you.

“Please, don’t hurt me! Don’t please!” You cried, the words spilling from your lips like a desperate prayer. But his grip only tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he leaned closer, his breath hot and heavy. “I need you to fucking eat!” The implication hung in the air, a dark cloud cloaked in menace, hinting at the horror that lay beneath his twisted motivations.

Then, with a sudden violent yank, he lifted you effortlessly and tossed you onto the lone mattress in the corner of the basement—the only semblance of comfort in this hellish nightmare. It was stained and worn, a grim reminder of all the other girls who had suffered here, and the air was thick with the stench of decay and desperation. “You need to be taught a lesson, huh?” he snarled, looming over you. “You want me to teach you to be obedient? Why don’t you fucking listen to me?”

Your heart raced as dread enveloped you like a suffocating shroud. You could feel the cold, hard reality of your situation settle over you, a weight that threatened to crush your spirit. “Please, don’t hurt me!” you whimpered, the words spilling out like blood from an open wound.

But Negan’s rage boiled over. He pinned you down, his strength overpowering you, leaving you helpless beneath him. A flash of pain erupted as his fist connected with your side, the blow landing like a hammer against glass, shattering the last remnants of your hope. “You should be grateful you’re still alive for weeks!” he growled, his voice a low, menacing growl. “Usually, the other girls only last a few days!”

Each word was a dagger, slicing into you, twisting deeper until you felt like you were drowning in despair. The room spun, and for a moment, you were lost in the chaos—a captive in a horror movie where the monster was all too real. You could see the flickering shadows dancing across the walls, and for a moment, you imagined they were the spirits of all the girls who had come before you, trapped in this wretched place, their cries echoing in your ears.

Every punch, every insult, was a cruel reminder of your fragility, a stark contrast to the flicker of resilience still fighting within you. You thought of Joel, of the warmth of his embrace and the strength of his spirit. You were more than this dark, stinking basement; you were more than Negan’s plaything. But as the blows rained down, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever see the light again, or if you were destined to fade into the shadows like the countless others before you.

In the depths of your despair, you turned inward, seeking solace in the silent echoes of your own heart. You prayed to God, your words tumbling forth like leaves in a tempest, pleading for this torment to cease. “Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “make it stop.”

But even as you cried out, questions fluttered in your mind like lost sparrows seeking refuge in a storm. Why did this always happen to you? Why were you cursed to walk the valley of shadows, where joy seemed as elusive as a wisp of smoke? It felt as if you were trapped in a parable, a cautionary tale whispered through the ages, where the faithful suffered and the wicked thrived.

You thought of the heavens above, imagined them as vast and endless, a tapestry of stars woven with threads of hope. Yet here you were, a solitary figure lost in the darkness, drowning in a sea of sorrow, with the light of those distant stars barely flickering in your heart. Was this your cross to bear? A burden too heavy for a soul so young?

As Negan’s fists rained down, each blow felt like the hammer of judgment, and your spirit ached under the weight of your own unworthiness. You longed to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, to break free from the chains of misery that bound you, but the flames of suffering held you fast. The biblical tales of resilience echoed in your mind, but you struggled to see yourself as part of those stories—would you ever find your own promised land?

���Am I not worthy of grace?” you questioned the heavens, your heart breaking under the pressure of your own doubts. The walls of the basement closed in around you, suffocating you with their cold embrace, and you felt as if you were wandering in the wilderness, lost and alone, with only the faint whispers of angels to guide you. Would there be a miracle that pulled you from this abyss? Would there be a shepherd to lead you back to the light?

But with each passing moment, the weight of your prayers felt heavier, like a stone cast into a bottomless well. You wondered if your cries reached the throne of heaven, or if they were swallowed by the darkness that surrounded you. “Why, Lord?” you pleaded, your voice cracking under the strain of your emotion. “When will my soul find peace? Why must I suffer while others walk free?”

In that moment, as the pain throbbed through you like a pulsing heartbeat, you realized that perhaps your suffering was not in vain. Maybe the storm would pass, and in its wake, you would emerge transformed, a testament to resilience and strength. Perhaps you were not merely a victim, but a warrior cloaked in shadows, fighting for your own light.

And so, with every ragged breath, you held onto that flicker of hope, whispering your prayers into the void, trusting that somewhere beyond this darkness, there lay a promise of redemption—a divine plan waiting to be unveiled, just beyond the horizon of your pain.

[etherealphosphor]

Melancholy

⟡ Contains: Neuvillette x Gn!Reader, Sfw, Fluff then angst, Reader gets blackmailed, Tiny bit of violence, Brief mention of blood

You had always been Neuvillette’s only assistant, which was odd considering the Chief Justice usually had many. Due to this fact, you were often rushing around, trying to manage all of the tasks for the day. Even though the work was tiring, you were never mad at Neuvillette for it. For someone so intimidating, Neuvillette was surprisingly kind to you. One might expect him to be a harsh boss, but he was the exact opposite.

Neuvillette had no limit on paid leaves, trusting you to use them fairly. Additionally, if you wished to leave work early due to exhaustion or for other reasons, he would simply find someone else to do your work for you. Of course, you were quite confused. What kind of boss just lets their employees leave work whenever they want? And if he could just get a replacement so quickly, why not have more full-time assistants like a Chief Justice ought to? It was almost as if efficiency was his last priority.

Though confused, you were still inclined to believe that Neuvillette knew what he was doing. After all, a man of such high status must have things under control. Neuvillette’s kindness towards you was something you were always grateful for, and it brightened your day whenever he thanked you earnestly for working for him.

Even if the task was as simple as bringing him a glass of water, he still looked you in the eyes as he told you how much he appreciated your help. Though, lately, his eye contact and gentle smile stirred a different emotion in your chest. An uneasy, nervous feeling, but not unpleasant. Was it love? You didn’t quite know.

One time, you held Neuvillette’s gaze for a little longer than usual, stunned by how beautiful his blue-grey eyes were.

"[Name], are you alright? Is there something else you need from me?" Neuvillette asked you, a little puzzled as to what you were staring at him for.

Snapping out of it, you quickly stammered, "Ah, n-no. Just spacing out, I-I apologize, Monsieur Neuvillette."

"How many times must I tell you that you can just call me Neuvillette? There is no need for such formal titles." Neuvillette softly chuckled.

"A-Alright. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Neuvillette." You quickly said, before exiting his office.

That night, you lay awake thinking about Neuvillette. No, it can’t be. Is it possible that I’ve developed romantic feelings for the Chief Justice? It’s unheard of, but I don’t think I can deny it any longer. Though I doubt I’m anything more than an assistant to him, after all, people of such high status as him don’t really go after anyone of a lower class. What do I even do?

After pondering for a long while, you eventually ended up falling asleep. Your dreams contained many different romantic scenes between you and Neuvillette, which caused you to be decently flustered when you woke up. You were quite embarrassed that your unconscious brain could even think up such things.

After getting ready, you headed off to Neuvillette’s office to get the list of chores for the day. Unsurprisingly, you couldn’t look him in the eyes after what you saw in your dreams.

Staring at your feet, you began to speak. "Greetings, Neuvillette, what tasks do you have for me today?"

Noticing your strange behavior, Neuvillette asked, "Good morning, [Name]. Is something on your mind? You’ve been acting so odd lately. If you’re going through anything, I can easily find someone to temporarily fill your position for a couple days."

"No.. no. It’s not that. Don’t worry yourself, Neuvillette. I am fine."

"If you’re sure." Neuvillette said, handing you a small list.

When you took the paper from his hands, you accidentally looked up, making direct eye contact. Those beautiful eyes of his were always something that fascinated you. And paired with that kind smile on his face, your heart simply couldn’t take it. You felt the heat slowly creep onto your face, and you quickly looked away from him. You hoped he hadn’t seen you blushing.

Though, of course, Neuvillette was a very perceptive man, and he did indeed notice. One does have to pick up on small details to judge court cases, after all.

"[Name], you look a little flushed; are you sure you’re in perfect health? It would be outrageous to ask you to work while you’re sick." Neuvillette asked, reaching out to feel your forehead for a fever.

You immediately flinched; this action of his was quite unexpected, and it caught you off guard.

"Oh, my apologies. Did I cross a boundary? It was merely out of habit." Neuvillette said, putting that hand over his heart to show his sincerity.

"Ah—no—it's fine. You didn’t do anything wrong." You replied, your own heart beating faster.

Oh, archons above, I’ve really fallen for him hard, haven’t I?

Over the next couple of days, you continued acting quite nervous around Neuvillette, something that he simply couldn’t ignore. Your behavior confused him, and he wished to get to the bottom of what was causing such a reaction.

Neuvillette had his suspicions, for sure, as the way you looked at him wasn’t exactly normal. However, he brushed it off as wishful thinking. After all, in secret, he did have quite a soft spot for you. Which was very unusual for him, as he avoided personal relationships with everybody else. To him, you were a fascinating anomaly. Who could predict that the Chief Justice would actually end up falling for someone? Even he himself was surprised.

Finally, after a week of your odd nervousness, Neuvillette simply had to ask you what was wrong once more. He doubted you would answer him properly, like every other time he had asked, and he knew that he would have to get your reaction to specific questions to gauge the situation.

Calling you into his office, he began to speak. "[Name], I know something has been on your mind lately. I’ve asked a couple times before, but I haven’t gotten a straight answer. Now, I hate to pry, but I worry that this topic may concern me, and I’d like to know if I have done something wrong so I can possibly make right of it."

Shaking your head slightly, you said, "No, Neuvillette. It’s really nothing. You didn’t mess anything up."

"You haven’t yet told me if this involves me, and don’t try to lie about it, [Name]. I can see through any lie in a second. So, does your anxiousness have anything to do with me?"

After a moment, you slowly nodded. After all, you couldn’t easily keep anything from this man. Being the Chief Justice, Neuvillette was trained to notice when people were being dishonest, so it was certainly quite a feat to get any lies past him.

"Ah, so it does indeed involve me. If I haven’t done anything wrong, then what is causing such a reaction from you?"

"I don’t think I can say it out loud, Neuvillette.."

"That’s fine. I already have my own suspicions, after all. However, I worry that they may be incorrect. I still have my doubts, which is why I haven’t brought up my own thoughts yet."

"Oh, I see. Well, what do you think?" You asked, feigning calmness. In reality, you could feel your heart beating faster.

"[Name], please correct me if I’m wrong, but... are you romantically interested in me?"

Your eyes widened. Neuvillette had indeed figured it out. You didn’t doubt that he would in the end, but you were still shocked that he had asked so bluntly. You had no idea how to respond, so you just looked away from him, completely red-faced.

"It really is that, isn’t it?" Neuvillette sounded almost as shocked as you were. With urgency in his voice, he began to speak, "[Name], please tell me if I’m right. This is important information to me."

You didn’t dare make eye contact or even move a muscle; you were too scared to do anything.

Grabbing your hands in his, Neuvillette began to speak with a hurried, apprehensive tone in his voice. "Is my conclusion correct? Please, [Name], don’t leave me in the dark like this; I must know."

Still looking away, you managed to choke out one word: "Y-yes.."

Moving his hands to your face, he cupped your cheeks and forced you to stare him directly in the eyes. "Do you truly mean it, [Name]?"

Neuvillette was smiling brightly. That was rare for the Chief Justice—usually all that could be seen from him was a small grin. But this time, it was completely different. He looked at you with a beaming smile that made his eyes sparkle just as bright.

"I—yes, of course.. of course I mean it." You said, your voice sounding a little lost. Everything was happening so quickly.

Neuvillette pulled you into an embrace, tightly hugging you to his chest. "I’m so glad, really, I am. You can’t imagine how long I’ve been wanting to hear that from you. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, but you must have already known about that. After all, there’s no way you didn’t notice my strange behavior toward you. That is also the reason I never hired any other assistants; I only wanted you by my side."

Your head was spinning a little; all this new information was so shocking, and your brain had yet to fully process it. Once the realization of what had been said had sunk in a little, you melted into Neuvillette’s gentle arms. You couldn’t believe your luck. The Chief Justice himself had fallen head over heels for you? Impossible. Focalors herself must have been smiling down at you.

Over the next few days, you made your relationship with Neuvillette official. Well, official to only the two of you, that is. Due to the judgment placed upon those with high status dating people with lower status, you had suggested that Neuvillette keep things a secret.

Neuvillette simply stated that being with you was nothing to be ashamed of, and that he didn’t mind any gossip spread about him as a consequence. However, what made Neuvillette keep the relationship a secret was when you told him that people would assume you were using him for his status and money.

Now, the last thing Neuvillette wanted was for your name to be tarnished in such a way. Rumors about him dating the lower class could be spread across the entirety of Teyvat for all he cared, but he would never apologize for loving you. But Neuvillette would not tolerate you being accused of being shallow and selfish.

After about a month of hiding your relationship, things were getting more and more difficult to cover up. You drove Neuvillette crazy; he had never experienced something like it before. Due to this fact, you two would often very nearly get caught. Perhaps it was the red marks left on your neck after spending time in his office, or maybe it was the affectionate looks you gave each other. Either way, the both of you got quite a few raised eyebrows from others working in the building.

One time, Neuvillette had you pinned against a wall in a secluded hallway, passionately kissing you as his hands trailed down to your waist. His gentle caresses were enough to make you let out a small whimper, which only excited him even further.

Moving your head to one side, Neuvillette gently sunk his teeth into your neck, trying his best not to break the skin. It was more difficult for him to be gentle than an average person due to the fact that he had sharp fangs.

Suddenly, Neuvillette pulled away from you. "Shh. I think somebody is coming."

You quickly regained your composure in case Neuvillette was correct, stepping away from your place against the wall. Meanwhile, Neuvillette was taking a look around the entrance to the hallway, making sure that nobody was there.

"We should be in the clear. I apologize for the false alarm, my love."

"It’s perfectly fine; better safe than sorry. Anyway, should we get back to what we were doing~?"

"Gladly." Neuvillette said in a low tone, smiling at you.

Raising your arms above your head with one of his hands, Neuvillette tilted your chin up with the other, leaning back in to fervently kiss you once more. You let him fully take control, allowing him to do what he liked with you.

By the time you two were done, you had bite marks all over your neck, and a blush across your face.

"Well, it’s getting late, isn’t it? Would you like me to walk you to your room?" Neuvillette asked you.

"Of course, anything to spend a little more time with you."

Walking hand in hand, Neuvillette led you to your room. In the past, it used to be a small storage room but was remodeled into a living space for you. After Neuvillette hired you, he insisted that you needed a room inside the building for your convenience. However, now that you were in a relationship with him, he admitted that it was also partly because he wanted to be closer to you.

Giving Neuvillette a quick kiss on the lips, you bid him farewell, before shutting the door. Just as you were about to lay down, you noticed an envelope that had been pushed under the door. It was addressed to you. Picking it up, you sat down on your bed and began to tear it open.

Once you saw the contents of the envelope, your eyes widened in horror. In your hands, you held many different photographs. Those pictures included the red marks on your neck, you and Neuvillette holding hands, hugging, and him pinning you against the wall. They all had something in common. They were evidence. Somebody had figured it out.

Under the photographs, there was a note. It read:

"Dear [Name],

As you could probably tell by those pictures, I know of your intimate relationship with Neuvillette. You two really are awful at keeping secrets, aren’t you? I have copies of all of those photos, by the way. There’s no point in destroying them. I intend to publish an article about you two to The Steambird. The only thing that will stop me from exposing your romantic feelings for one another to the entirety of Fontaine is if you keep your distance from Neuvillette, as you should’ve done to begin with. A Chief Justice shouldn’t be involved with one of his employees; he ought to have better standards than that.

You wouldn’t want me to spread false rumors and ruin his reputation, would you? Even if he insists that his reputation doesn’t matter, deep down, I’m sure he worries about it. Yes, I overheard that conversation of yours. A Chief Justice needs to be trusted by the people; even a child knows that. Who would trust him if he’s messing around with the lower class? I could also ruin your name as well by posting the article I have prepared. I thank you sincerely for the idea to frame you as a gold digger; it was truly brilliant.

If you don’t decide to stay away from your beloved Neuvillette, Fontaine will know him as a pervert who flirts with his servants for his own amusement and pleasure. As for you, you’ll be known as the servant who went along with it because of his status and money. And don't even think about telling Neuvillette about this letter; I have eyes everywhere. I will know if you speak with him.

You wouldn’t want to hurt Neuvillette, would you? If you truly love him, you’ll keep your distance."

You could feel your heart quickly beating in panic. You had no idea what to do. What could even be done about it?

That night, your dreams were stressful and scary, and you were still extremely anxious when you woke up in the morning. The idea that someone out there knew about you and Neuvillette, and could ruin both of your names in a second if they wished made your blood run cold.

Over the next week or so, you tried to avoid Neuvillette as much as possible. That letter was living rent-free in your head, and despite wanting to spend more time with the Chief Justice, you were terrified at the possibility that your relationship could be exposed at the snap of the blackmailer’s fingers. You barely spoke to Neuvillette outside of the small talk you had while completing your tasks each day, making up excuses for why you were so detached from him.

Neuvillette was quite confused, and he began to worry if he had done something wrong. That was often the first thing he assumed when you were acting odd, as it was the thing he dreaded most. If he accidentally hurt you, he wouldn’t know how to forgive himself.

After a couple more days passed and you were still avoiding him, he tried to ask you about it.

"[Name], my love? Is there a reason why I’ve barely gotten to see you these days? Have I done something wrong?"

"Ah—no. I have volunteer work for.. uh.. the Adventurer’s Guild. Yeah." You said hurriedly.

"The Adventurer’s Guild? Since when did you join them? If you’re low on mora, I can give you some. It’s no bother to me." Neuvillette replied, reaching into his pockets.

"Oh no, no. My mora is fine. I just volunteered for the good of Fontaine, you know? The work is its own reward."

"How kind of you; that really is a good way to look at things. In that case, I won’t keep you. Good luck while volunteering; don’t get hurt." Neuvillette gave you a quick kiss, bidding you farewell.

The look that Neuvillette gave you made you feel bad for lying, and in the end, you did actually end up going to volunteer at the Adventurer’s Guild. After a long day of fighting monsters and solving strange puzzles, you were ready to collapse on your bed.

What you didn’t expect was for there to be another envelope slid under your door. Opening it, you found a photo taken of Neuvillette kissing you earlier. Your heart skipped a beat, and as expected, there was another letter from the blackmailer.

This time, the note written by the person was much shorter. It simply read:

"Didn’t I tell you to keep your distance? This is a warning."

Your heart began to beat faster, and you were beginning to feel anxious again. You so badly wanted to run into Neuvillette’s office, throw yourself into his arms, and inform him of what was going on, but you couldn’t. The blackmailer would find out, and both you and Neuvillette would have false rumors spread about you all across Fontaine.

You hated that you were avoiding Neuvillette; it really hurt. Unfortunately, the blackmailer had scared you to your very core. You didn’t want to harm Neuvillette at all, and you knew if the article was published to The Steambird, it would severely damage his reputation and image. After all, what is a judge without the trust of his people?

You spent yet another sleepless night tossing and turning, unable to calm the worry in your mind.

Over the next week, Neuvillette tried on multiple occasions to talk to you, but you declined each time, making excuses such as:

"Sorry, I’m busy!"

"I can't right now; I have work at the Adventurer's Guild."

"Neuvillette, I’m really tired; can we speak another time?"

"I’m late for a meeting with a friend; I have to go."

You felt so bad that you had to do this. You never intended to hurt Neuvillette, but you slowly began to realize that you were causing him harm anyway. Every time you denied him, you could see the light in his eyes die, and he forced himself to smile gently. He would always reply with something along the lines of:

"Ah, I see. We’ll talk some other time, then."

One weekend, you looked out the window of your room, and it had begun pouring. Your eyes widened. Neuvillette was the Hydro Dragon, and it was said in folklore that when it rained, it meant he was crying. Neuvillette was a closed off man when it came to his negative emotions, even with you.

The rain made your heart ache; you knew it was your fault. You knew that the reason he was crying was because of you. That realization hurt like nothing else. In trying to protect him from harm, you had accidentally done the exact opposite. Even with your worries and regrets, you knew that you couldn’t go and comfort Neuvillette, despite how much you wanted to. The blackmailer would immediately publish that article if you did.

You felt so pathetic. What kind of partner would you be if you couldn't even comfort your boyfriend in his most vulnerable state? And what kind of partner lies to and avoids the other for weeks on end? The feeling in your chest was overwhelmingly awful.

Even so, you didn’t do anything. You were stuck. Your two options were equally bad. The rain went on and on, and you felt extreme sorrow even looking at it. You felt like a failure, like you were useless. You couldn’t even protect the one you loved most.

It was still raining when you went to bed that night.

The next evening, there was a gentle knock at your door. Getting up, you opened it, only to find Neuvillette waiting outside your door. In that instant, so many thoughts went through your head. You felt like you were being watched by the blackmailer.

"Good evening, [Name]. May I come in? I wish to have a chat with you." Neuvillette said, very clearly wearing a fake smile.

Even with the threat of the blackmailer, you couldn’t help it. You wanted to talk to him again.

"Uhm.. yeah, sure, Neuvillette." You said awkwardly, permitting him to enter.

Once the door was closed, Neuvillette spared no time in getting to his question. "Have I done something wrong? Answer me truthfully this time. You have been avoiding me for around three weeks now. I can’t imagine why else you would do such a thing."

"Neuvillette, no. You didn’t do anything. Trust me. This has to do with something else. I’m so sorry if I’ve hurt you." You spoke, looking away from him.

"What is keeping you from me?"

That question really made your heart start to beat, and the panic was evident on your face. "It’s nothing important."

Neuvillette took your hands in his. "[Name], you can tell me anything. I’m not mad at you; I’m just worried. I’m your boyfriend; we can depend on each other. Whatever you’re going through, we can work through it together."

Finally, looking up into his eyes, you couldn’t take it anymore. You had to tell him. You could feel tears starting to fill your eyes. "I'm being blackmailed, Neuvillette."

Neuvillette’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He was absolutely shocked.

"What?"

You had finally said something. Just as your words had been held back for so long, so had your tears. They rolled down your cheeks, and even further down your neck.

"I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I should’ve, but I was scared. And I still am. I’m really scared, Neuvillette." You said, wiping at your tears.

"No, no.. [Name], it’s okay. Don’t be hard on yourself. It’s not your fault. Who has been blackmailing you? And with what?" Neuvillette’s gaze was concerned, and he stroked your hair as you cried.

"The letters are over on my desk.." You managed to get out between sobs.

Getting up for a moment, Neuvillette went over to look at them. His emotions went from concern to anger at what he saw. Who would dare to hurt and threaten you like that? Rage boiled in his chest, but he tried to keep his composure for your sake.

"Whoever did this will get what’s coming to them." Neuvillette spoke softly, embracing you once more. "I promise you."

You were still crying; it felt good to let it all out after bottling up your feelings for so long. Neuvillette kissed away your tears, and his hands began stroking your hair again.

Once you had stopped crying, he gently asked, "Will you be alright if I leave for a minute? I do wish to keep comforting you, but I have a feeling that the criminal is nearby, and I wish to catch them. Is that okay?"

You nodded, and after a short yet passionate kiss, Neuvillette walked out of the room. In his peripheral vision, he spotted a strange man, but he pretended not to notice and walked the other way. Once he was sure the stranger was walking away, he began to quietly trail them.

After a short walk, the man opened a door and walked inside. Silently, Neuvillette slipped into the room behind him. The man didn’t notice until Neuvillette locked the door.

"Can you explain to me what business you had blackmailing [Name]?"

The man was shocked to hear the Chief Justice’s voice, but he kept a confident smirk on his face as he turned to him. "A person of high status like you should not be involved with someone like them. Someone of a lower class. I’m doing you and Fontaine a favor by scaring them off."

The expression on the man’s face made Neuvillette even more angry. Neuvillette was not the kind of person to solve problems through violence, but in that moment, he couldn’t resist.

He grabbed the man by the neck and shoved him against the wall. With all his might, Neuvillette slammed his fist into the side of the man’s skull over and over. Then, Neuvillette moved down to punch him in the stomach, effectively winding him and causing him to fall to the ground.

Neuvillette’s hands were injured, but it was nothing compared to the state of the person before him. Neuvillette’s gloves had little golden spikes on the knuckles, which had left the man’s face bloodied and ugly.

Grabbing some handcuffs from his pocket, Neuvillette restrained the man’s hands behind his back. Why did Neuvillette have handcuffs at the ready when he had no idea he would be dealing with a criminal beforehand? That can be left up to the imagination.

Still not totally satisfied, Neuvillette gave the man a sharp kick to the face before walking over to his desk. There, he found the article and photos that were described in the letters. He picked them up and resisted the urge to destroy them then and there. It would be crucial to have them for evidence.

Once he had gathered all the things he needed, he looked down at the man on the floor and coldly said, "Get up. I’m going to hand you over to the police. If you resist, I’m going to assume that you haven’t taken enough of a beating already."

After a while, Neuvillette walked back into your room. You looked up at him expectantly, and he smiled at you.

"Everything is okay now, darling. The man has been arrested."

Neuvillette brought you into his embrace and laid down with you. You wrapped your arms around his waist, so glad to finally get to feel a type of comfort you hadn’t felt in weeks.

"I love you, Neuvillette."

"I love you too, [Name]. You’re safe with me."

You listened to the slow rhythm of Neuvillette’s heartbeat, breathing in his calming scent as you fell asleep. That was the first night in three weeks that you didn’t have nightmares. You felt truly okay again.

[readychilledwine]

The Cursed Ballet

Eris Week - Day 6 - AUs and Retellings

(Swan Lake)

Summary - As war with the Deathless God approaches, a new dancer entered Autumn turning Eris's world inside out.

Warnings - Beron, curses, Eris kind of being a male-whore to add interest later

A/N - Happy Day 6 of @erisweekofficial! So listen, I've written this 4 times and settled on it being a 3 part mini series. Otherwise, it got far too long, and I was worried people would lose interest. I love this concept, though, and I'm very excited to share it with you all.

🍂Eris Week Masterlist🍂Eris Masterlist🍂Master Masterlist🍂

Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

Instruments being tuned as a stage was set were familiar noises to you. Especially now that your life has been flipped upside down.

You continued lacing the ribbons of your ballet flats, no one looking at you. No one even acknowledging your very existence. Why would they, though?

A human in the Autumn Court. A human who, to them, somehow stole the lead spot in this performance from a female who had probably been training 10 times longer than you have ever been alive. You were used to this, used to being forced to travel and perform since he came and ruined everything.

You'd been to countless places the last few years, cities you had never dreamed of seeing, people and Fae you never thought you would meet. He always forced you to come back to Prythian, though. You had danced in all the mortal kingdoms, in every court. Yet for some reason he kept you here, anchored to this place like a second prison in case your body was no longer enough.

Of the 7 courts, Autumn was your favorite to dance in. The beauty of the leaves, the crisp fresh air, the well maintained stage. It was all enough to distract you from why you were truly here. From the magic the plagued your body. You finished tying the slippers around your ankles, mind trying not to linger on the curse you and your older sister now shared. “It's fine,” you whispered. “You've danced in front of thousands of fae.”

Your warm ups were spent alone as well, the isolation you were forced to endure was the cherry on top of this curse. The first contact you'd have tonight was a tall, slender female looking you up and down before declaring they were ready for you to stage.

Eris groaned from his place in his family's play box. He loved the ballet, he loved the graceful choreographed dances, the stories told through music and movement, but he would be lying to himself if he didn't say he was annoyed. 

His recent flavor of the week had been whining in his ear for 72 hours, 48 minutes, and exactly 23 seconds regarding his father's demands for a mortal girl to be put in the role of Odette. 

His current lover was pretty.

But she wasn't pretty enough for him to listen to the complaints and crying day in and night out. 

Eris felt himself freezing as the human girl took the stage. Every movement was clean, exact, graceful. She may as well have been fae with the way she made it seem as though she was the music. He didn't clock his father's smirk, the look of sick satisfaction Beron had. 

“Pretty little thing, isn't she,” Beron said softly to him. “And so very talented for being human.” 

Eris nodded, “Does she.. look familiar?” Flaming red hair in a tight bun, long elegant limbs. Her nose, the shape of her eyes, all of it felt so familiar to Eris, yet he could not place her. 

That is, until the scene.

Eris looked at his father, the High Lord still smirking in his seat, “And why is one of his spies here?”

Beron rolled his eyes, glancing at Eris as the fae applauded, throwing flowers to the mortal girl. “He needed someone to keep an eye on her while he handled more pressing matters.”

“He, an all powerful sorcerer, could not handle taking a 26 year old human female with him to handle matters?”

“I've heard she's rebellious,” Beron stood as the girl exited the stage. “Besides, she requires water at night.”

Eris's eyes slowly shut, but he followed Beron, the understanding of that cryptic message hitting his heart. 

You tried not to be afraid as Beron Vanserra dragged you through the gardens of the Forest House by your upper arm. His son followed behind you two, refusing to look your way. “Please, you are hurting me.”

“I was informed you needed a heavy hand. He may tolerate your games, but I will not, girl.” 

It was a moment Eris would remember long after she was gone, his father throwing a mortal woman to the mudded ground. The noise she made on impact had him shifting from side to side, eagerly awaiting Beron's departure from Crystal Lake. 

“Watch her until it happens, she won't be able to leave the lake once it does. If she tried to run, kill her.” 

As soon as he was away, as soon as Eris knew they were safe, he rushed to her. “Are you alright?”

You could only nod at him, tears in your eyes as a nearly silent sob managed to make it's way through your throat. 

“Does she know you're here,” Eris asked gently. “Does Vassa know you're here?”

“No,” Your tone was firm. “My presence here is a trap. For your brother, Jurian, and her.”

Eris processed the information like a complex novel, “He's near, isn't he?”

You focused in on the curse that bound you to him, “Yes, but no. He's still trapped on his lake, but he can.. project himself for small amounts of time.”

Your eyes finally met his and Eris's whole world shifted and changed. 

The bond was dull due to only being able to half click into place, but it was there, creating a harmonious rhythm with his own heartbeat as the moon began to rise behind the two of you. 

He understood why you would need the lake then, what your curse had been. Glowing golden light surrounded you, engulfing your figure before dying out. 

And now Eris found himself trapped watching as his mate got into the water, defeat clear in even this form. 

“Rhysand,” he called in his mind. “We have a complication.”

He sent Rhysand what had just happened, sent him the image of you floating on the clear waters of the lake. 

“Be careful,” Rhysand's voice came back slowly. “Vassa says her sister's curse is more dangerous than her own.” 

But Eris didn't respond, his eyes on the swan that had taken the place of his mate. 

How absolutely cruel to curse Vassa to her bird form by day and to be a woman by night, but you a woman by day, swan by night.

Two sisters left chasing each other. 

A curse Eris now made his personal mission to break.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

[sarshles-cheescake-li]

Why's Lu Guang's hair white?

It has occurred to me that a lot of people on the English side of the fandom aren't aware of the Lu Guang white hair theory.

It's a very popular theory/headcanon on the Chinese side (I'd say maybe 30% of people believe in it?) of the situation. I have no idea who in the English fandom have talked about it and who haven't, so I'll just provide what I know of it. Full disclaimer that I wasn't the first one to make this observation.

The theory is based on this scene right here, episode 12 of season 2. Here, Qiao Ling has a singular white hair after receiving Xixi’s powers (and seemingly activating them for the first time). This can be either interpreted as her spontaneously gaining a white hair, or as just an effect of the lighting.

Lu Guang has (presumably) received and activated Cheng Xiaoshi’s powers before.

Lu Guang’s hair is white.

Are you picking up what I’m putting down?

It doesn’t help that his eyebrows are a different colour. In pretty much every piece of official media, they’re a grey a bit lighter than his eyes. Except for in the phone ad for OPPO (I think that’s what that was…?) where his eyebrows are largely black, except for one shot where they’re their normal grey, so I’m fairly certain that’s just a mistake in animation. I could’ve sworn to God there was one piece of media where his eyebrows were white, but I can’t find said piece, so I guess that was a fever dream.

Quite a few people have wondered how a naturally white-haired person would have darker-coloured eyebrows. Based on that, the argument is that Lu Guang’s natural hair colour is darker, and his hair turned white later in life. Of course, from an artistic standpoint, this evidence is… hard to work with. Characters with a light hair colour paired with a light skin colour often are drawn with their eyelashes and eyebrows being a darker colour for the purpose of contrast. It’s not rare for a white-haired character with fair skin to end up with grey eyebrows, since it makes their eyebrows more easily visible while still looking lighter. The problem?

Ouyang Bubai (how does the English fandom refer to him…? Do I use pinyin for him? Jyutping? Cantonese Yale? Is his Chinese name written in simplified or traditional???) has almost the exact same hair colour as Lu Guang. His eyebrows are white.

Paint tool sai version 2 colour picker (and visual examination) tells me his eyebrows are a slightly different colour than his hair, being a bit warmer and a smidgeon darker, but the point stands. Compared to Lu Guang’s eyebrows, you can definitely tell they’re drawn differently.

Other light haired characters like the Li siblings receive the same treatment as Ouyang Bubai, having pink eyebrows. It’s just Lu Guang who has his situation.

And no, it’s not a matter of convenience. Link Click’s eyebrows are always drawn with black lineart and a solid fill, usually one matching the character’s hair colour. Lu Guang’s eyebrows match neither his eyes nor his hair, something that would theoretically make drawing him more inconvenient because now you’ve got one extra colour in the pallet.

But if the point was that Lu Guang’s hair isn’t supposed to be white, then why make his eyebrows so light? Because now, what is potentially foreshadowing looks like artistic liberty. Was it for the sake of visual cohesion? To throw theorists off? Is it something about the character design process and Inplick?

Anyway, a few possibilities emerging from this theory.

How many times has Lu Guang went back in time for Cheng Xiaoshi if all his hair is white? Or does the process speed up the more you use another person’s powers?

Does his hair turn white all at once whenever he goes back in time, or is it gradual? Like, was there ever an attempt where Cheng Xiaoshi went to bed, woke up, and went “woah Lu Guang that was one mean mental breakdown you had last night if you bleached half your hair”

Does using another person’s powers affect you negatively in other ways? Is that why Lu Guang has limited attempts – not because he’s running out of photos, but because he’s running out of time himself? And, my personal favourite:

The white hair isn’t because of power usage. It’s because of stress. Lu Guang is just a lot more stressed than Qiao Ling is.

[sanarkeo]

your body’s speaking my language

chaeyoung has a bit of a god complex and lights up some candles for valentine’s day.

alternatively: she grants you freedom in the form of a restraint. dom!chaeyoung x f!10th member of twice!reader - wax play - praise & degradation - bondage - exhibitionism (again, yes! 😇) - edging -  branding sorta kinda - chae with the strap in a tokyo love hotel - religious themes - this reaching 5k words ouuu...

happy belated valentines day to @nr1chaedickrider and every other chaeyoung lover out there <3

chaeyoung doesn’t know this, but you have frequent dreams of the same exact scene. the most recent, hazy permutation had you looking through stained glass cut to no holy figure, and onto yourself kowtowing to a woman in the church you haven’t visited in ages. your perspective shifts midway, and your breath is stolen from your lungs the moment you lay eyes on her.

and it is corporeal, the sting of scraped knees against herringbone floor, flowing white rayon restricting skin meant to be bare. it is divine, to look up upon her, sitting cross-legged on a pew, a smile that reaches her eyes and the baring of canines, multicolor light reflecting off them like jewels.

this is beauty reserved for sightings and yet here she is. her touch is salvation and her lips pressed against your forehead is resurrection. at last, she is encircled by blinding sunlight, the deep brown of her eyes being the last to fade to white.

what chaeyoung does know is that once in a while, in the middle of the night, you’re heaving, hands anxious for something to hold onto, eyelids screwed shut. and she brings you into her embrace, more often than not subconsciously, and mutters sounds, her hot breath tickling the tips of your ears.

when you are awake enough to grasp what’s happening, and grieve the dream that’s slipped away, sometimes you weep. that someone like her is real and has her arm draped over your hip. it breaks you.

it half-explains why you squat down as you hand the girl - now tucking sunglasses into her seat-back pocket - your underwear in an airsickness bag. chaeyoung receives it in her expectant hands and leisurely opens her purse to slot the folded bag in. she’s still for a second, looking at you like she has something to say, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.

instead, she slides forward in her seat and tilts her head to give you a kiss. as she pulls away, you can see the reflection of the plane window in her irises. you take in how the oranges and blues courtesy of the altitude shade her tattoos.

“sit down, babe,” she says with a knowing glance, before taking her phone out and swiping through notifications.

even if everyone else can’t see, you feel your nudity under loose cream trousers. shuffling back to your seat, you have half a mind to cover yourself with a blanket and satisfy yourself. you recline and jerk in your seat, if anything to get some friction going. chaeyoung notices this in her periphery and holds your wrist, her pointer tapping on the back of your hand with a calculated rhythm.

“okay,” you squeak, and it sounds like an apology.

“I got a surprise for you when we reach shinjuku. you can wait a bit longer, right?" chaeyoung asks, raising an eyebrow. you nod and she hums. “thank you. you’re being so good for me today.”

you smile, giddy at the praise, and scratch your reddening cheek. it’s like she’s put you in a trance ever since she knocked twice and slid open the privacy screen to regard you with a shaded expression and a singular request. it’d all been automatic; from when you unbuckled your seatbelt to leave for the lavatory to when you stumbled just trying to get your panties off as quickly as possible, not a single hesitation kept you from flowing from one action to the next. 

“is this… for valentine’s day?” 

chaeyoung taps her nose but pulls her headphones out to shut you up. you’d known something was up when the girl became dismissive every time you brought up valentine’s day, and more so when she messaged about tickets to haneda for you two to arrive in japan a few days before the group was even scheduled to be there. 

as soon as the seatbelt sign lights up, chaeyoung grips your forearm and lets out a light whimper. after the plane lands safely on the runway, and as the people around you two rush to get their carry-ons, chaeyoung slides her fingers down your arm to intertwine them in yours. she brings your hand up and leaves lipstick on your knuckles.

she’s a bit of a scaredy cat on airplanes but when she takes your hand and leads you to the cab, a swarm of fans and flashing lights trailing behind you, you follow without a word. 

-

the music is so loud you sense the bassline thump through your chest, and as the saxophone screams you feel your fingertips buzz against the condensation of your highball glass. you’ve always wanted to come here - a charming little bar in a basement rumored to have been a brothel decades ago. a post-industrial but amber-lit haven for live music. the kind of crowd who won’t care who either of you are, with their swaying silhouettes and muffled conversations drowning under free jazz. chaeyoung and you are caught in the middle of their current with a perfect sliver of privacy.  

“how’d you know about this place?” you swirl your glass around before taking one last gulp of the cocktail. ice pressed up on teeth sends a shock through your gums.

“i’d be a terrible girlfriend if i forgot about you mentioning this.”

you shake your head: “no that was ages ago, like, even before-“

“so? you know i’ve been fucking obsessed with you ever since our debut.”

you dig up a blurry memory of legs crossed on a cramped dorm bedroom floor, the scent of nail polish and a commotion of giggles and joke-threats, and remember how hard your heart pounded opening up to girls older than you about something so niche and uninteresting. it isn’t the sound of her that you can recall - it’s a vignette of a set of plump lips with a mole set under it, a little to the side, mouthing: “i’d like to go there too.” 

the pianist’s solo is sprightly and with every note that blooms, a sense of anticipation grows in you. you look across the checkerboard table, past wine red pillar candles, and find chaeyoung’s unwavering focus on you. with each tap of her thumb on a cheek bathed in plum-colored light, the ivies snaking her silver ring twinkle. the music shifts with the reintroduction of smoky cymbals and a staccato rhythm. 

it’s not that chaeyoung looks incredibly different now, nearly a decade on. her unbleached, jet black hair and doe eyes let you easily picture the girl you sometimes saw as a trainee, walking past you in the corridor or being aspirationally whispered about with friends. but when your eyes flitter down to her lips, you decide the shape of them has changed together with the entire idea of the woman, somewhere along the way. 

for so many years you’ve only observed them. they were full and pinkish and a dimple forms right by them whenever she smiles. at one point, you used to envy her, innocently thinking about how unfair it was that fans could fall in love through a single laugh. one night many years back, as you watched the reflections of the night in the han river, you played with the idea that your heart could be hers too, if only in another universe. any bitterness leaves your palate when she leans over and closes her eyes. 

you love her new lipgloss. it’s slippery and tastes like summer berries. 

your shoulders heave now, and all these new associations now cross your mind. how warm her lips felt pressed onto the side of your head while you bawled in her arms, fearing the unknown and yet fearing knowing. how orange they looked under the sunset that summer she brought you to her relative’s farmhouse, so telling of their experience after she’d convinced you that maybe kissing wasn’t all that bad if you didn’t kiss men (and kissed her instead). 

you’re distracted by how they form an ‘o’ as chaeyoung lifts a candle off the table and blows it out. a trail of smoke is sucked into the air and dissipates above her head. you remember the heat radiating from her mouth when she licked the tears that streamed down your face after the first time she made you cum. you recall how aggressively red and swollen they can get, with the image of her biting down on a leather whip after she’d marked your skin for an achingly long period of time. 

she swirls the hot wax in the indent for a while then seizes your wrist, her thumb heavy on your pulse point. she flips your arm and drips molten red along the back of your hand. her teeth look severe in this bluish light. there’s a fire behind her eyes. you yelp and jerk to snatch your hand back, but she doesn’t relent, shushing you and immediately dropping the candle, letting it rock to a halt. a couple pairs of eyes shift to look in your direction.

“chae…” you let out, and wonder if it sounds more like a cry or a moan.

“oops.”

chaeyoung gingerly picks off each matte bead and flicks them over at her neglected bottle. there’s the lightest dotted line of discoloration that she slides her lips across when she holds your hand up. it stings even more now, and your tongue gets lodged in your throat. closing your eyes, you silently mourn the loss of all that sensitivity you had on the ride to the hotel. you regret being so sensible when she led you to the restroom of the hotel lobby, and let you know you had her permission to put your underwear back on. 

“i hope you’re not already dripping wet from that,” she says, cleaning her fingertips with a napkin and turning to grab her coat. 

you wonder if she gets off on making you feel so insanely aware of your arousal. you don’t think you’re wet, but you’re pressing your thighs together and gripping at the fabric of your pants. 

“i’m not.”

chaeyoung gets up off the stool and slips into her navy blue trench coat that’s a size or two too big. she raises her eyebrows at you and knees the chair back in. 

“whatever you say, babe,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky. 

she shrugs and burns you with a stare before turning on her heels to leave. you scramble to get your jacket on, nearly forgetting your clutch as you rush to follow her up the stairs. the music diminishes behind you and you strain your neck to find familiarity in her, but you’re greeted by a kaleidoscope of colors and lovesick couples letting loose in the streets. her small frame and stature make it all too easy for her to be lost in a crowd. the air hangs thick as you journey down the maze of bars and restaurants and you curse yourself for not paying enough attention in those japanese lessons. 

then, you spot her, twirls of hair softening the sharp, piercing lines of her face. as soon as you pause to take a breath, chaeyoung’s fingers close around your wrist and she wrenches you into movement. she navigates and guides you through alleys with her hallmark assuredness. once you reach a dead end, she slows and turns to you. between shuttered shops, standing on the prismatic sheen of damp asphalt, she lets you go. her skin is porcelain under the light from a distant streetlamp and the depth of her eyes, now cinnamon brown, remind you of the first time you confessed to her. 

it’s like she senses your wonder, because she takes you by the waist and pushes you against the concrete brick wall. your heels scrape along the road and droplets of water hit your ankles. chaeyoung’s angling her chin up, her eyes gazing down upon you like you’re nothing to her light. she unzips your jacket and pushes up your top and your bra. your hardened nipples hit the cold air and the breeze that settles on your skin causes the hair on your back to stand on end. she scans your body, choosing to pay no mind to your tits, nor to your wanting mouth.

you look to her, eyelids trembling, and state the obvious: “chaeng, someone’s gonna see us.” 

“who cares? i’m having you wherever i want you,” she snaps and rolls her eyes.

she slides her hand into your pants, her touch slightly clumsy, her fingertips cold against the dip of your hip. then, she parts your legs and presses onto a particularly sensitive spot on your inner thigh. the pad of chaeyoung’s thumb grazes against the slightest series of bumps in your skin and you swear you can picture it from candid photos and images framed in mirrors. it’s visceral, the memory of the searing pain of needles punching into your skin, injecting ink into you for good. 

chaeyoung is softer, gentler now than she was then. for one, her nails aren’t sinking into your other thigh like claws into prey. you remember the crazed expression locked in her eyes when she grit her teeth and drove the tattoo machine to trace the outline of a strawberry you’d drawn on a transfer sheet. you were glad the alcohol worked as a mild anesthetic when it happened but it made you bend over a toilet bowl that night when the post-adrenaline fear and pain hit and you puked your guts out. 

“you’re mine, remember? anywhere, everywhere-”

you can’t stand the distance between her hand and your cunt, so when fingers reach your clit, a raspy sigh leaves your lips. she massages it with perfect pressure before sliding a finger along your folds, lowering it momentarily into your slit. 

“you’re right. you’re not wet enough,” she tugs her hand out of your pants and brings it up to spit on her fingers. you’re not capable of coherent thought right now, any witty response will come out as a series of stammers. her hand disappears again and two slick fingers plunge into your hole. 

“f-fuck, oh my god,” you whine.

her tongue slips out between her teeth the same way it does when she’s focused on writing lyrics. she’s said that every song she’d written had been about you and you believe her by the way she hits and presses against every sob-inducing stretch of your walls. even with her slow thrusts, your moans get so loud you’re worried someone might hear. 

“you feel so good, so, so good in me a-ah fuck!”

“you’re so fucking cute.” she squeals at the little whimpers that escape your mouth. you start panting and she tips her head, licking and sucking on your tongue. “yeah? is my perfect girl drooling for me?” 

she quickens her pace and absolutely buries her digits in you and you groan, throwing your head back at how she fills you. but in the midst of this impatient intimacy, footsteps, a group of them, echo in the background, coming closer to both of you. removing her hand from your cheek, chaeyoung grabs the lapel of her coat and conceals your body. with a sharp turn of her head, a narrowed gaze dissects the scene behind her. 

“salarymen,” she huffed, pivoting to lock eyes with you again. “they’re all drunk as shit, they won’t remember this.”

you don’t know if it’s the cold or how magical it feels to have chaeyoung’s fingers fill your pussy once more, but you’re delirious and the thought of strangers seeing chaeyoung fuck you senseless in a grimy alleyway drives you wild. you buck into her fingers and her cold ring stings against your clit.

“i’m gonna- i’m-”

“oh you’re cumming soon?” she nods and moves closer, her nose pressed on your cheek, her breath hot on your neck. “my sweetness is cumming soon?” 

“chae!” you go off on a succession of curses, each word laced with disbelief as she pulls her fingers out of you. you dig your nails into her shoulders and try to shake her, but she pushes her shoulders hard up against you. she licks your juices off her fingers, savors the taste of it, and you watch her swallow, the eye contact constant and unnerving. your lip quivers and you shield your face with your hands, head still reeling over your denied orgasm. 

“still not wet?” she chuckles and pulls out her phone to snap a picture of you, reddened cheeks and messy hair, your tits still exposed. the flash blinds you more than it should. 

“public whore.”

-

“tmi? i had udon tonight~”

being an idol necessitates acting. you hadn’t expected this part of the gig when you’d first auditioned as this naive, bumbling thing, but found repressing emotions and shelling out little white lies as second nature to you. news sites and forums brand you as polite, nearly to a fault, not knowing how much practice you’ve gotten suppressing any negativity. but keeping quiet at family dinners and forcing high-pitched laughter on tv shows chips away at you. feigning obedience in a sea of believers, arms constricted in periwinkle sleeves, ground you down to a paste. 

“no, no, i can’t give any spoilers for the next comeback,” you huff, pouting for the camera. 

this - nonchalantly responding to comments and recounting a day that never happened as a bullet vibe hums in your hole - feels nothing like that. it’s a show you’re putting on with your favorite audience and favorite performer. and she stares you down from the other side of the hotel room as she adjusts the straps of her bra. the blood red floral lace of her two-piece complements the expanse of watercolors and scribbles etched into her body. you swapped imagining sheep for counting tattoos in the dim of the night when she’s passed out right beside you. 

chaeyoung is delicate and rough and terrene. but you’re looking at her too intently and she clicks her tongue, picking up her phone to drag a slider button a little to the right. the vibrations ramp up and you start to sway back and forth. you feel yourself leaking even more now into the blanket that’s covering your bare legs. 

“a-ah- it’s getting quite late now…” you’re fumbling with your phone, tapping the back of it to mask the muffled but noticeably louder buzzing. “maybe i should go to bed?” your eyes dart to chaeyoung and she blinks at you, unfazed. the golden glow emanating from floor lamps and tapered candles light her hauntingly. her apparition is breathtaking and distracting and your finger hovers over the x on your screen because the need to kneel before her now is painful. 

“what? don’t go, we’ll miss you?” you giggle at the message but you feel this tension build inside. and your walls clench around this tiny little thing buried shallow in you, the slightest movement away from coming out covered in your juices. you wonder if anyone can tell how hot and bothered you are, or if they knew you only had a shirt on. 

you purse your lips and feel your heart swell just seeing her folding her clothes and dropping the pile into a suitcase on the floor. you didn’t even know how that got there. she whips her head up to look at you, her countenance still inscrutable. 

“i’m sorry, i h-have to,” you apologize, half to your fans, half to chaeyoung. you adjust your position, the vibrations now reaching your clit.  “i have to go.”

there’s always an element of suspense that builds in you whenever chaeyoung controls you like this. it makes you want to keel over when there’s too much of anything going on around you. you felt understood as soon as you stepped into this unassuming building and saw how plain and normal the room looked, sans a pale yellow carry-on and a st. andrews cross. 

“don’t worry baby, we’ll get to that later,” she had said just after walking in, looking over her shoulder as she plopped onto the pristine bed. thinking about that now, you squirm.

they can’t understand. you suppose no one can get your relationship til they’re changed by her the way you have been. her words are apocalypse and you’d waited your whole life to bear witness to someone who can make you sober. how she slapped sense into you the same day you turned twenty, and how for the first time in a long time, in that same pitch black room, you let yourself be attracted to another girl. 

they can’t speak to the rush you got when you first gave her a peck on the cheek in public, can’t describe how you felt when she brought you to a park just before it closed to kiss you under towering oaks. won’t know the cramps you got from laughing too hard after they’d chased you out. they don’t know this isn’t your first time in a love hotel, can’t guess the number of times you’ve had to hide marks and bruises from everyone else. 

it’s paradoxical, how you find freedom and safety in her, but son chaeyoung’s a kind of contradiction. she’s frustrating yet patient, got a line of carrots tattooed when she was high but planned all year to get this amphibious monster cradled in a bed of spikes on her back. all you can ever be certain of is her care for you. she adores you to no end and it’s suffocating, the way she looks at you like you’re her love of the century. 

a notification pops up at the top of your screen - a message from your manager: “you don’t look well - are you okay? you should end the call before anyone gets worried.” 

“i’ve been lacking a bit of sleep recently so i’ll rest well now,” you reassure your viewers. “please don’t miss me too much? you can see all of us at the yokohama stadium in a few days.” a flurry of hearts and well wishes come in from the bottom of your screen and you wave at the camera before blowing a kiss.  

“bye everyone!”

after ending the live broadcast, you hurry to text your manager back, reminding her that next time you’ll give her more notice in advance of the lives, and yes, chaeyoung will take care of you because you’re definitely catching something. you look warm. your cheeks are flushed. of course you’re running a temperature, what else could it be? chaeyoung saunters to you, taking your phone and setting it down on the dresser. 

“you weren’t supposed to end it so soon. i barely even got started,” she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder and exhales. she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. the air that enters your lungs doesn’t have enough time to stay in there before it’s expelled. you hear the buzzing as loud as you hear her. you’re so close. 

“take off your shirt, go to the bed and spread your legs.” 

“yes, chae.” 

as you shuffle there, you feel your wetness between your thighs. you dispose of your top near the foot of the bed, get on and present yourself to her. she’s just standing there, back straight, arms to her sides, but it’s eerie and intimidating. there’s something animalistic in her eyes whenever she asks to observe you like this. her sight shifts between watching as the vibrator slowly slides out of you, and searing eye contact. your legs tense and you arch your back, the thought of chaeyoung making you cum without even touching you driving you so close to the edge. 

“it’s too early,” she grumbles, and takes a step to pull the vibrator out of you. the slightest, plainly intentional brush of her fingertips against your clit makes the loss more unbearable. “i think my favorite girl deserves a present first.” 

while chaeyoung switches it off, you bring your knees up to your chest and shudder. whimpering, you peek over at your girlfriend and find her gaze following the glistening trail of your fluids as they traverse sluggishly down her forearm. you shut your eyes for a bit, letting your heart rate slow but soon feel her weight dip into the side of the bed. chaeyoung combs through your hair and massages your temples while she pushes something matte against your arm. when you finally open your eyes again, you find a pastel pink box sitting beside you. 

“open it, princess. it’s for you.” 

the heat in your lap settles and you sniffle, tossing the crushed velvet ribbon aside to reveal a leather restraint. it is supple yet sturdy in your hands. just seeing your name embossed in gold on burgundy hide makes you light-headed. chaeyoung takes the restraint from your trembling hands and cocks her head up, wordlessly ordering you to stand. you rise to your feet with a practiced efficiency, turning around to face the only mirror in the room head-on. 

“my baby. you belong to me.” with the restraint in one hand, she fondles your breasts and buries her face into your neck. the leather scrapes your nipples and you let out a prolonged moan. “look at how much of a slut you are. you just want to be fucked, don’t you? controlled, like a doll.” 

“i do.” 

chaeyoung slips the collar around your neck and fastens it, the buckle resting a bit too snug. she tugs at the strip of leather connected to it, just to get a yelp out of you. your arms slide through pliable loops, followed by your wrists. and at last, she has you with your hands secured behind your back in an impossible grip, any struggle to set yourself free choking you at the same time. 

“my prettiest pet.” hooking a finger into the d-ring of your collar, chaeyoung drags you down to the ground then holds your head up. “you’re gonna be a good cum slut for me now, okay?”

a nervous giggle escapes your mouth and your mind races, eyes searching for some clue in the room. your lips naturally fall to a pout and raise your hand to settle it on her arm, your thumb rubbing into the constellation on her wrist. 

“kneel.” 

you nod, shoulders slumped, and adjust your weight to settle onto your knees. chaeyoung beams and rips her arm from you to collect a lit candle from the dresser. her rouge pink eyeshadow shimmers when she’s towering over you like this, the flickering light casting dancing shadows along her jawline. 

“open your mouth.”

she cups your chin in her hand and you can hear her getting choked up. the flame grows longer, burns more brightly, and you can just about peer over to see a pool of translucent white wax surrounding it. 

“stick your tongue out.” 

you extend your tongue and start to pant. your eyes flutter close when you see chaeyoung dip the candle down and cry out as you feel the first bead of wax land on your chest. she pours the wax indiscriminately over your torso, pinpricks of fire sparking goosebumps all over you, leaving uneven streaks and blobs of cream-white coating your tits and abs. you have this itch to get the wax off your nipples, but your hands are useless. it isn’t as hot as it’d been at the bar, but it singes and the heat spreads to your shoulders and down to your stomach. 

“i’ve always wished i could cum all over you like this,” she coos. through half-lidded eyes, the lamp light forms a halo around her. “wish i could make you walk the streets and let everyone know you’re taken.” 

“i’m all yours, chaeng.”

chaeyoung tilts her head and smirks as her fingers crawl into your mouth to pry it open. you feel her knuckles and joints against your teeth and gums, her nails digging into your cheek. your tongue wraps around her pointer and laps at it. 

“you want that so fucking bad don’t you? want to look so filthy for me?” her lips slowly curling into a smile, chaeyoung drizzles the hot wax over your cheeks, scorching your neck and your collarbones as they drip down. 

“fuck.”

to her, you look holy, defenseless, ruined. a waterfall of soy wax cooling and cracking on your skin. her favorite canvas in the world biting her lip at the stinging and tightness that constricts her chest. chaeyoung snaps out of her daze and blows the flame out. 

“get back on the bed. face down, ass up.” 

you hang your head low and fall onto the bed, no arms to brace your landing. with your chin digging into the pillow, you ram your knees into the mattress, forcing yourself up into chaeyoung’s favorite position. deep inhales and the lengthening of your spine keeps you sane waiting for her to get it over with and just fuck you. with your other lovers, this was your time to mentally prepare yourself and dissociate. with your exes, you’d lay still and draw imaginary circles on the ceiling as they entered you. with chaeyoung, every beat that her hands are off you is downright misery. 

“you just love taking time, don't you?” you snicker and score the material of your restraints with a nail. 

and suddenly your field of view is replaced by the darkness under a silky cloth, and a knot is tightened at the back of your head. you feel chaeyoung running her fingers through your hair before taking a fistful of it and jerking your head back. 

“trust me you’re gonna need time to prepare yourself” she jokes, slamming your head back down into the pillow.

the sound of straps being tightened and the clearing of a throat makes the blindfold more of a punishment. in your head, you’re going through all the toys chaeyoung keeps in that box under her bed. the bed creaks as she climbs on and you feel the bones of her knees hitting your calves. a hand wet from lube lands on your ass with a smack, the other guides the head of the toy to the entrance of your puffy, wet pussy. 

“did you get this wet from all the cum i gave you?” 

chaeyoung licks her upper lip as she holds the base of the toy, stroking your clit to your hole with its tip then slapping it against your cunt. you want to fold just from the sheer weight of it. she grabs hold of your waist and slides the entire length of it into you. you know you’ve never been stretched like this and you let a yell out in satisfaction. chaeyoung stills in you, letting you get used to its girth, how full it makes you feel, not knowing that you probably never will. she leans forward and presses her forehead onto your back. 

“take my strap, you fucking whore.” 

it’s carnal, ferocious, how she begins to thrust into you, all eight inches pumping in and out of your pussy. you suck air in through clenched teeth and sink your cheek deeper as your mind grows foggy. without fingers to grasp onto the bed sheets, you grip them between your molars and bite down hard. 

“rghhh- fuck!” 

whenever chaeyoung bottoms out in you, her fingers inch closer to youri stomach. she pushes down on your belly to feel the shape of the toy form then vanish, her grip getting even more possessive. 

“taking me so well.” she whines looking down at the base of the toy coated in your white slick. “so tight and creamy around me-”

it pains you to not see her as her toned abs flex with each thrust, not watch her intense gaze fizzle out and be replaced with something much more tender. 

“i need you,” you plead, but it’s muffled by the fabric.

chaeyoung pounds into you harder and deeper, and she abandons your waist to cling onto your restraint. as the friction builds and your yelps grow louder, she reins you in and pulls out to spit on the toy. then she slams it back into you and you cry out in pleasure. 

“oh my god, i f-fucking need you!” 

as you near your climax, every part of your body is pushed to hypersensitivity. the wax that peeled off your nipples rub against the sore buds every time she penetrates you. chaeyoung pins you down with her weight, the lace and heat of her chest melting into you, making your shoulder blades ache. your clit throbs and the walls of your cunt clamp around her strap. you swear it’s getting bigger, like it’s growing within you. 

“cum now,” she growls. 

chaeyoung drives down into you, fucking you into oblivion, when you feel a gush of ecastasy take over you. you spasm around her strap, milking it with your pussy, until she pulls out, making you fall back onto the bed. your thighs quiver and your toes curl while you flood the blindfold with tears. the aftershocks of it make your head spin and you whimper when you feel your girlfriend get off the bed. 

she pulls the cloth off your head and laughs at your bloodshot eyes. your eyes fall to the dildo right in front of you, and the sticky mess you made on it dripping down to the floor. seeing you take deep breaths and your drooping eyelids, chaeyoung holds you by your collar and awakens you with a slap. 

“not even close to being done with you, babe.” 

a fire reignites in chaeyoung’s eyes. she leads you to the cross and rushes to free your wrists from the restraint, letting the bulk of the leather hang from your neck. your wrists, now an angry red from the senseless fight you put up, taste freedom for not a second before they’re hoisted above you head and locked onto each corner of the cross. 

“i can’t do this…” your muscles scream with the memory of strain and you cry out as chaeyoung backs away from you to rest her legs on an armchair. “chaeng!” 

slowly, her hands reach behind her back and she unclasps her bra, revealing her tits to you. arching her back, she slides her panties down and discards both articles to the side with mild annoyance. 

“look pretty for me.” she spreads her legs, letting each one dangle over the sides of the armchair. as one hand reaches out for your phone on the nearby dresser, the other snakes down her abs to arrive at her clit. chaeyoung swipes to the camera and positions it to snap another picture of you, hung on a cross. the flash blinds you less than it did before. 

“like you always do.”

-

so i realized i got 600 notes on my first fic which is kinda crazy... thank yall so much 😭😭

[barrenclan]

Rain got me +1 bowls of pasta because my partner’s mom asked what I look so flabbergasted about and I showed her his death whilst she was eating pasta and the multiple pages of it and she said the pasta looked too close to his organs and let me have it

Also last night I had a dream where Pinepaw got just dance and started playing it then accidentally hit the tv with the controller so it fell on Hacksaw and Ranger and then he got clomped by Deepdark which woke me up

Anyhow now that I’ve moved past the sillyness oh my god your writing is so good. like I genuinely understood the rage Slug felt because I’ve felt it (not a parent but a sibling) and you represented the fury of the moment perfectly and how you’d like nothing more than whatever caused your important one to get hurt and feel pain. and oh my god the realization it hurt and it wasn’t ‘falling asleep’. and the eyes. The rings around Rain’s, Slug’s, and if you remember right Asphodel’s all paralleling each other except there’s a maggot in her eye (I think?) which makes it so much worse but better. GEHAHAHAHA OH KY GOD IM SORRY FOR FANGIRLING ITS JUST SO GOOD AND AHAHA. I was a big fan of Rain and I’m happy he wasn’t ’sympathetic meow meow’ at the end of his story but instead a fucked up man which you can pity but never actually love again. I’m so happy his story ended like that and not ‘trying to get better’ and getting everyone’s forgiveness after murdering Asphodel.

Anyways you’re a genius and I think you’re a marvelous writer and keep at it. like seriously you’re such an amazing writer. I can’t I just love it so much and how well you show emotion and I love the formatting and hagggggggggg like I genuinely wanted to cry at Asphodel’s death and all the things Slug is feeling. The coming out scene. The accurate representation of abuse instead of random shit that happens to about 5,000 of the main cast (not saying it doesn’t happen but it’s not accurate and no one goes through the exact same thing). Overall, GOOD JOB!!!!!!

Firstly, sorry to your partner's mom for icking her out of pasta.

I'm glad you liked the issue, though! Very many people have been complimenting me about my writing and I'm both flattered and relieved to hear it. It's hard to get endings right, and this part of the story has had a lot of buildup.

The impotus of Rainhaze's character was a very specific inversion of my other character Shellspring, in examining "what if this previously beloved guy did something utterly horrible", but whereas Shellspring got better, I wanted Rainhaze to get worse. They're both explorations on the same idea.

[bellaxgiornata]

Falling For the Devil [Part eighty-seven: "The Week of Distractions"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Matt spend your first week living together and quickly find out just how distracting you both are to each other.

Or Lots of sex ensues.

[Series of one-shots about Reader meeting, falling for, and dating Matt Murdock.]

Warnings: 18+ for this series; contains humor, fluff, romance, angst, smut (like...a lot of it later in the series), language, some violence

Word Count: 17.9k (yes, you read that right)

a/n: This installment is just smut. Lots of it. I'll mention there's Dom/Sub undertones, rough sex, and face-fucking in this installment (let me know if anything else might need to be noted). We do not get the full smut scenes because it's a smut montage and this would've gotten even more out of hand in length. I'd also like to thank @theetherealbloom for Monday's scene inspired by an ask! There is alternating POVs but I messed up and the last two are Reader (I was too tired to rewrite it at that point) and we get ALL the sides of Matt in here plus Spicy Reader. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Tag List: @ninacotte @mattkinsella @stilldreaming666 @murdocksclient @madscamp02 @1988-fiend @lina-mar @pinkratts @schneeflocky @acharliecoxedfan @yarrystyleeza @theetherealbloom @danzer8705 @lionalsowrites @harperdoodle

Saturday

Matt’s fingers ran over the braille reader as he sat at the kitchen table, rereading a file on his laptop. Foggy had emailed him a handful of files yesterday morning before they’d left the office early to help you unpack and move into his place. Matt hadn't planned on looking at them over the weekend, he didn't think he’d have a chance to work on them until he was back in the office on Monday, but you’d been exhausted all morning today so Matt had suggested you take a nap after lunch. Which was what you were currently doing on the leather sofa nearby, his blanket draped over you.

You’d fallen asleep probably fifteen minutes ago now and Matt had quickly become very absorbed in the case he was working on. It had truthfully been frustrating him, though. There were a few particular details that he couldn’t seem to make sense of no matter how hard he tried. He’d read them over and over, running a hand through his hair in frustration and quietly cursing to himself. He was about ready to pull up his email and send a message to Foggy when he heard you make a soft noise from over on the couch.

Matt’s hand hesitated on the braille reader, his ears perking up before his head turned in your direction. He hadn’t been paying much attention to your sleeping form over on the couch while he had been working, knowing how tired you’d been since it had taken you so long to finally relax and fall asleep last night. Though after his talk with you in the kitchen around three in the morning, he’d noticed your nerves had leveled back out to their usual state and stayed there. Which he assumed meant you’d finally calmed and were beginning to adjust to living together now.

But as he focused on you just to his left, he was almost instantly hit with the scent of your arousal in the air. Matt felt his cock twitch in his sweatpants in response. How had he not noticed it earlier? Admittedly it was very faint, likely because you’d only recently become turned on by whatever it was you were dreaming about–something Matt was rapidly becoming curious about. 

As he tuned in closer to your body, he noticed your pulse was a little faster than usual when you were asleep. Even your breathing was hitching ever so slightly, something his ears were easily able to pick up on when he focused. No doubt you were dreaming about something sexual. That thought had Matt’s mind quickly shifting away from his work, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. 

It had been a few days since you’d both had sex–since Wednesday morning, to be exact. Right before he’d had to leave your place for work and you’d had to get ready for work yourself. Though Tuesday night had certainly been something at your place, but it had been the only time this week you and Matt had had sex. He’d been craving it–craving that connection with you again–which was probably why he’d been so overzealous Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, but he’d known you’d been stressed and busy this week with the move and hadn’t bothered to bring up sex since.

Matt’s eyes snapped shut the moment you made another noise. It was a soft hum that vibrated in the back of your throat, something that sounded like a muffled moan. Jaw clenched, Matt turned away from you in his chair and tried to focus back on his braille reader. It didn’t feel right that he was sitting here listening to you like this while you weren’t even awake. 

For a few minutes he tried hard to ignore the growing scent of your arousal, but it was no longer just lightly wafting towards him. No, now the scent of it was beginning to hang heavy in the air around him. Not only that, but he’d heard the gentle rustle of fabric as your thighs involuntarily squirmed together in your sleep, which was clearly only further increasing Matt’s favorite smell through the apartment. 

Hanging his head in his hands as he slumped over the kitchen table, he became achingly aware that he was already half hard. Would it be so wrong if he disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes? Took care of himself while you were asleep? Would jerking off to the scent of you in the air really be that wrong?

Before he could come to a conclusion, he’d heard you lightly moan again. Except this time it was followed by the softest, pleasure-filled utterance of his name in your sleep. Matt’s eyes once again snapped shut before he pressed the heels of his palms against them. 

This was sheer torture. Was it always going to be like this with you here now? With your arousal often coating the air around him, wonderfully suffocating him? He wasn’t sure he would survive that, not without constantly needing to fulfil the urge to either fuck you or bury his face in your cunt.

It didn’t help that he heard you calling his name again, the scent of you strong in his nose. With the heels of his hands still pressed against his closed eyes, his lips parted. Matt let the faint taste of you roll onto his tongue, a quiet whimper falling out of him as he heard you say his name again. His hips shifted on the chair, an uncomfortable feeling tightening in his gut. He needed to do something about his growing erection, there was no other option. But as he removed his face from his hands, he startled when he felt something touch his shoulder.

“Shit, sorry Matt!” you said, immediately withdrawing what was apparently your hand on him. “I was trying to get your attention for the past minute. You weren’t answering and you looked like you were in pain and I–”

He had turned towards you in the chair, hearing the way your words had cut off and your pulse had sped up when he did. No doubt you’d immediately noticed the tent of his sweatpants. Seconds later he heard you curse as you most likely pieced together why he was in his current state. And then immediately after that he swore he caught the spike in adrenaline in conjunction with the increase in that particular scent.

“Oh, I–I didn’t realize…” you trailed off.

Matt shot you a sheepish smile. “I guess this is something I didn’t exactly think about, either. Having you here all the time means you’re going to, well, become aroused at times and…that tends to have an effect on me. Obviously.”

Matt heard the way you were shifting back and forth on your feet in front of him, your lip slipping between your teeth. He wished it was his teeth gnawing on the soft flesh instead of yours–and that thought didn’t help his current situation.

“Do you…need to keep working?” you asked him carefully. 

A slow smile slid across Matt’s mouth before he turned even further towards you in the chair. “No,” he answered huskily. “I don’t need to work at all, actually. I was just keeping busy while you napped. Why, do you care to share what you were dreaming about?”

“Well,” you began, gradually lowering down to your knees before him, “I can show you what it was about, if you’d like?”

“Mmm,” Matt hummed out, enjoying the flirtatiousness in your tone as your hands landed on his thighs. “I would definitely like that.”

He felt your hands sensually slide up his thighs, the warmth of them lingering behind on his skin beneath his sweatpants and causing Matt’s cock to further strain against its confines uncomfortably. Your fingers curled around the waistband of both his sweatpants and boxers before gradually pulling them just halfway down his thighs. His hard cock sprang forth immediately, a faint sigh of relief falling out of him. 

As your hands landed back on his now bare upper thighs, your fingers running through the hair along his legs, Matt’s ears picked up on the excited noise that you emitted ever so softly. It was so quiet he was sure you hadn’t even realized you had made it. Your breathing had picked up, too, coming in faster and heavier. His own heart accelerated in his chest at the sound of your tongue gliding along your lips hungrily as one of your hands made its way towards his cock. 

You were becoming even more increasingly aroused now because you wanted to suck his cock–you were eager for it. Your body was practically screaming that at Matt. And that in itself was only further exciting him.

Your warm, soft hand gripped the base of him and Matt’s eyelids slowly fluttered closed at the contact. You had gripped him with the slightest of pressure and it had him desperate for more. He could tell how close your mouth had lowered to him, the heat of your breath falling over the sensitive skin of his cock with each exhale that passed between your plush lips. A moment later he felt the warm drip of your saliva land on the tip of him. Matt fought the urge to buck up into your hand as he impatiently waited for more, already longing to feel any part of you. 

Fortunately you didn't keep him waiting much longer, either. Your hand slid up the length of him, coating his cock in your saliva with a few pumps of your fist around him. Then he felt your warm tongue lightly swipe over the head of his cock, swirling a few times around it. Behind his closed lids, Matt's eyes momentarily rolled back. His lips parted once again, the taste of your arousal still thick in the air as it landed along his tongue. He was practically salivating at the tangy sweetness of it.

"This is what you were dreaming about, sweetheart?" Matt breathed out, enjoying the feel of your tongue gradually licking up the length of him. "My cock in your mouth? That's what you wanted?"

Your mouth sucked the tip of him straight inside before you hummed out an affirmative noise to his question. The vibration from your mouth shot straight up through the length of him, a burst of pleasure racing through Matt’s entire body. He groaned low in response, the noise a deep rumble in his chest. 

You had become exceptionally good at giving him head–honestly you'd become amazing at everything with him in the bedroom. Gradually he'd noticed that you had learned how to use his heightened senses to make him feel unbelievably good instead of accidentally overstimulating him. No one he'd ever been with before had been that perceptive of his body. No one had ever been so goddamn enjoyable to be with. But you were like this every damn time with him.

You sucked him further into your mouth, eager to take more of him already. Matt practically growled in response–you were unexpectedly enthusiastic this afternoon. His hand darted out, firmly gripping a fistful of your hair at the back of your head. His own head dropped back over his shoulders at the feel of your resulting moan in response to his grip, half of his cock in your mouth vibrating with the noise. 

The sensation felt so fucking good that his hips involuntarily snapped a fraction forward, sending himself just a bit further into your mouth. He'd quickly tried to restrain himself, but he'd certainly caught the resulting hum of pleasure from you again immediately afterwards. He whined at the feel of it, a coiling pleasure building at the base of his spine. He had begun to tremble from the effort of holding himself back, refraining from accidentally fucking into your mouth again, not wanting to hurt you or push your boundaries.

A moment later he felt you gradually slip your mouth off of him, your hand soon taking over as his head rolled forward again. He was close to apologizing, wondering if he'd done something wrong, but the languid strokes of your hand up and down the shaft of him had his words slow to form. You’d spoken before he had a chance to, and what you said next had Matt already wanting to cum.

"You don't need to hold back, baby," you told him. 

Your thumb ran over the head of him, the pad of it swiping over a particularly sensitive spot. Matt moaned out, a shudder running through his body. Fuck, were you really offering him that ?

"Are–are you sure?" Matt panted out. "We don't have to."

"Use me, Matt," you urged, thumb circling the tip of his cock again and causing Matt’s hips to squirm in the chair. "I want to try that with you."

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed out, his other hand lightly grasping your chin, his thumb brushing over your dampened lips. “You’re really sure?”

Your lips wrapped firmly around his thumb, drawing it into your mouth as a hum of affirmation left you. Matt bit down hard on his own bottom lip when your tongue gently began to lap at the pad of his finger. How were you so good at this? At turning him on like this?

Your lips eventually released his finger, your mouth angling downwards to lightly place a kiss to the palm of his hand. And then you’d quickly maneuvered out of his grasp before sucking his cock hungrily back into your mouth. A flurry of curses flew out Matt in return, his hand gripping your hair tighter as you took him a little deeper. His abdominals tightened in pleasure at the feel of your warm mouth around him.

Carefully testing his boundaries, his hips ever so slightly rolled forwards up off the chair, his cock sinking deeper into your mouth. Your hands eagerly grasped onto his hips, an excited noise coming from your full mouth. 

" Ahh –fuck–sweetheart," Matt hissed out, his words broken. "You really want me to–to fuck your mouth?"

You once again hummed out an affirmative noise along Matt's cock, the feel of it causing him to moan out in pleasure. Not needing any further encouragement, Matt’s other hand lowered to lightly grip you by the throat. The scent of you grew thicker in the air as Matt heard the way your thighs had pressed together, his ears picking up on the slight rocking of your hips as you searched for friction. That only turned him on more–because you were getting turned on by this. 

When his hips rolled forward again, he could feel your throat relaxing as you took him deeper. A low, throaty groan fell out of Matt as his head fell completely over the back of the chair, his senses engulfed by you. Your nails further dug into his bare hips, encouraging him to fuck your eager mouth. 

And Matt was all too happy to oblige as he fucked up into your mouth yet again, a hiss of pleasure sneaking past his gritted teeth.

Sunday  

"Okay, so I've finally finished making a list and was about to run to the store for groceries for the week," you told Matt, making your way out of the bedroom as you skimmed over the list on your phone again. "Was there anything else you needed?"

Glancing up as you came to a stop just behind the leather couch, you saw Matt straighten back up from beside the dishwasher, the muscles of his upper torso flexing and pulling visibly as he moved. You hadn't expected him to still be shirtless after his shower, but he was wearing nothing but his sweatpants that were currently hanging low on his hips. His hair was still damp and clinging to his forehead, too.

Blinking hard, you tried to ignore the pleasant shock at finding Matt shirtless, damp, and doing the dishes. Though admittedly the sight had raised your body temperature just a bit, and judging by the cocky smile that slipped onto Matt’s face before he turned and headed over to the shelf to put away the plates in his hands, he’d noticed. Clearing your throat, you tried to focus back on your task of working on the grocery list for the week.

“Is there uh, anything else you would like me to pick up?” you asked. 

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I would like,” Matt teased, turning back around to face you.

You swallowed hard, your eyes once again drawn up towards him from the phone you held in your hand. He was grinning back at you with a devious look in his eyes. Your mouth felt like it was going dry at the sight of him just standing there half-dressed in the kitchen. Internally you chastised yourself, because watching Matt put away a load of clean dishes with his shirt off and his hair damp shouldn’t have had this much of an effect on you, but it fucking did. And his usual teasing wasn’t helping at all. 

“You–you, uh…” you began, but you quickly trailed off.

It was hard trying to focus on your words when your eyes were glued to his defined and toned chest as he made his way back to the dishwasher. Your eyes followed his movements as he bent over, intentionally turning so his ass was pointed straight at you. You watched as the fabric of his sweatpants pulled taut over it as he closed the dishwasher. Clearing your throat, you tried to focus again as he slowly rose back to his full height.

“I mean was there, uh something? You–you wanted?” you asked slightly breathless.

He chuckled, turning back towards you and leaning his arms over the kitchen countertop as his attention fixed on you. His head was tilted just a bit to the side, an amused smirk on his beautiful mouth.

“Trail mix, remember?” he replied, all faux innocence. “You know I love when you make it, sweetheart.”

“Right,” you said a little nervously, nodding as you glanced back down at your phone. “I’ll uh, I’ll add it to the list.”

Your fingers flew across the keypad on your phone as you added each ingredient of the trail mix Matt loved so much to the list. Though your fingers slowed their typing when you saw Matt push off of the countertop out of your peripheral. He was gradually making his way out of the kitchen and over towards you, your heart beating a little harder with each step he neared. Apparently it didn’t matter that you’d both just had sex yesterday afternoon after your nap because you found yourself quickly distracted from your typing because of his presence.

Matt stopped just in front of you, that cocky smile still on his face. He reached out and grabbed your phone, slowly sliding it out of your grip. You stood there dumbfounded, watching as he turned and effortlessly tossed your phone onto the kitchen table just to the side of him. When he turned back around, he placed one hand on either side of the leather couch, boxing you in between his arms. 

“Something on your mind besides the grocery list, sweetheart?” he asked. 

“What? No, I was just focused on getting the–the list together,” you replied quickly.

Matt shook his head, leaning forward towards your ear and whispering, “ Lie .”

You licked your lips, your eyes focused on his own lips with him suddenly standing so close to you. The hot breath from his mouth kept washing over yours as he continued to gaze down at you with that darkened, hungry stare of his.

“Well, I mean I was trying to focus on the list,” you conceded awkwardly, “but then you’re–you’re over in the kitchen making dishes somehow look weirdly sexy.” With a hard swallow you added, “And honestly that’s not fair, Matt. Putting away clean plates shouldn’t look so good.”

Matt’s bottom lip slipped between his teeth as he grinned back at you in amusement. The sight alone of him shirtless like that, so close to you while he caged you between those powerful arms of his, had you wanting to lunge at him. To crush your mouth to his and beg him to fuck you. You did your best to refrain though.

“I could tell you were enjoying yourself,” he teased. “But it seems now you might need a little–” he paused, leaning over to whisper in your ear again, “– help before you go to the store.”

Eyes widening back at him, you were about to open your mouth and respond, but then he abruptly turned his face towards yours and dove forward, pressing his lips to yours. Taken by surprise, it took you a moment to react. But when his teeth bit gently down onto your lower lip and tugged, your hands flew up and grabbed onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into his bare skin. 

Matt grunted in response before he released your lip, his hands landing on your hips and gripping them firmly. Effortlessly he spun you around, your back now facing him as your own hands flew out, grasping onto the back of the couch to balance yourself at the unexpected movement. Looking at Matt over your shoulder, you spotted that lustful look spread across his face. 

“What’re you doing, Matty?” you asked curiously.

He pressed himself to the back of you and you immediately felt his half-hard cock against your ass. Your cunt clenched tight around nothing instantly and his fingers dug into your hips over your shirt as if he knew.

“Bend over, sweetheart,” Matt ordered. “Bend over the couch, for me.”

Inhaling a shaky breath, your attention returned to the couch before you. Slowly you leaned over it, the backrest pressing against your abdomen. You rested your hands on a cushion, trying to hold yourself up. Seconds later you felt Matt’s arms wrap around your waist, his fingers deftly undoing the button of your jeans before lowering your zipper. Soon after, he was tugging your pants and underwear down your thighs and then slipping them entirely off of you. Goosebumps rose along your now bare lower half just before you felt Matt’s rough, warm hands lovingly smoothing their way along the backs of your thighs. 

“You can’t get enough of me, can you?” Matt asked from just behind you. 

One of his hands made their way between your thighs, lightly teasing a finger between your dampening folds. Your hips twitched in response, your body instinctively asking him for more. Matt hummed out a pleased noise.

“I”ll never have enough of you,” you whispered back.

“That’s my girl,” Matt praised quietly.

The pad of his index finger began rubbing gently against your clit, the sensation immediately causing your eyes to snap shut. You were vaguely aware of his other hand leaving your thigh, your focus mainly on what his fingers were doing to you. But soon you felt the telltale weight of Matt’s cock landing against your ass and you gasped in delighted surprise.

“Should I fuck you before you go to the store, sweetheart?” Matt asked. “Would you like that? For me to fill you with my cum before you pick up the groceries for our place?”

You whined in response, desperately trying to press yourself back into him the best you could in this position. Because yes, you absolutely wanted that. To feel the pleasant ache of your cunt after he’d fucked you so thoroughly while you wandered the produce aisle. Having the memory of his hands and his mouth on you like a brand against your skin as you filled the cart with the groceries you’d both be sharing this week. Something about that had you dying to feel him inside of you, filling you so well like he always did.

“Yes, Matty, please,” you whimpered. 

Both of his hands grasped onto your thighs, sliding you a little more forward over the couch. You instantly sunk down onto your forearms along the couch cushion before you, your head turning over your shoulder to where he was standing behind you. From what you could see of Matt, he’d pushed his sweatpants and boxers partway down his thighs. Your eyes lingered on his face and the way his brows were pinched together, his nostrils flaring as he swiped his cock back and forth between the slick that had very quickly accumulated between your folds. He looked absolutely pleased as he did, his tongue darting out for a moment to dampen his lips.

Soon you felt him lining himself up with your entrance, and when just the tip of him gradually entered you, you gasped out. Head falling forward, it dropped between your shoulders as you felt Matt continue to slowly ease himself inside of you until he was fully sheathed, entirely filling you up. With your hips a bit higher above you, raised by the backrest of the leather couch that you were draped over, you wrapped your legs around Matt’s waist to help balance yourself. 

Still fully sheathed inside of you, Matt just held himself there. He didn’t make any attempt to fuck you at all. It was a moment before you became desperate for more, your hips squirming needily as you made a noise of frustration. Matt’s right hand continued to grip your right thigh as his left hand began gliding back and forth along your lower back. The feel of it sent a shudder through you.

“You want more, sweetheart?” he asked.

“ Yes ,” you begged.

“Mmm,” Matt hummed out, clearly pleased at how badly you already needed him. “Then you’re going to have to fuck yourself on my cock, sweet girl.”

You perked up at his words, your head slightly raising at what he’d just said. A rumbling chuckle fell out of him behind you at your reaction.

“Go on, sweetie,” he urged huskily. “Use me. Fair is fair, right?”

For a moment you were stunned, continuing to lay immobile in the position you were in over the back of the couch. But you quickly found yourself becoming impatient, wanting more than just the fullness of him inside of you. 

Slowly you began to move your hips, arching your back just enough until you felt Matt's cock almost slipping out. You rolled your hips roughly back into him, taking him fully inside of you in one swift, delicious movement. A soft cry of pleasure flew out of you at the feel as you did it again, quickly increasing your pace as your breath came in sharper. You heard Matt moan behind you, both of his hands firmly gripping your thighs.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breaths growing ragged. "Take what you need, sweet girl. I'm all yours."

Monday 

Matt was exhausted as he stood in the elevator waiting for it to slowly ascend to the top floor of his apartment building. He absently twirled his cane between both hands, his posture reflecting just how tired he was as his shoulders slumped forward a bit. His focus was admittedly not even on the space around him, but on you up in the apartment as he waited.

He’d told you that he’d be home late this evening because he, Foggy, and Karen had been working on a case. The three of them had been close to finally finding the break they needed and none of them had wanted to stop until they’d found it. Truthfully he’d expected it to take longer than it had, so Matt had given you a later time to expect him home and begged you not to wait for him for dinner. But thankfully they’d finished a little bit ago and Matt hadn’t wanted to linger around the office afterwards. Figuring he’d surprise you at home a little earlier than intended, he hadn’t given you a call to let you know he was on his way back when he’d left.

Which was why he was delighted to hear you were up in the apartment making dinner. And by the sounds of what he could hear–the pop music you were currently blaring on your phone in conjunction with your slightly elevated heart rate–you must have been dancing while you were cooking. Probably because you’d thought he wasn’t around to ‘see’ you doing it.

He grinned at that thought, wondering how adorably embarrassed you might become when he came through the front door and surprised you. He even had already thought of a way to tease you, hoping to hear your heart beat erratically in your chest and to feel the heat of your cheeks as you flushed. He would never stop loving the way your body reacted to him.

And over the past few days, Matt had absolutely loved having you at what had now become both of yours’ place, watching as you slowly began to settle in and grow comfortable in the space. Besides the fact that it seemed like your sex lives had become somehow even more active than before, he’d loved the little moments with you. Making dinner together over the weekend before cleaning up the dishes, playfully teasing each other and sharing lingering touches while you did. He loved coming back from his nights out as Daredevil to you curled up on the sofa wrapped in his blanket waiting for him. Both times when he had come back he’d hurried over to you, excitedly kissing you before he quickly stripped out of the suit so he could cuddle up with you for a few minutes before he carried you off to bed. 

And now he was coming home to you after a stressful day at work, excited that you were already here–and making dinner for the both of you. It thrilled Matt to know that you didn’t have to rush back to your apartment for anything ever again. Because you were always here with him. At home. And that thought had his own heart beating a little harder.

When the elevator doors opened, Matt didn’t hesitate to make his exit. His cane tapping along the floor, he made the familiar trek down the hallway back towards his apartment, a wide grin on his face as he focused on you inside. It smelled like you were making spaghetti and Matt’s stomach growled; he hadn’t really ate much for lunch earlier today, having been too busy with the case. He certainly was grateful you were making dinner.

Reaching the apartment door, he opened it, not surprised to find it unlocked despite how many times he’d told you to lock it when he wasn’t home. The grin briefly faltered on his face–he’d have to remind you about that again . But as he pushed the door open, he was immediately hit with the overpowering smell of your pheromones. It was so thick in the air that Matt had paused, frozen entirely on the spot just in the hallway.

Because of course with your elevated heart rate in a hot kitchen you’d be sweating just a bit, which in turn would increase your pheromones. It made sense. You were cooking pasta sauce on the stove, a pot of water boiling beside it, and it felt like you had the oven on. And you were, in fact, dancing in the kitchen. Which initially he’d found sweet and endearing, but with the scent of your pheromones heavy in the air and the sexual lyrics coming out of your phone, the way your hips were shaking in the kitchen right now had suddenly become something else to Matt.

Stepping into the apartment, he closed the door behind himself and made sure to lock it. He hung his cane up on the hook nearby first, his heart pounding harder in his chest as he heard the shift in the air around you in the kitchen. God, the way you were moving your hips with your lip caught between your teeth was drawing forth a reaction from himself that he had not anticipated. 

Quickly slipping out of his shoes, he stuffed them under the nearby bench before he briskly made his way down the entryway hall. Considering you weren’t expecting him home yet, your music was fairly loud, and you were currently focused on the stove as you continued to dance, you hadn’t noticed him come in. Matt wasn’t surprised by that.

And he didn’t want to alert you to his presence quite yet either. He wanted to continue to enjoy the seductive way you were moving without you noticing him for just a bit longer. He figured this wasn't something he would get to witness often. 

Slowly he slipped the strap of his briefcase over his head before tossing it onto the sofa, his focus never wavering from you. He made his way over to the kitchen, pausing just in the entrance of it. Closing his eyes, Matt stood there and allowed himself to feel the movements you were making through the currents of air around him. Each shake of your hips or slide of your hands through your hair slightly shifted the air around him and it was somehow quickly making him hard. The delicious and sweet scent of your pheromones filling his nose only further fueled his own increasing need, his dress pants gradually becoming uncomfortable.

Goddammit, you were sexy.

He’d already fucked you this morning in the shower and twice yesterday–once before you left for the grocery store and then another time before you’d both gone to sleep after he’d returned home from his night out as Daredevil. Yet for some goddamn reason it felt like he was in need of you again. Longing for you. Hungry for you.

Matt’s teeth ground together, no longer able to resist the call of your body. Crossing the distance between the pair of you, he came up behind you and carefully wrapped his arms around your waist. He felt you startle in his hold, your pulse jumping in brief shock as your head abruptly turned. You’d stopped dancing, though you’d calmed a bit when you’d realized it was him.

“Shit, Matt,” you breathed out, a hand landing over your thundering heart. “You really do need to start wearing a bell. You scared me half to death. Wasn’t expecting you back for another hour.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into the back of your neck. “I couldn’t resist.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confusion in your tone.

Matt’s arms tightened around your waist, his mouth lingering beside your ear. He inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling back as he picked up on the faintest hint of your arousal peaking through the smell of your pheromones. 

You’d often joked that his cocky teasing and his insatiable sexual appetite would be the death of you. But right now, it felt like you were going to be the death of him .

“Don’t stop,” he whispered into your ear. 

He felt the exact moment you realized what he meant. Embarrassment did in fact flood your body, heating your cheeks as you tried to pull away from him. Matt only tightened his hold around you.

“ Matt !” you shrieked. “You were watching me?”

It was the response he’d been intending to pull from you when he was in the elevator. He loved your usual adorable shriek of embarrassment which he’d generally follow up with a cocky, smartass teasing remark. And he’d had one ready, too, until he’d opened the apartment door and been bombarded by your pheromones. Now all he wanted was for you to keep rhythmically moving your hips–preferably against his face with no fabric blocking you from his mouth.

“Your pheromones are everywhere,” he told you. “Wasn’t expecting that. Just wanted to come home early and surprise you.” 

One of his hands slid down your front, cupping you over your cotton shorts. He felt the slight jolt from your body at the sudden contact, but he could feel your blood rushing southwards towards his hand. You were enjoying him touching you like this.

“Don’t stop,” he repeated.

"Matt, I'm not–"

You stopped mid-sentence when his mouth landed on the space between your neck and your shoulder. He purred in satisfaction at the taste of you mixed with the faint taste of the pasta sauce you'd been cooking. His hand began gradually rubbing you over your shorts, his other one trying to encourage the sway of your hips against him. 

"Matt, the food," you protested weakly.

He released your hip long enough to turn both burners off on the stove. He broke away from your neck just long enough to whisper, "Dinner can wait."

It was a moment before he felt you finally give in. Gradually your hips began to move, almost timidly at first, and Matt pressed himself into you from behind with a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction. He began to lightly nip at the skin of your neck, his own hips moving in tandem with the sensual sway of yours. He was quickly losing all ability to control himself though, his hand still rubbing at you over your shorts as he continued to grind himself against your ass.

"I want to taste you," he said.

" Matt ," you whispered, his name a mix of a moan and a reprimand. 

His hand stopped its movement against you over your shorts, sliding its way up towards your other hip. He grinned in smug satisfaction against your neck when he caught the incredibly faint whimper that vibrated in your throat, the noise not quite leaving your mouth in response to the absence of his touch. You clearly wanted this, too.

His hands abruptly spun you around until he had you facing himself. Still grasping tight to your hips, he continued to encourage the sensual sway of them against himself as he began to walk you backwards through the kitchen and away from the hot stove. As he moved, Matt's mouth crashed down onto yours in a frenzied kiss–you tasted like coffee and strawberries for some reason and it only had him frantically trying to taste more. 

Matt didn't stop walking you backwards until he'd accidentally backed you right into the fridge. Your mouth broke away from his quickly, expelling a soft gasp of surprise at the impact.

He felt your hands slide their way up his chest, clutching eagerly at his shoulders and rumpling his dress shirt between your fingers. Your breath was shallow and sharp, your heart loudly thrumming in your chest. Matt could feel the increase of your body temperature, the smell of your arousal clouding his mind as he heard your head fall back against the fridge. Your body clearly wanted a release, which countered what you said next.

"Matt, I don't think I can take another round of sex," you whispered. "I'm still sore from this morning. And literally all of the other times the past few days."

He leaned in, placing a soft kiss to your lips. When he broke away, Matt gradually kneeled down to the floor before you, his hands caressing the bare bit of your thighs that your shorts didn’t cover. He felt the prickle of goosebumps rise along your skin under his hands. He could also hear the pounding of your pulse in the artery along your inner thigh, the scent of your arousal strong beside his nose. 

He wanted you so damn bad right now. But he would never make you do anything.

Exhaling a sharp breath, he rested his forehead against your left thigh. "We don't have to do that," he replied quietly. "I just want to taste you. And I can be gentle, sweetheart." He leant forward, placing a kiss to your thigh and feeling the muscle twitch beneath his lips. "But you can say no. You can always say no."

Your hand was suddenly running through his hair, slow and tender. His eyelids lowered, lips parting as he let the taste of you in the air coat his tongue. A rumbling groan rolled its way up from his chest, the sound mingling with the music from your phone in the kitchen as your other hand began massaging his scalp, too. The feel of your hands on him wasn't helping the throbbing of his cock in his dress pants.

“If you have me, then I get to have you,” he heard you breathe out above him.

“ Fuck, sweetheart, ” Matt moaned.

His mouth opened, teeth lightly nipping at your thigh as his eyes clenched shut. Matt didn’t know how he’d gone so long without having you in his life. Foggy wasn’t wrong when he’d joked the other week saying that you had tamed the Devil–because like hell if he wouldn’t fall on his knees and worship you every chance he got. 

Releasing your thigh from his teeth, his hands made their way up towards the top of your shorts. Curling his fingers into the waistbands of both articles of clothing, he yanked down the shorts and your underwear in one swift movement, grinning when he heard your surprised gasp.

“Only if I get to have you first,” Matt purred out.

He tossed your clothes somewhere behind himself in the kitchen before gliding a hand up your thigh and towards your soaked folds. Humming in satisfaction, he ran a couple of fingers between them, coating them with your slick. You were so incredibly wet for him already. 

He slid a finger up towards your clit, catching the slight sigh that left your lips when the pad of his index finger gently grazed it. For a moment his eyes closed, reveling in the quiet, content noises you and your body made as he alternated his focus between lightly stimulating that sensitive bundle of nerves and teasing your soaked entrance, loving the way your back arched off of the fridge each time. One of your hands had fallen down to grip his shoulder, the other still lightly massaging his scalp as he continued to pleasure you–and like hell if it wasn’t only further stimulating him in return.

Eventually teasing you got to be far too much for Matt. With his left hand still massaging your right thigh, his other hand left your clit and instead reached down, gripping onto your calf. Abruptly he lifted it from the ground, grinning up at you when your hand roughly gripped his shoulder to balance yourself, a surprised yelp falling out of you. He raised your leg as high as he heard your body would comfortably let him, pinning it against the cold metal of the fridge door behind you. He heard the sound of your mouth opening, probably about to protest, but he immediately dove forward, swiping the flat of his tongue up the length of you. Instead of words, you released an indistinguishable noise of pleasure that had the smug grin returning to his lips. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Mhmm,” you hummed back, head nodding quickly.

He heard the way your head fell back against the fridge with a soft thud after. Matt slid his tongue over you again, his eyes falling shut as he savored the taste of your slick on his tongue. Letting it linger in his mouth for a moment, he reveled in the heady, delicious taste of you before he finally swallowed it down with a throaty groan that had your fingers curling tighter in his hair. 

“I’m going to have my fill of you,” Matt breathed out, his face turning up towards where you were above him as he sent you a devilish smile. “And I want you to ride my face as hard as you want. You hear me?”

He heard the stutter of your heart in response to his demand before you cursed under your breath.

“Fuck, Matt,” you whined.

“Mmm,” he hummed, shaking his head as he lowered his face back towards your cunt before him. “Thought we couldn’t do that tonight?”

He chuckled as he heard you call him a smartass, but you didn’t remotely complain when he dove forward again, this time lapping at your entrance before slipping his tongue inside of you. All the while he held your right leg up against the refrigerator door in a firm grip, grinning when he felt it beginning to tremble as you began rhythmically grinding your cunt against his face. He intentionally pressed his nose against your clit, his mouth spurred on by the loud moans flying out of you and merging with the music still playing on your phone.

He was definitely going to have his fill of you tonight.

Tuesday 

Needing to catch up on laundry after you'd come home from work, you'd decided to skip making dinner tonight, figuring you and Matt could order something instead. You'd sent him a text earlier letting him know your plan before throwing a load of clothes into the washer. Matt had shown up from work shortly after, just when you'd managed to gather everything out of the dryer that neither of you had had the energy to deal with the past couple of days.

Now the pair of you were on opposite sides of the bed from each other, both focused on sorting out the last bit of laundry from the laundry basket on the mattress between the pair of you. You reached your hand in, pulling out another pair of your socks from the basket before you sorted them together along the bed. 

“I believe these are yours,” Matt’s playful tone cut through the silence.

You glanced up from your pile of socks at his voice, catching him holding a pair of your black, silk panties in his hands. He had a mischievous look on his face as he held them up, his fingers rubbing the fabric back and forth between them. They were definitely not your everyday underwear. Rolling your eyes at Matt, you reached a hand out to take them from him, but he immediately drew his hand back from your reach, a wide grin forming on his lips.

“On second thought, I don’t know if I’m quite done with these yet,” he teased.

“Matt, those are clean and I’d like them to stay that way for right now,” you said.

“Does that mean I can dirty up the ones you’re wearing now, then?” he asked, his head tilting to the side as his eyebrows rose up onto his forehead.

You gaped back at him, shock written across your face. “What?” you asked.

He held out the silk panties to you and you snatched them from his hand before he could pull them out of your reach again. Matt chuckled at your reaction, clearly amused that he’d riled you up a little. You watched as he reached into the almost empty laundry basket, pulling out another pair of his black boxers.

“If those are clean and I can’t dirty them up,” he began, “then it stands to reason that I can dirty up the underwear you’ve got on now.”

You reached into the basket, pulling out the last two pieces of clothing as you made a face. “Do I want to know what you mean by that?” you asked him. “Because I’m guessing you mean something sexual by that.”

“I definitely mean something sexual by that,” he answered you.

With a sigh you glanced up at Matt, raising a single brow at him. He picked up his neatly folded pile of black boxers, shooting you a cheeky smile from the otherside of the bed. 

“ How do you still want to have sex?” you asked him in astonishment. “Do you have a secret stash of performance pills around here somewhere?”

A bark of laughter flew out of Matt as he turned, making his way over to the dresser. You picked up some of your own neatly folded laundry, making your way to the dresser beside him to put them away.

“Oh sweetheart,” Matt purred, leaning over towards you when you were standing next to him, “I think we both know I don’t need any help in the bedroom.”

You felt your cheeks heat as you slid your clothes into the drawer before making your way back to the bed. Picking up the stack of your bras, you teased back, “Maybe you need help getting out of the bedroom.”

Matt laughed again, passing you on your way to the dresser as he made his way back to the bed to grab his stack of clean socks. 

“Pretty sure we’ve gotten out of the bedroom often in the past few days,” he joked back.

“Oh my God, Matt,” you said with a grin, rolling your eyes again as you put away your bras. “That isn’t what I meant and you know it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at you as he returned to the dresser. He slipped his socks into the open drawer beside you, an amused smile on his lips. Closing the drawer you had open, you turned and rested your hip against the dresser, eyeing him curiously.

“What’s with all the sex though?” you asked him. 

Matt closed his drawer, turning and copying your body language as he leaned against the dresser, too. One of his dark brows rose up onto his forehead as he gazed back at you, his eyes landing on your chin. There was a cocky expression on his face that was only growing the longer he stared at you.

“You tell me,” he said. “I seem to recall someone getting turned on by me just innocently doing dishes the other day.”

“Okay, well you’re apparently turning into a horn dog over laundry ,” you shot back.

“Well in all fairness,” Matt began, “your scent has officially blended with mine here. Probably not something I imagine you can pick up on, but I can. And I like it.” 

He reached a hand out, grabbing onto your hip. You stiffened when his thumb slipped under your shirt, brushing back and forth along your skin.

“I like it a lot," he said huskily.

Drawing in a deep breath, you tried to focus the topic on something besides sex for the evening. Though the growing hunger in Matt’s eyes was making that difficult. 

"We should probably order dinner," you told him, clearing your throat. "Is there something you want?"

"You," he purred, a devilish smirk on his lips.

His whole hand slipped under your shirt next, the warmth of it hard to ignore as his palm slid up along your ribcage. Matt continued to stand there, leaning against the dresser and smirking back at you. He knew damn well what he was doing to you and he was doing it on purpose. It wasn't long before you began to feel that all too familiar urge to wipe the smirk off of his face growing within you.

A slow, sinful smile gradually drew itself across your lips as you stared back at him. You watched the way his eyes narrowed suspiciously at you in return, his head tilting to the side. The smirk on his face faltered a little.

"You want me, Matt?" you asked innocently.

Your hand landed on his forearm, your fingers lightly running along the dark hairs there. His hand gripped your ribcage under your shirt instantly in response. 

"Yes," he answered carefully. "But clearly you have something in mind."

"Well," you began slowly, "if you want me, then I think maybe tonight you should have to follow my rules, Matthew." You grabbed onto his thick forearm and tugged it out from underneath your shirt. "And the first rule is no touching me."

His lips parted in surprise as he stared back at you in stunned silence. You lowered Matt's hand to his side, the sly smile still on your mouth at how fast that smirk had just vanished from his.

“Sound like a game you want to play, Matty?” you questioned him.

"What's the second rule?" he asked huskily.

A thrill shot through you. You'd never done this with Matt before, but the thought of having power over him in a completely new way had you feeling smug for once. Because he was always teasing you, always riling you up. Hell, living with him was like constantly being teased by him, especially with the way this first week had gone so far. Seeing him everywhere you looked–seeing your lives blended together–had you constantly wanting him this week.

Enjoying the way he was quietly waiting on you to answer, your hands reached out and grabbed onto the knot of his tie, yanking him towards you. Your smile grew wider when he willingly stumbled forward a step.

"The second rule is that you only cum when I say you can," you told him, undoing the knot of his tie with your fingers. "Since you do that to me so often, I think it's about time I do it back to you."

Slowly you slipped his tie out from underneath his shirt collar, enjoying the way you saw his throat bob when he roughly swallowed at your words. Eyes glancing down, you saw the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides. Clearly you were having an effect on him already and that went straight to your cunt.

"What do you say, Matty?" you asked coyly, hands beginning to unbutton his shirt. "You still want me?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. 

Another little thrill shot through you at how fast he'd answered. You might enjoy this more than you'd initially thought. 

"Get undressed and get on the bed then," you ordered him.

Your hands grabbed onto the hem of your shirt as Matt’s hands replaced yours on his buttons. His fingers deftly flew through each one, undoing them with such speed that you found yourself impressed. You were barely sliding your cotton shorts down your legs when you saw Matt making his way back to the bed, tossing the laundry basket haphazardly onto the floor and out of the way before he climbed up onto it. 

Eyes following his movements, you watched as he sunk down onto his knees. His gaze was very intensely on you, his eyes focused along your chest as if he was tuned into your heartbeat. Chewing your lip, your eyes dropped down to his hardening cock that was expectantly waiting for you. Matt’s voice suddenly popped into your mind and you remembered all of those times that he’d taken control in the bedroom with you–ordering you around–and an idea quickly came to you.

Crossing your arms over your chest, your head canted to the side. “Touch yourself for me, Matty,” you ordered.

You grinned when you saw his eyebrows shoot up onto his forehead in surprise yet again, the corners of his own lips curling upwards at your boldness. Tonight you were certainly being far more brazen with him than you ever had been before. But watching as he grabbed his cock in his hand, beginning to stroke himself while he still focused on you, was definitely worth stepping out of your comfort zone for. Because it was certainly a mental image you were going to store away for later.

Except, he looked far too cocky right now on the bed. That smirk was back on his lips and you were determined to knock it off of him tonight. Eyes narrowing back at him, you uncrossed your arms, one hand slowly sliding its way down your stomach and towards your clit. A burst of pleasure raced through you the moment you began circling the sensitive bud, a soft moan leaving you. Matt’s smirk slowly faded from his mouth as his hand stuttered to a halt along his cock.

“I didn’t say stop, Matty,” you reminded him.

He audibly sucked in a sharp breath, his hand gradually continuing its movement. Biting your lip, you slid two fingers further downward, dipping them into yourself with a wet sound that you knew was loud enough for his ears to catch by the way his eyes clamped shut. 

“You smell so good ,” he whispered.

"Do I?" you breathed out, slowly sliding your fingers in and out of yourself. “Someone want a taste?” you asked coyly, sliding your fingers back out.

“Yes– fuck . Please, yes,” he begged, his chest beginning to heave.

Crossing your way towards the bed, you slowly held out your hand towards him. Matt’s lips parted expectantly, his head turning up towards you. Instead you grabbed him by the chin with your fingers, hearing the slight whine he emitted just before you leaned in to kiss him. 

You assumed the scent of your arousal along his chin–with you denying him the taste of it on his tongue–had driven him further into a frenzy. He began fiercely kissing you, his lips ravenously connecting to yours over and over as he practically growled against your mouth. His teeth were biting and pulling against your bottom lip, his hand working himself even faster. The sight of his urgent desire for you drew out a low moan from within your own chest. 

Releasing his chin, you straightened beside the bed. With another rumbling growl, Matt’s free hand released the tight grip he’d had on the silk sheets and flew out towards your hip, but you immediately shifted to the side just as he’d remembered the rule you’d given him. His hand hung there in the air just inches from your waist, a frustrated noise coming from Matt.

“You know, for someone who likes to tease excessively, you sure can’t handle much of it in return,” you pointed out.

Matt grunted in response, his hand halting its movements on his cock. You could already see the glisten of pre-cum on his fingers, but you refrained from saying anything about him not following directions because you caught the abrupt shift in his demeanor to something…else.

“Because I’m aware of vastly more going on with your body than you are of mine,” he replied through clenched teeth. “Takes far more control than you think for me to not touch you right now. You know I love when you let loose with me, sweetheart. And this is…the most comfortable you’ve ever been with me. But it’s also so–” he rumbled a noise in his chest that sounded like the Devil growling now, “– tempting not to listen to you.”

A shiver ran down your spine at his words and his tone of voice. One of these days you would be tempted yourself to see what happened if you pushed the Devil just far enough. But tonight was not the night for that.

“I’ll show you some mercy tonight,” you conceded. “But the rules still stand: you still can’t touch me and you still can’t cum until I give you permission. Think you can handle that much, Devil?”

Matt’s eyes narrowed back at you, that dark look on his face still present. After a moment, he gave you a single nod.

“That’s my good Devil. Now lay down,” you ordered. 

Gradually Matt drew his legs out from underneath himself, slowly lowering onto his back on the bed as he continued to focus on you with that darkened expression. You delighted in watching his naked form as he moved, enjoying the movement of his muscles along his arms and abdomen visibly shifting. 

Matthew Murdock was unbelievably beautiful– especially naked and wound up.

“You’re enjoying this,” he rumbled out.

You climbed up onto the bed, throwing a leg over his hips so you were straddling him. Hands landing on his chest, you lightly scratched your nails upwards towards his shoulders and then gradually back down towards his hips. You saw the goosebumps raise along his skin as you did, his head rolling back just a bit along the pillow in pleasure as he moaned out.

“So are you,” you pointed out.

Reaching a hand down, you grabbed onto the base of Matt’s cock, grinning when you heard him groan at the touch. Carefully you lined him up with your entrance before very deliberately sinking down onto him, your eyes closing as your cunt stretched around his girth. Matt loosed a curse into the bedroom, your eyes opening in time to catch him roughly fisting the sheets in both of his large hands.

Leaning forward, your hands landed on his broad shoulders as your face hovered above his. His eyelids fluttered open, his eyes hooded with lust as they landed along your cheek.

“Be a good Devil for me now,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss his lips lightly. “And I won’t make you wait too long to cum.”

“ Fucking hell ,” he growled. “Sweetheart, you’re going to regret– ahhh, fuck !”

Grinning at how he’d broken off mid-sentence when your hips slowly rocked against him, your nails bit into his shoulders. Setting a slow, delicious pace, you began to fuck Matt, a pleased hum leaving you at the feel of him inside of you. Matt's breath quickly came in short pants, a series of whimpers falling out of his lips. 

“So hard not to–to touch you,” he breathed out.

“You’re doing so good for me, Matty,” you praised.

Reaching a hand up, you stroked his cheek, enjoying the rasp of his beard against your fingers. Matt immediately nuzzled into your palm, pressing his cheek further into it as his brows pinched together. You continued rhythmically riding his cock at your leisurely pace, thumb stroking the length of his cheekbone. 

“You’re so beautiful, Matt,” you murmured.

A slow, euphoric smile slipped across his lips, his eyes opening as he focused around your face. “Getting a little–little sentimental on me right now, sweetie?” he panted out with an amused huff. “Already losing your edge?”

You shook your head, the grin still on your mouth. "Not a chance, Matthew," you assured him. "I still want to hear you beg."

Hips picking up their pace, you watched as his eyelids closed again. Your hand returned to his shoulder as you leaned in close to his ear, noticing the way he shuddered when your breath tickled his skin.

"Because I know how much you fall apart for praise," you whispered into his ear.

Beneath you, Matt's back arched off of the bed, his cock burying itself further into you as he did. With a soft gasp, your nails dug even further into his shoulders. Encouraged by your grip, Matt’s own hips began thrusting upwards into you, meeting your hips roughly and matching your pace.

"Mmm, that's my good Devil," you whispered into his ear. "But you're not cumming yet. I'm not quite done with you."

Matt loosed a loud groan through the bedroom at your words, his head once again rolling back along the pillow. His teeth ground together as he hissed out a sharp breath between them, his hips sharply fucking up into you so hard that your eyes briefly rolled back. 

You were definitely going to enjoy riling up the Devil tonight. 

Wednesday 

A loud crack of thunder rolled through the city, the sound echoing off the tall buildings and managing to cut straight through what had been a peaceful, deep sleep. Matt gradually grew alert on the bed, taking a moment to orient himself with his senses as he lay there. From the lack of extra noise among the tenants in his building, the quieter noises coming up from the streets of Hell’s Kitchen below, and your deep, even breaths beside him, he realized it was either still quite late or very early.

Outside the apartment, the rain soon came down against the windows in a steady, almost soothing downpour. The sound was somewhat relaxing–something akin to white noise–making it easier for Matt to ignore many of the extra noises of the city outside his apartment. He closed his eyes again, trying to focus back on falling asleep. Occasionally the rain felt like it had a dampening effect when he was in his apartment, which often helped lull Matt into a deeper sleep at night. Thunder, on the other hand, often disrupted it–as did the loud rumbling crack of another thunderous boom that roared through Hell’s Kitchen. 

Tuning into your body pressed to the front of him, Matt's tired mind tried to focus on the soft, rhythmic exhalations leaving you. Your heart was beating at a calm, level pace as you slept, the sound always a comfort to Matt. Readjusting his hold around your waist, he shifted along the back of you, drawing himself even closer to your warm, almost bare body. His head rested on the same pillow just behind yours, his mouth right above your shoulder. 

As he relaxed further into the mattress, trying to get comfortable while he focused on you instead of the storm, his lips accidentally brushed along your shoulder. Matt inhaled deeply, the scent of your peach shampoo and your soft skin filling his nose. The faint taste of just you lingered on his mouth from where his lips had just grazed you and he found his tongue drowsily slipping out to taste you from them again. He moaned quietly, the noise blending in with the sound of the rain outside. 

Leaning a bit forward, he placed a barely there kiss on the top of your shoulder. With his mouth lingering against your skin, Matt contentedly hummed out a faint pleased noise as something slowly stirred awake within himself. He never could seem to get over just how soft your skin was, or how intoxicating it was to taste. Whether it was the taste of your lips themselves, or the delicate skin of your neck, the soft swell of your breasts, the inviting expanse of your shoulders, or the delicious, addicting taste of your cunt, Matt could never get enough. He always was left wanting more of you. 

His arm unconsciously tightened around your waist, his hips pressing forward into you. His bare cock twitched awake as he slotted himself between the roundness of your ass, the silk of your underwear not as satisfying to him as just feeling you against his own skin. A rumbling noise vibrated in his throat as another crack of thunder rang through the bedroom.

Matt placed another kiss on your shoulder, his tongue slipping out to taste even more of you as he did. Briefly the thought flickered in his mind that he should stop. You both had work in the morning and he didn’t want either of you to be tired. There was a part of him that didn't want to wake you just because the storm had woken him. But the moment the tip of his tongue swiped along your skin and he caught the taste of you on it, his eyes clamped shut even tighter and a strangled whine left him. 

He needed you. 

Matt leaned further forward, his nose tracing up the length of your neck, his parted lips grazing your bare skin at the same time. He could feel you stirring awake beside him, your skin dotting with goosebumps beneath his hands. Your breath immediately hitched in your throat, your heart beat no longer steady and even but a sharp staccato in his ears as you gradually awoke. 

“Matt?” your sleep-riddled voice whispered out.

He almost purred at the sound of it. Your voice alone could do things to him, things he didn't quite understand himself. He nuzzled into your neck before placing an open-mouthed kiss along the skin there. He just needed more of you, especially after the frustrating night he'd had as the Devil earlier.

And then there it was–the faint scent of your arousal hitting his nose. A slow, satisfied smile crept its way along his lips. Without fail, he so easily always managed to turn you on. He would never tire of how your body reacted to him. 

"Matty, what're you–"

He sucked a patch of skin just beneath your jaw into his mouth, your question dying on your lips as you audibly inhaled a sharp breath. He felt your ass shift against his rapidly hardening cock, a quiet sigh falling out between your lips next. He released the skin from his mouth, his nose rubbing along the line of your jaw. One of Matt's hands released your waist, slowly sliding its way up your stomach and continuing further upwards.

"The storm woke me," he quietly explained, his large hand palming the soft mound of your breast. "Tried to focus on you to fall back asleep, but–" he inhaled the scent of your arousal in the air deeply, salivating at the faint taste of it in his mouth, "–you were distracting."

He felt both of your hands latch onto his wrists, felt the sting of your nails biting into his skin. A hiss of pleasure flew from him and he ground his aching cock back into your ass even more firmly. 

" Sweetheart ," he moaned, shifting so his mouth was beside your ear when he spoke next. "Your body is begging me," he whispered, enjoying the shudder that ran through you. "Can I have you? Please?"

"Baby," you whimpered, ass eagerly grinding back against him as you nodded along the pillow. "Yes, yes. Need you, Matty."

Without waiting for further encouragement, his fingers gently tugged at your nipple. You gasped in surprise, your nails further biting into his wrists. Further spurred on by the noises of pleasure coming from you, his other hand slid down from your waist, slipping past the waistband of your silk underwear. He immediately found his way between your folds, growling at how wet you already were when he touched you. 

"Oh, sweetheart ," he breathed out, running his two fingers back and forth between your slick. God, you were soaked already. "You want me this badly?"

He felt your head shift over your shoulder towards him, a desperate noise barely escaping you. It sounded like a muffled whine stuck in your throat and it had Matt's cock throbbing with need. 

"Yes, baby," you answered softly. "Always."

His teeth grit together at the term of endearment he usually only heard from you in moments like these. But the truth in your words had a sharp grunt barreling out of him as his two fingers made their way towards your clit. The moment he grazed it he felt your back arch against him, a little moan coming from you in response. 

"That feel good, sweetie?” he asked.

His lips began trailing slow, sweet kisses along your neck, his two fingers gently circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. He felt another shudder shoot through your body, your breath catching yet again.

“Yes,” you whispered back. 

He felt one of your hands release its hold on his wrist, reaching back behind yourself and towards him. You managed to grab his bare ass and another whimper fell out of you. He smiled against your neck, running his nose back and forth against you when he felt you practically clawing at it as he continued the ministrations of his fingers along your clit. You really had a thing for his ass.

“ More ,” you begged.

His fingers slid down, teasing your soaked entrance. You whined and quickly shook your head. Matt’s brows knitted together in confusion. But then he felt your hand leave his ass, blindly finding its way to his cock. His hips twitched when your fingers curled around the girth of him, your head turning over your shoulder towards him again.

“I want you ,” you whispered.

You began stroking him, your arm twisted behind your back at an awkward angle as you did. Your hand felt so fucking good on him, but it wasn’t what he wanted to feel, either. He knew exactly what you’d meant. A rumbling noise left Matt, the sound of the storm outside entirely forgotten to him now as he focused solely on you. 

His fingers quickly slipped out of your underwear, sliding down the front of them until he hooked the damp fabric between his fingers and tugged it to the side. Your hand soon released him, flying out in front of yourself to grip a handful of the silk sheets. Behind you, Matt’s hand landed on your hips, shifting you where he needed you before he grasped onto the base of his cock and lined it up with your entrance. 

He heard the sharp inhale of your breath the moment the tip of him barely pushed into you. Your hips eagerly ground back against him, silently begging him to fill you. Without hesitation, Matt gradually plunged himself fully inside of your wet cunt, reveling in the delicious twitch of your muscles contracting all around him as you adjusted to fit him. His eyes fluttered closed, a low moan falling from his lips. You were so warm and wet and tight. 

You felt perfect .

Matt continued to knead the breast he’d had in his palm, his other hand making its gradual way back to where it had been working your clit. He heard you curse under your breath, your head turning over your shoulder towards him. Knowing exactly what you’d wanted, his mouth landed on yours. While his hips set a rhythmic, steady pace as he pumped into you, his mouth placed soft, lingering kiss after soft, lingering kiss against yours. 

Eventually he heard the way your hand released the sheets you’d been gripping. Instead, he felt you turn at the waist as he continued to lovingly roll his hips forward into you over and over, your hand coming up to tenderly cup his cheek. Matt’s tongue slid along your bottom lip in a slow glide, a beautiful whine falling out of you in return and meeting his ears. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, lapping languorously against your own. 

And that was how the night carried on, with Matt’s hips sensually rolling forward into yours repeatedly as you eagerly tried to match his pace with your own hips, the pair of you attached at the mouth and panting heavily between kisses. The roll of thunder and steady patter of rain became nothing but muted background noise to Matt as he listened to every sound of pleasure coming from you.

Thursday 

You’d had a long week at the Bulletin and you were happy as hell that tomorrow was finally Friday. While things had been great between Matt and you this first week of living together–more than great when it came to your sex lives, and your aching cunt was proof of that–you’d still been stressed at work. There was a story you’d been struggling with writing and it had been frustrating you to no end for the past few days. Though admittedly, the constant sex with Matt this week had been helping you relieve your frustration when you were off of work, even if it was incredibly distracting. 

But he wasn’t home right now because he was out as Daredevil, scouring the rooftops and beating up bad guys this evening. Which was fine, it wasn’t the first time he’d gone out doing just that while you were together–certainly not the first time this week–and it definitely wouldn’t be the last time. You'd quickly grown accustomed to his occasional absences in the evening, even if you still found yourself worrying about him.

A little while ago you had decided to put your laptop away, forget about work, and get cozy on the couch with one of your shows. Even though it was still strange being able to watch your shows on an actual television in Matt’s living room, you’d curled up under his plaid blanket and gotten comfortable. And that was where you'd remained the duration of the evening, waiting for his inevitable return.

You’d managed to get through a few episodes of the comedy you were watching before you finally heard the roof access door swing open. Instantly your head rose from the pillow you’d been resting on, glancing up at Matt’s Daredevil-clad form. You winced when he slammed the door shut behind himself, the loud noise reverberating around the apartment. Peeling his gloves from his hands, he aggressively stalked his way over to the stairs. His boots hit each step on his descent down them with a heavy thud . Absolutely everything about his body language told you that he’d had an awful night out as the Devil and he was internally fuming .

When he’d reached the last step, pulling the helmet from his head with one hand, you thought you might say something to him. Maybe ask if there was something you could do to help him relax. But the moment you’d opened your mouth, drawing in the slightest breath, Matt’s head snapped in your direction and you froze. His jaw was clenched and his eyes almost looked black. Your mouth immediately closed. Clearly, Matt was not in the mood for talking right now.

Settling back onto the couch, you watched as he made his way towards the closet behind the two armchairs to your left. He roughly yanked the doors open before opening the lid of his father’s steamer trunk. You heard the heavy drop of his gloves and his helmet, moments later hearing the sound of his billy clubs dropping into the trunk next. Silently you watched him kneel down, untying the laces of his boots one at a time. When he finished, both boots were gruffly disposed of into the trunk before he was standing back up, reaching for the zipper behind himself along his back.

Your eyes openly lingered on the gradual reveal of Matt’s muscled back as the zipper of his suit slowly exposed himself to you. He released the zipper once he’d undone the suit all the way down just to the top of his ass where you could see the waistband of his boxers peeking out. Biting your lip, you watched the muscles of his back flex and pull as he took a minute to slide one skin tight sleeve off of himself before removing the other. And then he bent over, his round, muscular ass directly in your line of sight as he slowly stripped the suit down each of his legs. Once he’d slipped the armor entirely off of himself, he was left in nothing but those tight, black boxers he always wore. 

You could feel yourself getting turned on despite how irritated he seemed. You couldn’t help but watch as he folded his suit up in obvious frustration before stuffing it in the steamer trunk. He slammed the lid of it down a bit harder than necessary before he rose to his now bare feet, shutting the doors to the closet. Afterwards, he turned swiftly towards you, his focus easily finding you on the couch where you suddenly stopped breathing under the weight of his stare. His entire body looked tense, his shoulders tight and the muscles twitching in his cheeks.

“I’m going to shower,” he stated simply.

He stood there a moment, running a hand across his forehead as he stared back at you. You only nodded, unable to trust your voice. Because he had to know you were aroused right now with his senses, but he must have had a bad enough night out as Daredevil that he hadn’t even remotely wanted to remark on it.

Wordlessly Matt stalked off down the hall to the bathroom, flipping on the light and closing the door partially behind himself. Seconds later you heard the shower turn on. You tried your best to ignore the thought of Matt naked and soon to be wet under the spray of water in the other room. Though admittedly trying to force your thoughts away from everything sexual that was running through your mind now wasn’t easy. Attention returning to the show you’d been watching, you readjusted yourself on the couch and made yourself comfortable all over again. 

Inevitably your gaze wandered back to the bathroom when you distinctly heard the glass door of the shower shut. Eyes narrowing, you stared at the light peaking through the crack of the bathroom door. Because why would Matt have turned the light on to shower? You knew he hated the buzz that lights emitted, and if he was frustrated, that extra noise would’ve only irritated him further. He had no use for the light anyway, he only ever turned lights on in a room when it was meant for your benefit.

It was a second before the realization hit you, your eyes growing wide. He definitely had noticed you were in the mood when he’d been stripping out of his suit, then. Turning the bathroom light on and keeping the door partially open must’ve been a sort of silent invitation for you. Maybe he’d been too riled up to use his words, or maybe…

Maybe Matt wanted something more than the sweet love making you both often had together. Maybe he wanted something even more than the naughty, playful sex, too. Maybe he needed something more tonight to relieve his frustration.

Something more like rough sex with a wound up and irritated Devil.

Because you knew Matt. And you knew he probably wouldn’t quite know how to verbalize what he wanted, let alone feel comfortable enough asking for that. He hated the thought of hurting you. But you’d encountered this with him a few times before, knowing that when he was this uptight returning from a patrol that hadn’t gone well as Daredevil, he usually needed a release. And he often enjoyed using you as that release–rather roughly, too.

Bottom lip slipping between your teeth, you immediately sat upright on the couch. You were more than willing to let him fuck you. The thought of him loosing the Devil on you already had a dampness forming between your thighs. You loved the sharp, rough edges of Matt just as much as you loved the sensitive, soft sides. And it had been awhile since you’d seen the Devil make an appearance in your sex life.

Tossing the blanket off of yourself, you turned off the television and rose from the couch before making your way down the hall and towards the bathroom. You slowly pushed open the bathroom door, stepping inside. You could see him washing himself through the frosted glass of the shower doors, making no move to acknowledge that you were in the bathroom. But he obviously knew you were there–especially with how aroused you were and how much you’d come to learn this week that scent alone easily affected him. There was no way he couldn’t smell it.

Grabbing the hem of your shirt, you slipped it up and over your head, your bare breasts exposed to the warm steam wafting through the bathroom as you tossed the article of clothing to the ground. Slipping your fingers inside both your sleep shorts and your underwear’s waistband, you slid them down your legs before they dropped to the floor. You stepped out of them, hesitantly making your way over to the shower before slowly sliding the glass door back.

You hesitated just outside of it, one hand lingering on the glass as Matt’s head once again abruptly snapped in your direction. He was standing under the spray of the water, his dark hair soaked and clinging to him. Your eyes followed a few beads of water as they raced down his scarred and toned chest, your pulse increasing at the sight. You could see the obvious tension in his muscles as you quietly took in the sight of him naked before you. 

“Do you…need some help coming down from tonight?” you asked him.

Your eyes caught the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides, nostrils flaring as he expelled a sharp breath.

“Would that be too much?” he gruffly questioned back.

“No,” you answered, shaking your head as you finally stepped into the shower. “I love all the sides of you, Matthew. I’ve told you that before.”

You turned around, sliding the shower door closed after yourself as some of the warm spray overhead began to cascade down your back. A surprised gasp fell out of you when you felt Matt’s hands suddenly grabbing your hips, his fingers firmly digging into your skin. Even you felt the way your pulse stuttered in response, his chin hovering just over your left shoulder.

“Are you sure?” the dark, gravelly voice you knew as the Devil asked, his mouth just beside your ear. “Because I have no desire to be gentle tonight, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you.”

You inhaled a deep breath, excitement shooting through you at his words and the tone he’d spoken them with. It had been far too long since he’d let himself loose with you like this. Turning your head just over your shoulder, you spotted the wild look in his eyes. That only thrilled you further.

“I’ve told you before, Matty,” you whispered back. “Sometimes I like when you hurt me.”

His fingers dug into your hips even further, his lip pulling back into something akin to an animalistic snarl. A second later he’d shoved you up against the shower door, the cold glass pressed entirely to the front of you a sharp contrast to the warm water falling down your body. You could feel the heat from Matt’s naked body radiating off of him with how close he was standing behind you now, but it wasn't quite close enough to touch yours.

“You can say no,” Matt’s deep voice reminded you.

Head still turned over your shoulder, your cheek pressed against the glass of the shower door, your eyes remained fixed on his face. 

“But I’m saying yes,” you whispered back.

A growl tore out of Matt as he yanked you away from the door, roughly turning you around towards himself before he slammed his mouth hard onto yours. His hands snaked their way around to your back, his blunt fingernails digging into your skin as he drew you in tight, crushing you to the front of himself. You could feel his already hard cock pressed between your slick bodies as his teeth gnashed at your bottom lip. A hiss of pleasure slipped from your mouth as your hands flew up, your own nails clawing at his thick biceps that held you firmly to him.

Matt’s mouth quickly retreated from yours, his teeth snapping at your earlobe before shifting downwards to your neck. As your head fell back over your shoulders, your eyes closing, you felt him nipping along the length of your collarbone. The sharpness of his bites was quickly soothed by the warm water running down the pair of you, Matt’s name slipping from between your lips as a moan. 

Matt responded instantly to the sound of it, quickly spinning you before slamming your back into the tile wall of the shower. His flushed face hovered just before yours, his chest heaving as he stared hungrily back at you. He looked absolutely wild with his dark gaze fixed along your cheek.

“You cum when I say or you don’t cum at all,” he ordered, his eyebrows rising onto his forehead, a cocky smile on his face as he repeated to you what you'd said to him the other night. “And you don't touch yourself unless I say so. Am I clear?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed out, nodding quickly.

One of his hands shot out between the pair of you so fast that you didn’t realize he’d even moved until you felt him gripping you by the neck. His hold was just firm enough to put pressure on your throat, just enough without actually hurting you, as he pinned you to the wall. Your thighs clenched together, more wet heat building between them as you squirmed against the shower wall. You just wanted to feel him inside of you already.

“Use your words,” Matt demanded gruffly. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, Matt,” you answered immediately.

That smug smirk remained on his lips as he stared back at you pinned to the wall by your throat.  His tongue slipped out slow and purposeful between his lips, his eyes momentarily closing in pleasure. You heard a low, rumbling noise stir deep from within his chest.

“You really do like this, don’t you?” he asked, that low, gravely tone of the Devil slipping out as he opened his eyes. “You like it when I’m rough with you?”

His hand tightened a little further around your throat and your hips desperately ground forward, searching for him. He shifted just out of your reach and you whined in response. 

“Yes,” you answered him.

“You want my cock?” he asked next.

You nodded vigorously in response. “Yes, Matt, yes.”

That self-satisfied smirk drew itself across his lips once again, that dark look never leaving his face. “Then you’re going to beg me for it, sweetheart. Turn around,” he ordered.

He released his hold on your throat and you obediently spun on the spot. There was not a single thought in your mind besides how badly you wanted to feel him fucking you right now. Pressing the front of yourself to the shower wall, you looked over your shoulder at him behind you, waiting for instruction.

You saw Matt’s hand draw back just a bit before he swung it forward, the sharp crack of the slap he landed on your ass echoing through the shower. You could feel the desperate ache of your cunt begging for him to fill you as the sharp sting remained long after his palm had left your ass.

“Beg me to fuck you,” Matt ordered.

“Please, Matt,” you breathed out. “I’ve missed you all night. I was–was waiting for you to come home. Needed you.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

His hand drew back again before he landed another sharp slap against your ass. His palm lingered this time, briefly soothing the sting before he brutishly grabbed the soft mound of flesh and squeezed. Your eyes clamped shut, your ass pressing back into him in search of more.

“I need you,” you whined. “Need you to fill me, Matt. Fuck me until I can’t think–until I can’t walk.”

A pleased rumble sounded from him behind you, both of Matt’s hands playing with your ass he roughly kneaded the flesh between them. You could feel the slick steadily dripping down between your thighs now, your fingers uselessly gripping at the tile wall.

“Haven’t had enough of my cock?” he shot back. “Been fucking you all week and you still want more?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed out, nodding quickly. “Always want more. Always need you.”

Matt groaned loudly at your words, his hands sliding up from your ass to grip your hips. You felt him grind his hard cock against your ass and you soon realized how much he’d enjoyed hearing that.

“Please let me have you, Matt,” you begged, desperation creeping into your voice. “Please fuck me. I need you, baby. Need to feel you inside of me. No one–” a surprised gasp fell out of you as two of his fingers began teasing your entrance. “No one makes me feel as–as good as you do,” you panted out, eyes closing when he dipped his fingers inside of you.

“So wet for me,” he growled out. 

You felt him abruptly thrust both thick digits all the way into you and your forehead dropped forward against the shower wall. A cry slipped out of you as a warm wash of bliss flooded your body at finally receiving something from him. Matt’s mouth came down to your shoulder, his teeth sinking firmly into your skin as a snarl rippled out of him. There was nothing gentle about the way he continued fingering you against the tile wall, though. Every aggressive pump emitted a loud, squelching noise as your hands helplessly clawed at the tile, your ragged breaths loud in your own ears. Matt’s teeth released your shoulder a few moments later, his lips just grazing your earlobe.

“I didn’t say you could stop begging,” he reminded you. “And you aren’t cumming yet, sweetheart.”

His fingers slipped out of you and you whined instantly at the loss of contact. Your body aching with desire, you spun around to see Matt had backed away from you. Inevitably your eyes dropped down from the lustful expression on his face to the particular appendage you most desired. Tongue slipping out to wet your lips, you stared longingly at him.

“You want it?” he asked.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Then show me,” the gravelly voice of the Devil demanded.

Taking a step towards him, you quickly sunk down to your knees on the wet floor before him. Without hesitation, you eagerly took him into your mouth, your nails running along his thighs as you did. One of Matt’s hands landed on the back of your head, fisting your hair firmly in his grip as he held on tight. His other hand roughly cupped a breast as he bent forward, firmly kneading the flesh in his hand. He loosed a loud moan that echoed in the shower, the warm spray falling over the pair of you as you vigorously sucked his cock. You couldn’t resist the urge to press your thighs together at the sound of his pleasure, your hips absently rocking as you searched for friction. But that only encouraged Matt’s grip to tighten on your hair.

“I told you that you cum when I say or you don’t cum at all,” Matt warned. “Are you going to listen to me?”

You immediately stopped your movements, humming an affirmative noise in response that had Matt moaning out as it vibrated against his cock. You knew how much that affected him every time you did it. One well placed moan while he was in your mouth could have him cumming instantly. 

His grip eased on your hair. “That’s my good, sweet girl,” he praised. “Now show me how bad you want me.”

Friday

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Matt at the bedroom closet–and trying your best to ignore his distracting presence as he stood clad in nothing but a pair of his black boxers–you undid the top buttons of the blouse you were planning to wear to work, sliding it off the hanger. Beside you, Matt's hands slowly ran over the various tags on the different hangers of his suits. Your gaze flickered towards them at the movement, watching the way his fingers deliberately ran over the braille of each tag while he searched for the suit he was going to wear today. Every morning when he did this it always held your attention for far longer than necessary, and you swore he intentionally read slower because he knew. 

Your tongue slid out, wetting your lips as you blinked hard and forced yourself to tear your attention away from his hands. With a hard swallow, you tried to focus back on getting yourself ready for work. Putting your arms through the sleeves of your blouse, you shifted your attention downwards as you began buttoning it up. Though you'd barely buttoned a handful of buttons before you heard Matt huff out an amused breath beside you. 

Fingers pausing their movement, your gaze gradually slid up towards Matt's face. There was a self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he slid his arms into the sleeves of his dark blue dress shirt, his bottom half still clad in his black boxers as he stared back at you. Quirking a brow at him as he stood beside you, you had a feeling you knew what that look was about. 

"We can make time, sweetheart," Matt said, his gaze dropping down as he also began buttoning up his own shirt now. "I told you that earlier."

Unable to stop yourself, your eyes dropped down to his fingers, watching as they deftly slid a button through the hole in his shirt before they slowly shifted to the button above it, repeating the action. It was a moment before you realized your own fingers were still holding onto the button you’d stopped on of your blouse. Clearing your throat, you once again tore your eyes away from his hands, but you couldn't deny there was a part of you considering his offer now.

"I told you, I can't be late for work, Matt," you repeated for the fourth time this morning.

"There's been an attempted robbery near fifty-sixth and tenth," Matt informed you. "Police apprehended the suspect, but you could always use it as an excuse. Foot traffic is slowed because they’ve had to block off the area." He shrugged a shoulder. "Tell Ellison it slowed you down on your walk to work. That you were investigating for a possible story. He won't know you were actually late because we had sex."

"Matt," you whined, hands dropping to your sides as you turned completely towards him. "How are we going to ever accomplish anything living together if we can't keep our hands to ourselves for a single day?"

Matt chuckled, his hands falling from his own partially buttoned shirt as he copied your movements, turning and facing you. "I am absolutely not complaining about the increase in sex,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes before crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m serious, Matt,” you grumbled. “We need to figure out a way to take a bit of a breather.”

“If I recall correctly, you’re the one who woke up aroused,” Matt pointed out.

“Because you were humping my ass, Matt,” you countered.

“Because you were moaning my name in your sleep and literally dripping, sweetheart,” Matt snapped back. “You think it’s that easy for me to just ignore that?” He took a step towards you, towering above you with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. “This whole place permanently smells like your pheromones and half the time it smells like your arousal when you’re just looking at me. I can barely breathe without getting turned on and wanting to fuck you.”

Something stirred within you at his words and that edge to his voice. It wasn’t fair that you found him sexy when he got irritated, but admittedly you hadn’t thought about how you living here would constantly affect him. You hadn’t thought about the way your scent would mix with his and turn him on–something he’d been telling you the other day–or how he’d often have to smell you aroused and have that scent lingering in the apartment all the time, too.

“You’re getting aroused right fucking now, too, I can smell you,” he pointed out.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered automatically.

Matt’s expression fell instantly at the tone of your voice, the tension easing out of his shoulders as he ran a hand across his mouth. Shaking his head, he focused back on you. “Don’t–don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“You’re right though,” you agreed. “You do pick up on all these other things that I don’t and I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you to not act on anything. Because I have a hard time refraining sometimes. And it–it doesn’t help that I love you and I just always want to be with you like that. And there’s the whole, you know, excitement of everything,” you admitted shyly.

A grin tentatively slipped back onto Matt’s face as he hummed out a curious noise. “Excitement of what, exactly, sweetheart?” he asked. 

“Of us living together,” you answered nervously. “Waking up and falling asleep next to you all of the time. Spending our evenings together. And our weekends. And–and what living together might mean for the future,” you added softly.

Matt’s hands reached out, smoothing the hair from your face before both of his large palms cradled it between his hands. He lowered his forehead towards yours, his eyes closing as he did.

“You’ve been thinking about the future?” he whispered.

“Yes,” you answered.

“And that’s also why you’re such a horn dog yourself this week?” he teased.

You couldn’t resist the snort of a laugh that fell out of you, Matt’s smile only widening on his face at the sound. 

“In very simple terms, yes,” you admitted, eyelids lowering as you felt his thumbs brushing back and forth along your cheeks. “But also, I’m not used to seeing you wander around fresh out of the shower performing domestic tasks. Honestly, the fact that you clean is a turn on in itself.”

“I see the bar isn’t very high for you,” Matt teased.

“I guess not,” you joked back.

Silence fell between the pair of you as you both stood there in front of the closet, Matt’s forehead still pressed to yours as his hands still cupped your cheeks. You became very aware of the increase in your pulse and the way Matt’s lips had parted, his hot breath rolling out of his mouth and landing against yours. Swallowing hard, your hands reached up, slowly grasping onto Matt’s forearms and rumpling the fabric of his dress shirt. Matt’s nose lightly bumped yours, the gesture causing your lips to involuntarily part. 

“I’m sorry for being an ass this morning,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “It just takes a lot to resist the pull I have for you.”

“I’m sorry for not initially being more understanding,” you murmured, hands sliding up to grip his biceps. “Didn’t realize how hard it would be for you to adjust to me being here.”

Matt’s lips connected to yours for a moment, lingering in a sweet kiss. Your grip tightened around his arms in response before he pulled away from you just a fraction.

“I love having you here,” he assured you. “Please don’t think otherwise.”

“I know,” you whispered, lips drawing into a smile. “You tell me that at least ten times a day, Matty.”

He leaned forward, placing a peck to your lips that had you giggling.

“Just want to make sure you know,” he replied.

“We uh, we do need to figure out the constantly being distracted by sex thing though,” you told him. “Because it’s–it’s getting a little out of hand.”

Matt hummed out a noise of agreement before he turned the pair of you just a bit to your left and began to walk you backwards. Your brows furrowed together as he did, watching as Matt’s lips drew into a playful smile. It was only a few steps before you felt your back hit the wall beside the closet. 

“We do need to figure that out,” Matt agreed huskily. 

His hands slid their way down your neck, continuing their descent over your exposed chest where your bra was on display because your blouse still remained unbuttoned, eventually making their way down to your hips. His face was hovering just a few inches from yours now, that familiar look of desire darkening his eyes as they stared hungrily back at you. 

“But maybe we can figure it out this weekend,” he suggested. “Because right now all I can think about is fucking you against this wall.”

As if to emphasize his point, his hips rutted forward into you with just enough force that your back hit the wall and a gasp slipped out of your lips. You’d certainly noticed how hard he was through his boxers and your eyelids fluttered shut as you whispered a curse. 

“Just be late for work this once,” he pleaded. “I’ll make it worth it.”

Bottom lip rolling between your teeth as Matt ground his hips forward into you again, you took a moment to consider his offer. Truthfully your cunt was sore from the use it had gotten this past week since you’d moved in with Matt, and even some of your muscles were sore from all of the different positions he had managed to contort you into throughout the week. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t mind going into work today and being this wound up the entire time, because you knew you’d be kicking yourself for not taking Matt up on his offer. 

Resigning yourself to the only outcome that you knew was going to come of this, you sighed and released your hold on Matt, unbuttoning your blouse as Matt flashed a triumphant smile back at you. His own hands were quick to undo the few buttons he had managed to button on his shirt.

“Just don’t make me so late that the robbery story won’t be believable, Matty,” you told him. “I don’t need your dick getting me fired.”

He laughed, pulling his dress shirt off and tossing it somewhere behind himself near the bed. “Noted, sweetheart,” he replied, sliding his boxers down his thighs.

You’d barely removed your own underwear, not even having a chance to undo your bra, before Matt had scooped you up in his arms and shoved you back into the wall. There was a devilish smile on his lips and a dark gleam in his eyes as he maneuvered you in his arms, freeing a hand to line his cock up with your cunt that admittedly had been soaked since you’d woken this morning. You moaned when the tip of him pushed into you, your arms wrapping around his neck. 

“That’s it,” Matt praised, gradually sinking you down onto his cock. “That’s my good, sweet girl. Let me make you feel good. You want that, don’t you?”

Your head rolled back against the wall, breath already coming in shallow. “Yes.” 

You felt the slow slide of his cock as he dragged himself almost entirely out of you, but then in one swift, powerful thrust, his hips snapped forward and his cock plunged all the way back into you. Your eyes clamped shut, a cry of pleasure tearing from you as he hit that spot deep inside, the delicious sting causing your walls to squeeze him. Matt groaned out, his hips slowly moving backwards before he roughly slammed into you again, your head lightly bumping back into the wall behind you.

“Want you to think about this later, sweetheart,” Matt told you. “When you’re stuck at work, frustrated over the story I know you’ve been stressed about.” 

He slammed himself back into you and you cried out again, goosebumps raising along your arms at the sound of his voice. Your hands slid up the back of Matt’s neck, making their way into his hair and gripping the strands roughly between your fingers.

“Just remember I’ll be here when you come home,” he grunted out, thrusting himself inside you again. “I’ll always be here.” 

“Fuck–Matty,” you whimpered out, back arching along the wall as his pace increased. “I love you.”

His eyes closing tightly shut at your words, his hips stuttered momentarily before he readjusted his grip on you. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to yours again, grunting with each sharp snap of his hips as he continued to fuck you.

“I love you, too,” he breathed out, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I love you so fucking much.” His fingers dug into your hips and thighs as he fucked you harder into the wall. “I’m all yours, sweetheart. Always yours.”

Roughly you tugged his mouth down towards yours, kissing him hard as your fingers tightened around the fistfuls of his hair. Matt was kissing you back with a ferocious need, the kiss all tongue and teeth. Loud, throaty moans filled the bedroom, mingling with the sounds of skin on skin as Matt continued to mercilessly fuck you into the wall beside the closet. All thoughts of work and needing to keep your hands to yourselves were completely lost from either of your minds as you cried out his name through the bedroom.

[cherrypieangels]

[clip from episode 8 season 2 “Drive With a Dead Girl”]

INCOMING TRUCOOP SCENE ANALYSIS!!!

this scene always kills me with the angst and not enough people talk about it </3

harry never doubted dale during the entire investigation. no matter how out of the box or weird coop’s methods were he was ALWAYS extremely on board with it all! even going so far as to defend cooper when people pointed it out.

it honestly stunned me a bit seeing harry get to his limit and do the exact same thing everyone else had been doing to cooper the entire series ): it’s so obvious that cooper trusted harry enough at this point to tell him about his dreams without the fear of being looked at like he was crazy…

the way harry speaks to him is still so kind despite how worked up he was getting. he tries to be gentle, even putting his soft hands on cooper to comfort him in some way. he knew that the honesty was going to be too much again. he didn’t really mean what he was saying.

i love how you can tell that it hurts harry to say these things out loud as much as it hurts cooper having to stand there and hear it. you can see cooper taking it in but as soon as harry mentions tibet his heart drops. the way he tries to hide his frown by the end but can’t UGHHH harry was the last person cooper expected to feel misunderstood by.

what’s worst is that dale found so much comfort in the town of twin peaks to the point where he’s ready to move in when he has the chance. he sees twin peaks/the sheriff’s station as a place where he’s openly welcomed so i can totally see why dale makes the “outsider” comment. this was the first time we hear harry not so subtly remind cooper that he’s the one in charge at the station since it’s his home and his job. it was almost as if that entire conversation reminded cooper that he is “out of place”AGAIN!!! i felt so bad for him…especially since it’s obvious that people see him as this off putting/weird person despite him literally just living his horrifying truths & being a good person.

i also think it says A LOT that cooper didn’t stay to try to argue or defend his stance. usually he’d be quick to counterpoint but the fact that he simply agrees so he can leave the conversation is SO SAAD he couldn’t even give him a fake smile before he left the scene ):

i wouldn’t have thought much about it except afterwards you can clearly see regret on harry’s face… he knew he had made a mistake. also i noticed that later that night cooper calls the sky “starless” and speaks to diane about how the ending of the case gets super difficult while a piece of comfort pie sits on his bedside table ):

they care about each other so much WAHHH

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Domestic

For those keeping tabs on the Blood of My Blood AU, this is currently just a fanfiction of that fanfiction. Also a doorstopper. Only @ibrithir-was-here can call whether this massive sucker is canon or not. But it's out of my head now and I can ice my hand.

Summary: A portrait of a special night for the self-appointed patriarch of Castle Dracula. One of strange intimacies, stranger revelations, and secrets hidden in stone and cemetery earth.

Warning: This contains mature material in the way of profanity, attempted assault, violence, and very dubious consent.

Happy reading.

His first attempt was also his last.

After his good friend had sold himself, after the baffling enigma of the pregnancy, after the boy, child of three bloodlines, was upright enough to not be an anchor in the arms of his parents. After all this, he made his attempt.

Months had crawled past the obvious point of action. Almost a year. Had the caravan with their burden of wagons been there, he knew he would have to laugh along with questions as to how he could hold off so long. She had chosen the airiest of her departed Sisters’ attire to glide in, her face was voluptuous in its venom, and she could not even speak aloud! A blessing, they would laugh, more so for being the spoils of war.

A warlord’s right. Yes, yes, it was so.

Had he a mirror and a reflection to find in it, he would have mocked it. Why this hesitation over a collared pet? Let her bite, let her hiss—her Sisters had done that and worse in their centuries—it would come to the same conclusion. Her will was his property as much as her veins, her teeth, her flesh. What was wanted could be had at the first impulse. Now the impulse was here. Enough of one, at least.

Already took her woman in Whitby. Her groom offered himself on a silver plate. May as well.

He frowned to himself. What was that? ‘May as well?’ As though it were a chore to get on with. He shook his head and wasted another quarter of an hour pretending to care about a choice of oil for the job.

Job?

A curse caught under his tongue and he twisted a coil of hair before his eyes. Black as tar. Black as hers. No, he couldn’t blame this dawdling on a waning prime. Such a thing was hardly a hindrance but a few summers ago. Not with his dear friend who had come willingly, fled fearfully, and slunk so docilely back into his arms.

Perhaps that was it. It was hardly the same affair without Jonathan himself in the scene. Was there any way to make him watch? If he was drained enough, he could be flung back from the bed like a child should he scramble to intervene. Or they could dust off one of the dungeons and drag in a mattress. Or, while the spouses were mid-tryst, the woman could be slipped on like a skin at his will, and Jonathan could look up to find his Master’s eyes in her skull, his grin in her lips…

For he would know. If not in that exact instant, then when their Master used the whole of the woman as his personal apparatus. Such games had been played before, once upon a time. Back when his Loves had excited anything from him. The idea held the same potential as the tableau of the three of them as a chain of warming skin, playing as adults do once children were tucked away in their dreaming. A notion that nettled something giddy awake in him.

Finally.

This time he cursed aloud and wished there was something at hand to break.

No, no, it wouldn’t do to herd them all into such games ahead of the rightful order of things. He was Count. He was Master. He was owed his claim. The Bridegroom had that particular flag planted in him years ago. Now for the Bride.

…The baptism was near enough, no? You claimed her that night in October. You collected in November. You told her yourself after your little indulgence that there was nothing you truly wanted of her. All that was wanted was the ownership of her, which you have. She is beaten. Can that not be enough?

On second thought, he no longer wished for a reflection. He wanted a doppelgänger whose throat he could wring like a chicken’s. Such whining! Such foot-dragging laxness! The ghosts of a thousand grumbling wives seemed to reach out as one to sneer at him. They had gone into their grim arrangements with less fuss than he put up now.

And why is that?

In lieu of answering himself, he pocketed a bottle at random and tore out of the room to find her. There was no need to fret over Jonathan or the boy. Both were out in the courtyard, enjoying the late spring night. Doting, Jonathan had brought home chalk for the child to scratch at the flagstones with. New words and prancing little figures. A cloying scene he was happy to leave them to.

To his surprise, the woman had left them to it as well. She was nowhere to be seen in the great moonlit square.

Instead, he found her at one of the furthest ends of the castle. Skulking around the chambers that had ostensibly belonged to her Sisters between daylit drowses. In all her time here, he had yet to see her paw over the littered jewelry and gowns left behind. Once or twice he had borrowed her eyes and seen her glance dully at the English books. Relics of the time when Castle Dracula had turned into a grammar school in preparation for a time of travel that would now never come for their lot. Beside these were glimpses of the trio’s pastimes. Unfinished paintings, a dust-caked violin, a frayed bit of tapestry with its threaded demons left half-made in Hell. Nothing had interested her bar the change of clothes.

Again, he thought of what he would have to grin along with the next time Old Danil and his men were beckoned. Did he tell them he had ordered her into the flimsy falls of silk and sheer? Or would it be better to tell the truth, that she slipped them on herself? The latter might earn some words of congratulation. They did not have to know she wore it for her husband and herself; for where had she to go out smothered in layers for strangers? What difference was there now between a nightgown and the full raiment of human decorum her useless career in etiquette had primed her for? What, beyond the allowance or removal of comfort?

Throw one of the heavier dresses at her, the internal voice tried to chuckle. Dress and shawl and cloak and all. Bury her in it. Ha. Ha.

The humor of the thought was so shallow as to be vapor. Yet he truly would prefer that she go about in the same elaborate cover as her Sisters. Her Sisters, who had chosen the dresses themselves from their fashion plates. Her Sisters, who he had foisted the scantier costumes on in younger centuries, back when they’d interested him. What was this in interest’s place now?

Later. He would answer his own nonsensical queries later. For now, conquest and consummation. He craned his head over his shoulder, eyeing the distant windows over the courtyard—

How long must he play nanny out there?

—before forcing himself to stroll rather than storm up to the room she hid in. She didn’t hide all that well, of course. There was no point when he could follow the thread between them or yank her to him with a tug. Most conveniently, she had chosen an area clotted with bedchambers for her den.

Less conveniently, she had let herself into a room he had forbidden her Sisters from on pain of punishment. Had he ever warned her against it? It did not matter, naturally, for he had not given her permission, but he wondered. He sighed. Pandora will always open what she’s not meant to. Such a pair, his Harkers.

He peeked through her senses and into the room as his stroll turned into a quicker stalk. Relief hit him first upon seeing that the space was unmarred. No more than he had left it, anyway. He had moved out the broken or burnt furnishings, leaving only bed, wardrobe, and portrait behind. The latter was the only one left of that likeness and he preferred to have it around for the occasional glare. Any further intrusion was cut short when her line of sight flicked down.

His mind snapped back into itself with a flinch. That it was a flinch made him want to laugh and strike himself at the same time. As if he had not seen flashes of her bare hide before!

When she is with him. When her skin is an inch from being a costume.

Even so. He had seen it all before. Worlds more with her Sisters. What a child he had become to grow skittish at seeing the woman below, gasp, a bit of décolletage. The gawping shame of the Englishmen had infected him on his single visit. He grinned it away. And why not?

She was out of tonight’s white dress and donning something else. He’d caught a glimpse of rich black. Odd, for he recalled nothing but heaps of white and red in the Sisters’ wardrobe. Blood on snow. He must have gotten them a splash of night to go with it once upon a time and forgotten. Ah, well. She would not have it on long.

He did not waste the gesture of a knock. Jonathan might bristle at the sound, his limited senses allowing him to occasionally be taken by surprise. Not so here. He let himself into the room and settled for clicking it firmly behind him. And, if only for punctuation, bolted the lock.

She did not move from her place behind the folding screen, only paused to slide the garnets of her eyes to him. A withering thing that might have stopped a mortal intruder’s heart. It pleased him to see.

It confused him when the glare caught on the brandished oil and, rather than flare in rage or horror, simply rolled away from the sight of it and him. She resumed her fumbling behind the screen, either shedding or fastening. An unplanned silence unfolded as he kept his back to the door and she kept her back to him. The oil sloshed in its bottle as he turned it.

Well?

The word fell in his head like a jabbing hand against a stuttering understudy on the stage.

“Well,” he bit back, “you take me by surprise. I had thought there would be more theatrics when we came to this.”

I have not come to this. Given even an atom of free will, I shall certainly not come to you.

He thought of and discarded a particularly juvenile rebuttal. It was something he might have reserved for Jonathan, but it felt cold and unctuous in trying to fling it at her. At least to say it out loud. He flicked it at her like a psychic worm instead. Another roll of the garnets.

Aloud, “You have only as much will as my will allows.”

So you love to remind us. Which is why the larger share of surprise is my own. You are so adamant in your role as Master of the Castle that even you cannot avoid bowing and scraping to it.

The oil froze mid-twist in his fingers.

“You have a gift for talking fluent nonsense. No doubt something you took from the Dutchman.” His gaze leapt to the crescent scar that still blazed in echo of the Eucharist. “Prior to the parting blessing, I expect.” Her ruddy lip curled like a warning wolf’s. His own curled back in delight. Better, better. “Do you think it would be him or the fawning doctor who swooned more at the state of you? We know already the lordling and the American would simply have killed you outright, but the supposed men of medicine would have a sermon apiece to wail out before grabbing the saw and stake.” He feigned a pondering stance. “I believe, if we think in volume of wasted breath, it would be the Dutchman who languished more. But his pet student would likely have an actual point to it, being so wrapped up in the effort to cry demon while also struggling not to play with his tool at the same time. His blade as well.”

Are you four-hundred or fourteen?

There was less ire than annoyance in the words. The mental equivalent of shooing a fly. More fabric shifted. She had gone through the formality of lighting a lamp for the room rather than trusting her vision alone. Its glow revealed the shadow puppet of her silhouette in the screen. Yes, she was dressing. But there was no bell of a dress as yet. Not even a chemise.

He withheld a sulk. Half the fun of the act was the prelude and half the fun in that was the peeling away of layers or circumventing them entirely. There was a certain pleasure in opening and shedding the frail shields of an ensemble—he admitted to some strange internal leap that equated it with the old work of skinning and dressing one’s kill in the forest—and almost as much in proving those shields protected nothing. A hand slipped under a hem was child’s play. Working that and other anatomy into place when making a mist of himself was a unique treat.

Had Jonathan told her so yet? If so, he likely needn’t have bothered. Not when such memories might be dropped neatly in her head as she paced and hissed. At last, she could experience it firsthand!

Ha. Ha.

The oil was fidgeted with again.

I cannot imagine this was the ‘charm’ you dragged out for her.

Her?

Ah.

Unbidden, his head craned to face the faded portrait. The figure in it was now all but a ghost on the canvas. A representation not too many brushstrokes removed from how she had been in life. Considering her appearance in the mausoleum, it remained an ironically perfect likeness.

A maiden of snow, alive and dead, with the artist’s dancing ice seeming to radiate from her rather than the backdrop of a leaden sky. Behind her loomed the Mountain where they had learned so many Lessons and taken their parting forms. Strigoi had held no appeal for her, even with its many gifts. Instead she’d chased the hardy vourdalak with its wan corpse-skin and its eternal voracious passions. Chased it and wore more names through the ages than even he had invented to wear the guise of his own descendants.

She who had spread love like a disease until settling on her resting place in 1801. Her precious little nothing-village, all turned. All free from mortal ills. All asleep and dreaming into each other in their graves. Content to be confined. With love.

For them.

Doting fool of a Countess.

How much a fool, really? She burned from the lightning. She once suffered the stake to her heart, the blade through her throat. And then she was up again. Unmarred and unbothered without a drop of blood upon her tongue. Bloodless and unbound to you, she stood whole after you’d shooed Jonathan’s idiot predecessor on his way. She would not have a scar from a spade still on her brow.

 Her painted eyes found his as he mulled this. That impossible glacial blue. His gaze shied from it and trailed down the flax fall of her hair, braided away to show the throat where his kiss ought to have gone. Up again to her lips. The only point of color that blazed on her, turned down in perpetual sorrow. This or disappointment.

All this woolgathering passed in an instant. He shrugged out of it with his own dismissing glance.

“There is a difference between you and her. One is maiden of noble blood, who was once worthy of courtship. The other is a trophy long overdue to be enjoyed.”

Where is she?

In a graveyard in a pauper’s village that dragged her down like a colony of filthy feeble vermin.

“Not here. If you wish to play comparison to my women of old, it should please you to know that none are of your particular measure. None of my bedmates thus far have been at once the downed enemy and the stolen wife. It—,”

In the painting.

As if he had not spoken. It was not even the pitch of one trying to distract from the topic. He followed her stare back to the portrait and its grim setting. The Mountain. An obsidian peak that seemed at once a mouth and an eye over her fair shoulders.

That peak isn’t one in this range.

Ah, fishing. The Dutchman had mentioned the Scholomance, he recalled. Tricky thing. But not by enough.

“Says the Englishwoman.” He clicked his tongue. “You know nothing of the land that holds you. You shall not for very long yet. What good fortune you have, you and your clever mind, to now have so much time in which to learn. I think by the end of the next century you shall know a third of the crags in the Carpathians. Maybe half!”

At the rate you dawdle, it will take twice as long before you get around to the same epiphany I have had to reconcile with since I first climbed out of the box. The same revelation that has been sitting out in the open, free for your voyeurism to trip over at any opportunity, only for you to go on strutting and preening at yourself. As though you still had a reflection to impress.

She had ceased dressing behind the screen. The outline of her did show the fall of a cloak, but still no dress. He found he did not much care. Not for her choice of attire or her tone.

“Do forgive me then. As you are suddenly consort and counsel, please, do enlighten me. What grand epiphany am I overlooking?” Then, in a moment of inspiration, he capped with, “Feel free to lecture between positions.”

Finally, a wave of disgust radiated from her. Hate. Wrath. Check, check, check. But buried under it all was an uninterrupted core of exasperation. Even disbelief. As if she had handed him an apple and he’d declared it was a grape. Indeed, though he couldn’t know it, she was kneading at her brow the way she had in private when a particularly dense group of girls was foisted on her to teach. There was a very clear and grousing sensation from her that spoke of desire for the ability to enjoy liquor again.

A lecture? Fine. You do so love hearing yourself talk.

Before he could grasp her meaning, she shoved the screen aside. Everything in him crashed against a stone wall as he recognized her ensemble.

You never brought them anything in black, piped the inane inner voice.

She wore the proof head to toe. If only because she was wearing one of his own suits. Being almost as long-boned as Jonathan, it needed only a few folds of the cuffs to fit and his stolen cloak masked whatever else begged for tailoring. On the whole it was…it was like…

Ah, see? You do still have a reflection.

His mind scrambled in something near to panic for salvation. He dug up memories of his Loves in nights long gone, when he had let one or another wrap herself in one of his capes in lieu of cover. That had carried some fine thrill once. But the fresher, the brighter thought, was of Jonathan in their private summer.

Back when his dear friend found his few English pieces disappearing one after the other until his courteous host began slipping his own clothes into the wardrobe. How well they’d suited him then. Better still today, when the rules of the house dictated he peel away the set of modern tailoring he kept for the town errands and sheathed himself in his Master’s uniform. White. Red. Black.

Once, in an older age, the red was swapped for blue. The death shades of necrosis, of walking winter. Their velvet was worn with the ease of cold Morena awaiting her yearly demise at the birth of spring.

He clung to all of these connections for a blink before the overwhelming memory tipped them over. A memory made precious only by its rarity in the murky sea of his human recollection rather than sentiment. Chiefly because it was one of the first times he began seriously considering murdering his brother. His little brother, who had snuck into his quarters, shrugged on his best raiment, and laughed as he was caught en route to some infantile play at the daughter of their father’s guest. At her.

This was not that. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t, he should be flattered, should be enticed, should be—

“You thieving bitch.”

If I am such, it is only because you set such a fine example in both the action and the role, O Kin of my Kin. On top of all the rest of your aggravations, you have even soured the daydream I once had of proving my former students wrong. My poor girls who swore up and down that to have siblings was a curse. I almost had a brother in spirit, once. It was a nice thing of sentiment and foam. But now here you are, smashing the fantasy and proving the girls right all along. What have you done since entering my life but steal what is rightfully Mine?

Something horrid was curdling in his stomach. A sensation he’d thought was outgrown centuries ago. What was this? What was this? In answer, a scrap of inspiration drifted to him. He nailed up a grin.

“Oh dear,” through teeth clamped so tight the words had to squeeze through, “you do take our boy’s idle talk too seriously. If dark hair and rosy eyes were all it took to make one a relative—,”

Three years. Three years ago, my son made that guess of brother and sister. You did laugh then. Laughed as if you might choke. But you have remembered it too.

“Hardly an effort when I can recall the last four centuries.” More or less.

And the last four years, no doubt. Years in which the nearest you have willingly gotten to me are when we lay down in our boxes or when you want to turn my Jonathan’s head.

 “Our Jonathan.”

So you delude yourself. Just as you thought Lucy was yours. Just as you think to welcome yourself to all that is Mine.

“Have we not gone over this Lesson before? Does it not follow that if one owns a dog, they own the creature’s toys? Its pups?”

She had been resting her hand atop the folding screen. The hand snapped shut and sent fragments flying. A reflex that he himself had needed to train himself out of lest he shatter or crush every bauble under his roof. For her part, she seemed not to notice the runnels of blood escaping the healing palm.

“Such a temper,” he chided. “Shall I kiss it better?”

Immediate bile rippled into him at the words.

Yet the bile did not belong to her.

Shall you?

She flapped her hand at him, streaked with dark coagulation. Her claws had grown out and the knuckles bunched up into a talon. The nails holding up his grin loosened.

Ah, but that is just the hand! Surely this is what you want?

As he watched, her face changed. Muscle and bone shifted like clay until a bestial deformation replaced the sharp beauty. A product of his own form of vampirism. While those he conscripted could not assume an animal’s full form, his efforts in the Scholomance bled down into them, filtered into countenances that overtook in a rage. Here was rigid and stretched flesh, a bristling forest of fangs in a beartrap maw, the huge and hating pits of the eyes. A bat’s face stretched into grotesquerie.

Now let us get on with the craved rendezvous! Come, where is my kiss? This is what you came for! What you have, with so much anticipation, withheld yourself from all these days and weeks and months and years! Delayed gratification must be the sole reason, no other.

Then, in a tone that did not carry her soul’s voice, but another’s he had known all his life, whispering up from his own mind:

Is it not so?

In asking, she had taken a step forward.

The back of his heel struck the locked door as he started back.

Enough.

He had initially thought to order her to the bed. His Loves of the past had needed the Lesson. An example as to how strong the chain their Master held was, as much as the rightful collection of that treasure that rests between a maiden’s legs no matter their surplus or absence of appeal in other regards. Now he had no patience for such puppet strings. His spare hand took her by her cravat and shirtfront—

Mine, these are MINE—

—and stopped just short of taking her by the neck as he had done to soldiers and subordinates in ages past. That much would be injury. And he did recall the laughable conditions his dear friend had laid out. So careful, his Jonathan. In all but his choice of spouses.

He thrust the latter on the postered bed along with himself, pinning her the way the wolves wrestled over each other to get at the throat. Before she could get tooth or claw into him, he brought down an anvil of his will onto hers.

“Take off that face. Now.”

The monstrous face twitched, half-smoothed.

You are squeamish over such a thing? I had not realized you were so delicate!

Her mouth, still jutting with spire teeth, managed to grin.

I wore the whole of that face before Jonathan once. Brandished it like Medusa’s head. The proof under the husk that passes for subsumed humanity. I wanted him. I want him. He was, he is, he shall ever be Mine. But the Vampire is made only of extremes. In that mood, I was at the extreme of self-loathing for what I had reduced his wife to. For the thing I had allowed myself to be. Yes, you were the infection. Yes, the others warned me against taking my own life even as I cozened them to take it in my stead. So quick they were, seeing none of my terror at their quickness, the same mercy wielded for my Lucy. They made their killing oath while Jonathan swore his own.

“He did. He killed to see you whored rather than dead. Such is the loving loyal gallantry of our—,”

We both know I lied when I baited him with tales of old. When I spoke of the men who would kill their womenfolk to save them the indignity of the enemy’s touch. A clumsy hook. One I only half-believed. But I wanted him to have an out, you see. We have known each other to the soul for almost half our lives. Just as he permitted me to know what was not written in the diary. Those gaps.

Her face hardened again, the abominable ridges stretching into a demon’s mask.

It was all but code. Something I could say before the others. And while I do not doubt he feared a grain of truth in that requisite threat—of this pantomime we are limping through now—the reality was always there at the top. No matter how I might have begged, might have entreated, bribed, or gnashed my teeth.

Her fangs clicked together once. Hard.

For all that you took me for my brain, for my senses, for the petty vengeance over your spoiled earth, for the cliché of a hundred other despots who prey upon a woman to attack her men, these were mere filigree. You took me to take him. Is it not so?

“Fix. Your. Face.”

Her face resumed smoothing…slowly. All the while her mind ran like a broken spigot.

Yes, of course it was. It did work out so prettily for you in the end. Not because of the blood on his hands and mine, not even because of our child. It has happened because I was as great a coward as you. You, who ran from my Jonathan when you saw he meant to cleave you in a crowded street. You, who fled back to this roost when the first wrinkle came into your plans after centuries of sitting idle on your laurels. And I? I spoke aloud of suicide before them all. Baiting their worry, their oath.

‘No no, Madam Mina, it is too soon to think such things! And worse, risks rising as the Un-Dead!’

Ha. Ha.

I did not do as Jonathan had, who makes his resolutions in silence. He held out as long as he was able, until the only option was escape or undeath. At that point he trusted himself to be broken on the cliff or torn by the wolves rather than risk eternity with the Sisters, waiting for you to come back and collect. A death that would have ruined him past the point that vampirism, still a mystery then, could have saved him. All for the chance to come back to me. Me, now a thing almost as unworthy as you, who clung to hope of life without the excuse of ignorance.

Obviously I could have ended it before he ever set foot on your mountains again. I could have burned. I could have shattered myself after a long fall. I could have found a dozen ways to destroy myself past your intended use for me. And I didn’t. I was not even a Vampire by more than an ounce, yet there I was. Shying from my own destruction when it could have saved them all—when it could have stopped him from putting himself on your altar.

And because I shied, because I lived to follow the thread you left behind, this is where we are.

He is Mine. Our child is Mine. But because you hold my chain—this reason and no other—you can imagine they are yours. That he is yours. So I showed my Jonathan what was left of his wife. The monster he sold himself to Hell for, a thing not worth the love he gave or being mother to the son they’d made, a thing who would lose hold of her martyr-mood soon, so go, Love, go and take our boy, run from the Pit.

Instead, he kissed me.

And to this night he stays and plays your games, does your work, keeps the dust from gathering on your child-brain. For me. For our son. But any reason would have done it for you, wouldn’t it? Any lure or collar. Anyone you knew had hold of his heart. You’d have turned his grandmother if that was what it took.

Her face was at last reset. Still his dead stomach did not settle.

If it were half a millennium ago, all of us wearing the roles we are in spirit, you really would have held a knife to your own kin if it meant—

A flash.

Little brother, teeth bare in glee, talking of how sad a state it was to have the younger son find his bride first.

‘Do not fret, you have your books and your bloodshed and your future under the Mountain to keep you busy! Ah, you will be missed. Perhaps even by her, tender thing that she is. You have addled her, Brother, with your talk of the Powers under the Earth. A shame to draw along some poor maiden with your occult fairy stories, wasting her canniness on war and drivel. But her interest will pass and I shall take care of her while you go try not to die to your Devil’s Lessons. Best of luck.’

A lie, of course. It had to be a lie. He was eldest, he was the ruler-to-be, Weathermaker, rider of the Dragon, Dracula, of course their father would promise her to him. Union would come into it, the wisdom of the move was undeniable, but more, it was his right. It was his due.

It was her.

Under the titles and the trades and, yes, even the teasing thought that she too wished to brave the Mountain, to grasp its Lessons and bring home its gifts to guard those she loved, whatever the cost.

To the enemy or to her. Prepared for any altar, in marriage or blood. Pliant as the snow, cutting as the ice. The chill of her like the breaking of fever. An impeccable spur to the mind, forever turning me towards joy as she parried wrath with her tongue or talent; occasionally in unison. Even in fear, in our play, recognizing the monster before I ever ceased to be a man, she kept herself a gag in my teeth. Oh, I was no fool, Countess. How many lives were spared because you blocked my way in word and flesh? The idiot chattel will never know.

You did love me once. When our hearts beat with our own blood. When we bowed our heads under the Mountain. When we crawled from it, half-mad, damned in our own directions, cold hands clinging together as revenants of different breeds. Yes, I think you must have loved me. Why else would you think to chase the form of your homeland’s vourdalak? I joked that you did not trust me and my kiss.

We laughed and I was not bitter. You had chosen Love and I had chosen Conquest and so I thought I had you forever. Vourdalaks can only Love or Hate. And you loved. And I loved. And it was well. Until it wasn’t. Until the coin of extremes flipped in you, seeing all that I had become. Love to Hate in a single night. I could not hold you when my chains were not in your soul. I could not break you when your dead flesh shrugged every wound. I could only heal from the mauling you left me with, losing you in the fall of hail and sleet. Gone to throw yourself to mortal maggots. A quest that took you to the rotting village and its endearing diseased cattle, weeping for fear of loss of each other.

The cattle who you chose to turn and dream with in the dirt.

Like you nearly chose…

Thunder snarled outside.

Under him, the woman bared her teeth in a grin he would swear he had seen elsewhere. In a looking glass or on the whelp he called a brother?

Enough!

He dropped himself upon her, willing her mouth to pucker and part for him. Doing so, he thought wildly of sieged buildings, of broken windows, of smashed doors, of barriers sundered, wood, glass, stone, iron, that was all, that was all, he would break in and be gone and—and—

His eyes were closed. Why?

You know why.

Something was wrong. Her lips were there, but also not. It was another’s mouth, heavy and coarse with hair. He opened his eyes.

And saw himself.

Himself, seen and felt through her senses, now crouched and crushing his own face with graceless gnawing.  

Shall I turn you over first? We can oil a stake if you’re so eager to bow for yourself.

So saying, she pressed her knee up between his legs.

He threw himself away from her as if she’d turned to sewage. A ball of coagulation and bile even managed to lurch up his throat. It coughed out of him with a retch, splattering on the faded rug. Thunder was joined by lines of lightning. 

“Disgusting witch!”

I take after my kin.

He spat again. The taste of her was the taste of himself. And, as though she were somehow in his head despite the burning wall he’d laid between them:

We are monsters, both of us, and neither has a preference for themselves. A point you have been trying not to know as you fought to convince yourself that you wanted anything more out of me than a sentient shackle to keep on my husband. This, when you once so happily crowed about my cleverness and fate as a companion-to-be. How much was in earnest versus mere theatre for me to pass on? Do you even know?

“Caveat emptor. Is that your supposed Lesson here?”

I am a teacher by trade and I would claim such a Lesson if it were mine. But it isn’t. I am merely trying to spare us all the collateral of your pride.

She twisted herself on the bed until she sat straight and crisp in her stolen garb, the pose of a queen on an invisible throne.

Order her on the ground. Have her bay like a jackal on hands and knees, lick the bile from the rug, claw off her own damned face—

What do you think would happen after he found out, O Lord of the Castle? You would have kept to the letter of the agreement, I’m sure. I would not have bled, I would wear no injury. If you were feeling especially needy you might have had me mouth mute words of worship. But after? What of him?

“What of him, witch?”

There wasn’t as much vitriol in the words as he wished. It was too fair a question. One he had only turned over briefly that evening as he resolved to get on with this belated task.

Task. That really is the word for it. Was the word.

In his brisk consideration of the aftermath to the afterglow, he had thought of Jonathan’s face. The revelation there. Not merely of despair and impotent fury, but the far end of acceptance. Acknowledgment of what could be done to his woman—their woman—on an impulse. A single Lesson for his friend on what could and would be done if he thought himself unburdened enough to leave them, to cut his leash and run before the period of agreed respite ran out. Twenty years. That was the most there would be. Enough for the boy to reach his prime without taking a life.

Jonathan, their precious fountain, their boy’s nursemaid. The gag in all their mouths to play at penance while shielding the mountain people from their thirst. A lesser soul would have broken a year after the child’s birth. Broken and run, with or without the babe. Without the wife-thing he had damned himself for. But love held him pinned in delicious Purgatory between life and death, not merely chained, but a willing servant. Willing in so many ways.

Yes, Sir, of course, Sir, if Sir pleases. That professional veil that let him hide in the veneer of mere servitude. A series of duties performed for a client.

Still so shy, his Jonathan.

Less than twenty years left of this charade. And then?

The white down of the hair, the marble throat, spectral blue bruised to violet to red to bed and now there is no leaving, no running, never again, I will watch you drink from the weeping cattle whose names and pity you will have learned after twenty years, oh yes, you will gorge yourself, we will all indulge, and you will feed yourself back and back to now, to here, to youth, to my friend, my Jonathan, my Bri—

It was a winter night when she’d left. When they’d warred. Lightning and ice. He had tried to goad as much as wrestle her. Hanging the lives of thousands of bleating human sheep over her head. A slaughter to paint the continent red in her absence. Had she been human, perhaps this would have worked. But the creature in her place was only Love or Hate. It was this very threat and a thousand other proofs of his monstrosity before it that had locked her into the latter.

Hate. Hate.

It had struck him deeper than the ice that speared him like a great thrashing insect. Boulders of hail had fallen that same night, hammering the edges of his castle into crumbling stone and mortar. He had driven his hand through her chest and twisted out her heart. In retaliation, she had slapped him. The print of her hand went black with frostbite. Eating. Cracking. Shards of his face breaking as his castle broke. So much blood it had taken to mend!

But he had not thought of it then. Only of the blinding black-white of the storms, of how even his winds could not hold her as she cut back and away from him. A ghost in the snow. Gone.

Gone, because she was not his. Not in a way that could be trusted, that could not be broken. Love was a chain and that chain needed strength. He wound that chain around every throat he kissed and fed the ichor of his heart. His, his, his.

Even the wretched thing in her stolen suit would someday bend as the Sisters had; centuries, that had taken, but it had happened. At least enough to smile for him. Even to laugh with him. His Loves, been and gone, like infuriating and cherished cats.

And is it an accident you hunted for a fair girl first? She, with her white-gold waves and spring sky stare? No, old devil. You know better. How hastily you threw yourself at two dark ones after! As if you could hide your own weakness from yourself by overbalancing the collection against that first desperate theft. Then came the surprise in Piccadilly. The one that nearly froze you so long the kukri all but gutted you where you stood gaping.

The surprise of his Jonathan. His hair was dark as earth the night before, but the morning had left it white. His eyes were bright and cold and dead in their living sockets. That same cold had scarred the air around him as he lunged out of his pack of Cross-wavers, he and the blade coming to kill him for the Love and Hate that made up all that he was then.

That he was now.

He is here out of love, she thought at him.

He almost jumped. His mind was walled off, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

There is something like peace under this roof and endless hateful play for you because of him. Because you hold the safety of his family hostage. Because he is himself, and because you are yourself, he is prepared to take a thousand blows to his dignity and well-being. This you know. But you have forgotten the cost that comes with endangering what he loves.

“Hardly. He buried the corpses of that cost, did he not? He is paying his own price ad infinitum.” A fee that had come with the forsaking of the kukri. Such a fine toy. It was still whetted and gleaming in its scabbard for the night it was returned to him, the better to watch him split a few squealing targets open with it. But until then, confiscated. “Or do you mean to imply he shall again come at me with a shovel? Do you truly believe he can do me any harm, by day or night, that I could not immediately shield myself with using your mobile carcass?” At last, an opportunity to leer back at her: “Or little Quincey?” An absurd name on the tongue. The American was a curse even now.

Her face rippled in that hideous shape again. Then settled as she thought a truth she hated to offer almost as much as he hated to hear it:

I do not know. No more than I know whether you are justified or not in thinking you can pounce and turn him before he strikes a blow. The only guarantee is that everyone in this castle, bar Quincey, is damned. For our sins, for our Nature, we are hellbound. The only thing we have left to lose is…

She gestured dully at the room, the castle, the entire imperceptible trappings of a stage. A grimace of almost comical dissatisfaction rested on her.

…this. A penny dreadful satire of the family home. One held together because my son is owed a life that Jonathan and I have forfeited for ourselves. We are all living in a balance that is maintained by the chain on me, by a child’s needs, and by the ability of my husband to cater to all of us by a strength of will you would not find out of a million men. This he does because no one has broken the fragile eggshell of his faith that you can be trusted not to kick a hornet’s nest.

 If that eggshell breaks, everything breaks.

The agreement. Truce. Relative peace. Whatever you wish to call this. Whoever is left to survive after, the only certainty is that those parties will be in a state of constant misery and war. A generally unpleasant prospect to most. Unless you were the sort to consider a permanent state of trying to hold back an opposing will from sundown to sunup, unable to budge lest you be mauled or worse, for the rest of eternity, a positive outcome.

A silent sigh gusted from her.

Understand this: If I thought it would spare him, no matter how he protested, I would play concubine as best I could. Being bereft of the ability to lie or to act on anything but my own wants, it would be a feat. But you could rut and pretend you were enjoying yourself all you liked, supposing it meant he would be left out of that particular chore. Except we both know that wouldn’t happen.

There is no contract with us. No consent. And, let us be honest while we can, you have not cared about me since you scurried back to the castle in that blighted old November. I have nothing to barter with to keep you from abusing my husband’s willingness to be a barrier between you and what he loves. By any means.

“I need no reminder,” he hummed. And, unable to help himself, “His means do so sweetly justify the ends.”

Her teeth bared again.

Pig.

His bared back.

“Bitch.”

Imbecile. Or do you have another name for a man who would throw a brick through his own window to prove he can? Neither of us wants to bed the equivalent of a twin. Neither of us wants to risk the discovering what would happen if Jonathan discovers what you attempted to force on me tonight, and each for the same reason—we do not know what comes after. Who lives? Who dies? Who suffers? I truly cannot guess. Can you?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scraped his tongue across his fangs.

In his mind’s eye, he wandered through the most probable outcomes:

Here was Jonathan returning to that uncanny rage upon finding his wife was preyed on. Even unharmed, he sees the contract as broken. Fine. He attacks.

His Master uses mother and child as shields. Perhaps he has her hold Jonathan down while the bawling boy is held at the window, ready to be dropped and splattered. A loss of an experiment, if need be. But no need! The woman holds her husband. The Master pries the man’s mouth open and, already pocked with years’ worth of kisses, the ichor turns him quickly. Then what?

Does he keep them all? Can he keep them all? Even the Sisters settled enough that he did not have to be on guard at all waking hours.

A coin toss between mother and child. At least one must go.

If the child, an immediate spur to the parents. An even worse strain. No.

Mother, then. Slain or preserved? Blood was necessary only for health, not existence. It would be an arduous process, but he wagered he could manage sealing her in her box and encasing it in concrete. No route for her mist through that. Let her rot in there a few decades while he wrangled the rest of the family.

But the boy himself would grow and be untethered. His Papa would strain like a rabid beast at every hour. A nuisance.

Fine. Dead mother, dead child. Put Jonathan in the sealed box. Wait. Talk to him through the concrete, the wood, the silk lining. Think at him. Check and check until he was ready to behave. Starved, insane, he would be broken out as a broken thing. Something to sculpt into proper form, into a companion who knew better, who would be a good boy, good Bridegroom.

Unless he really did find some way to end himself despite the grip on him. A Vampire was all want and Jonathan had wanted to die too many times as a human being to banish the notion, even with the undead form’s predilection for self-preservation. If anyone could, Jonathan would find a way.

And there he would be again. Alone.

Assuming other scenarios didn’t overtake these entirely. He had suffered much from results he was too sure of himself to even entertain. Now the potential outcomes included some which ended with him slain or abandoned. He couldn’t say which rankled more to contemplate.

The bed creaked. He looked up to see she was unlocking the door. She was in no especial hurry as one garnet eye regarded him blandly over her shoulder.

Your storm frightened my son, if you care. Jonathan has brought him inside. I will do us both the courtesy of not mentioning this farce to him.

‘This time,’ hung unmentioned between them.

She did already think herself living in Hell. There was little more to do besides count the hours or gamble. And if she truly thought this was a sword to hang over his head?

Well. That wouldn’t do.

His eye fell on a heap of white left behind the folding screen. The discarded dress. He hooked it with his boot, kicking up and catching it in a gnarled ball to toss at her.

“Do another courtesy and dress in a way that does not insult and sicken to behold. And, if you will humor me, bestow some clarification. The heart of the issue is, to you, the assumption of assault, yes?” Her eyes narrowed, but she gave no answer. He beamed at her. “If that is the case, you have my sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding. When I turn myself to acts of affection, I never dream of gifting them without consent. That much you should know from your husband. He is a selfless soul, so willing to accommodate. I shall be sure to make clear all intentions in our future together and to not make any advances without all parties’ allowance.”

He dropped a wink and sent a nettle her way. A hazy phantasm of the three of them, their spectacle condensed upon a single bed. Two bodies willing to trade themselves over the other. Only one being forfeit, lest horror and violence break him at the sight of his wife’s breaking. Him. It would always be him.

‘No, no, take me!’

‘If you insist.’

A loving wall between them. The living shield keeping their teeth away from each other. Their dear, dear Jonathan, knowing his wife would play out the scene expected of all martyr-maidens, trading their one universal coin for their beloveds’ sake. Knowing he would go mad to see her folded under their Master, the mechanics of the display made worse for it being an attempt to protect him. Their Jonathan would weep, would beg, would claw them apart and straddle their Master like a horse just to spare the woman the touch of him.

In contrast, she would be only too happy to wrench said Master’s head off. But she and her will could be held at bay. This he could do while she clung to her husband’s back, weeping precious red tracks as her Love loved another. For her.

A new storm roiled across the woman’s face. Claws ripped into the pale silk. Before she could linger for another mental barb, he willed a gust to rush from a window and down the corridor to suck the door shut on her.  

Good riddance.

He pondered the oil bottle still in his hand.

…Not an entirely mediocre play.

It wasn’t dissimilar from what he’d try in her position. Her grasp on the psychic angles of vampirism was also advancing at a pace that put her Sisters’ dabbling with the trance state to shame.

Ah-ah. She is not their Sister, is she? Surely we have established that by now.

His smile soured at the thought. What a waste to lose a harem and gain a relative. He wanted to spit again. Still, he could not grouse too much. She was a small price to pay for the prizes to be gained. He was Master of the lot, however much she might rankle at the notion. It was early nights yet and centuries enough would defang her.

In the meantime, there was the present to deal with. A little punishment for biting the hand and for the purloining of that particular costume. A theft that echoed days long gone. Perhaps he could deliver her a dream during the day, featuring all the many places one would have to dig around the castle to find the pieces of his covetous little brother. Just so she knew where he stood with regard to sticky-fingered siblings. But clothes were not the greater concern, much as he would prefer she think so.

Let her think it only a matter of pride and property. While she thought it, he would have to scour his room and be certain there was no breach of the hidden place where his souvenirs from the Scholomance rested. He hardly feared that the woman would decipher the texts within, let alone be able to limp through even their most basic instructions. But she was clever and ‘kin of his kin.’ She was therefore petty enough to set the ancient parchment ablaze in a fit of retribution.

Yes, it would need checking. Yes, she would need a crack of the whip in some way.

But first.

“Did that amuse you?” he asked of the portrait. “I’m sure it would have were you here. Would it serve your mood to know how many times I have failed to fill the hollow you left behind? You see I am never satisfied. Whereas you were content enough to settle for a village of half-dead bootlickers. It is a better thing to be gratified by only the best rather than to lower oneself to preen over scraps, don’t you think?”

The portrait did not say. Only stared on in that melancholy gleam of blue. So hard to think a creature like her had ever bloodied her hands. Out of love, of course. Always out of love. Such stories she had told under the Mountain, away from the eyes of a God who gave His flock mere trinkets to ward off the thousand monstrous and manmade evils of the world, the caring sins she had beggared her soul for already. Loved ones threatened. Loved ones rescued. Loved ones alternately grateful or aghast, but ultimately saved by her knife, her poison, or the lure of her chilled flesh.

Always there had been a chill to her. Even when her heart was alive.

The thought tugged him to the wall above the titanic bed’s headboard. His fingers traced the loose mortar around one stone. He thrice-checked that his senses were blocked from interlopers before moving it out. Three treasures waited inside.

The closest was a skull. Final resting place for a waste of time. Such a churlish solicitor he had first invited to his home! Had he ever introduced him to Jonathan? He had already thrown out the man’s name and redubbed him Yorick after his Loves and the wolves finished with his carrion. Were there less sentiment attached to it, he might have already gifted the lump of ivory to his dear friend, who so loved the Bard. It would make a fine paperweight as he bent over his myriad books and forms.

But the sentiment was there because she was there. She had seen the opportunity with the idiot wandering so close and had tried to herd him into her tearing hands. Love and Hate. She could not love a stranger, but she could hate that he was marked by the stamp of her Count, proof that he was intended for a task. There would have been no teeth in the man, no kiss. Just a disassembling of anatomy long before the wildlife tore him. With how poorly he’d received his host’s hospitality, perhaps all of them would have been better off if Yorick had never been rescued by the thunderbolt or the Wolf.

“You did tell me so, didn’t you?” Again he turned to the portrait. The skull turned over in his hands. “You told me not to go forward. Do not play Alexander, you said. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same. You knew already how it was back here. How I had not begun a true march upon the world, had not drowned it in its own blood.”

How he had stormed and slaughtered for only as long as the emptiness of the scarred castle could be ignored. This he did longer than any of the squealing countryside preferred. But not long enough. It had seemed only a blink. The frustrated lashing of a butcher mutilating the livestock until their fine cuts were mere pulp under his blades and teeth. And no gladder for the mess. He had stolen the first fair girl away before closing himself back in the high stone walls. A girl like sun on snow, who’d made her family laugh and her village swoon. With her collection the great conquest was brought to a halt.

Yorick’s skull gained a new crack where he gripped it. He tossed it on the bed in favor of the second treasure. Still shut in its jewelry box like a fairy tale’s secret.

Opening the ruby-pocked lid revealed a lump of stained linen. It swaddled the heart he had stolen from her chest. The meat had never rotted. Never attracted the vandals of fly and maggot. Simply sat there in the cloth, a dark red mound of muscle and dried blood. He remembered the hole that had closed up before his eyes as she vanished into the sleet. Had a new heart grown in her breast or had her form shed the anatomy forever? He still wondered. There were times when he thought of pricking it with the tip of a dagger. Vourdalaks were immune to a pierced heart. A cleaved head. One of their few advantages compared to the strigoi. It would feel good to halve the heart, he was sure.

But it went uncut. His thumb dragged over its curves as he convinced himself the pressure was felt all the way in that lightning-struck pit she still hibernated in. Bloodless and cold. Dreaming.

The heart was rewrapped and set in its box before the last treasure was perused. It too was still in its proper place. He caught himself close to a chuckle as he removed it.

How strange that his lifetimes before and after undeath had drawn so many little scholars to him, all with a penchant for bloating a journal with their personal scrawling. His Harkers seemed to have glumly hung up the pastime, refusing to pen anything which their Master would, naturally, have the right to peruse. A shame. There were blank volumes enough to fill another library with their prose if they wished. He had so enjoyed the few excerpts gleaned from their little manuscript that he’d tossed them a bejeweled book apiece to fill. Books that had found their way into the child’s eager hands, doomed to be ruined with crayon.

The book in his own hands had been a gift as well. A volume bound in dense old leather, the pages all thick leaves. Something to last through ages. He peered at the inner cover where her name was gouged. The one she had worn before the Lessons under the Mountain and after their vows were broken. She had given that name away to the worthless peasants of her necropolis to chisel in the marble. Not even another pseudonym, but her own maiden name, as though his title was a gangrenous limb to hack off.

“You do grow maudlin,” he sighed to the pages. The book returned to its place, the box after, the skull last. Back went the stone. Grudgingly, he resigned himself against forbidding entrance to the room. His own chambers were understandably forbidden, but this space would appear senseless to prohibit. Especially when it had been breached already and left unbothered with for nigh half a decade. It might be taken as an arbitrary thing—or worse, evidence to the woman that she had landed a blow with her act—but ultimately she might come sniffing around again. He would have to relocate the mementos soon.

But for now, there was more pressing work.

He found said work waiting for him in the library.

Out of all the cavernous rooms in the castle, it remained the nearest their strange brood had to a shared familial space. When it was allowed. He lingered a moment outside their perception as a shadow at the door.

The boy was tucked between his parents, insisting on reading to them from one of the books of fables and fairy tales. His Papa had brought home a version in every language he could find some while back. Mama had once tried to play go-between, fishing innocuous knowledge from their Master’s head to be secondhand tutor of the land’s many tongues. But it was a childish ploy and he had found them out with the ease of one kicking over a stone to watch the beetles scurry.

Jonathan, for his part, had made a more than admirable leap after his ‘brain fever’ left him in the care of strangers. The language barrier was one he had no intention of tripping over again, and so he had juggled his dead master’s business affairs and his first prodding at the Carpathians’ voices years ago. Now he was sharp enough to not only comprehend his paperwork and the talk of the townspeople without struggling on a given word, but to know exactly what he heard when his Master called:

“Draga mea. What has our little devil learned tonight?”

Jonathan showed no bristling of posture, no gooseflesh. Only the barest flicker of composure pulling its laces tight across the wan face. Even the smile refused to falter. The boy’s eyes flew up from the pages and bounced between fathers. He knew the term too, for it was one reserved only for his Papa.

“Father!” he chirped, holding up the book. It showed a painted girl in red walking through a wood with a smiling Wolf. “I have almost all of it! English and Hungarian and—,”

“Diavol.” His voice like a snap of fingers. The boy winced. His mother shot a look like a knife through his head. Jonathan spared a hand each for their shoulders. The boy’s back was to him now and so his eyes could flare in that grim crystalline way. Frozen lakes framed in whorls of snow. “Did I speak to you or your Papa?”

The child hung his head over the book.

“Please forgive me, Father.”

For I have sinned, the voice in him sing-songed. He swallowed an unbidden laugh.

“He has reason to be excited,” Jonathan’s offered. A soft roll of sound that now weighed almost as much as his Master’s in a room. “He has conquered the English, the Hungarian, half of the French and—,”

“The French?”

“Sweetheart,” Jonathan spoke lightly to the top of the boy’s head. “Show him.”

Sheepish but eager, the child brandished his new victory. Genuine surprise tumbled through his Father as he recognized the woodcut illustration. A view that stunned as much as tickled.

“So many of the best ones began in French writing,” the boy declared. “Charles Perrault wrote this one, Bluebeard,” he enunciated carefully, “Barbe bleue, forever and ever ago. It’s so scary! Like Mama’s ghost stories and your histories, Father. See?”

“I see,” he told the boy. And he did. The illustrator had done a fine job depicting the grisly chamber and its bounty of prying wives’ heads. “It is a good story to learn and a better one to take to heart.”

Like Pandora’s Box. 

Another surprise, hearing her tone chime through the mindscape. The surprise withered upon seeing the honed edge of her gaze. A warning that did not quite slip into the mental currents shared in the room:

Who here is Pandora? Who must mind the loose lid over the box of miseries?

Jonathan looked at her with only a mildly concerned curiosity.

Her word was kept. For now.

Fine, fine.

“Exactly so,” he said aloud. “And what is the Lesson in these tales, child? Do tell.”

The boy straightened where he sat, beaming, “Trick question! I know there is more than one. The first is that when you are told not to open a thing, it is for good reason. The second is that the terrible things inside are put there by a villain, who really does want the door or the box to be opened so that they can have something awful happen after. Third is that what’s scary does not last forever. Hope is in the box and heroes slay the villain in the end. And,” he wrinkled his nose at the book, somewhere between humor and annoyance, “it seems like people who made old stories really wanted girls to think they would only have an awful time to look forward to once they marry.”

“It can happen that way, Sweetheart,” from Jonathan, before Master or wife could jump to comment. There was no erasing the somber angles of his look for the boy this time. Even the smile he mustered was a solemn curve. “Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. Sometimes people find themselves with spouses they do not love or who do not love them. It is…uncommon to enter something so terrible as these storybook marriages. Most spouses are not monsters. But some are callous, some are dull, and some only wed at all because they see it as a chore.”

“A chore?” Another wrinkle of the nose. “Like putting playtime away?” Jonathan nodded, the smile an increment lighter.

“Or doing Father’s papers or minding the horses. Something like that, yes.” The boy sat up scandalized at this. He looked from his Papa to his Mama and Father as if hoping for one of them to tell him this was a joke. The scandal deepened as he saw, for one of the few times in his small life, that Mama and Father’s expressions were an utter match. Both on their faces and in their minds.

Still, he tried, “That can’t be true, can it?”

It is, from her.

“It is,” from him.

Each answer flat as a coin. Again, he had to tamp down bitter laughter.

The boy’s mouth dropped open on a glimpse of pearly needle teeth. A fever dream’s vision of a cherub being told by Cupid himself that all the arrows had been burned and they weren’t to make any more.

“That’s horrible! You mean there are families who just pick a mama and a papa and a father and just—just—,” A thunderhead came and went on the little brow. “Just sit there? Not caring about each other?”

“Child,” his Father hummed as he finally idled from the entryway, “you seem more distraught at this than the dead brides.”

“Because it’s different! Barbe bleue, he’s just a monster in a book! And even if—,” ah, how sickish he turned, “—if there are real villains like him in the world, they are rare! But you speak as if the whole rest of the world is out there,” he waved a frantic hand as if to encompass everything beyond the castle, “making families of each other and not enjoying it. Not loving each other at all.”

“Not the entire world,” Jonathan began. Before he could go on, his Master finished for him:

“But not a small portion either. Love does exist, but it is a precious thing like gold or blood. Many wish to have it for their own, but not everyone may claim it as theirs, let alone find it. Sometimes not even those who have died for it.”

He stood before the three of them on the couch now. His dear Harkers. Fire from the woman, wonder from the boy, a wary stillness from Jonathan. All braced, all listening for the lecture’s Lesson. He knelt until his eye was level with the child’s. The child sat forward, his mind at full attention while the spades of his ears pricked like a pup’s. He really was a good boy.

“Your Papa is right. Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. There are unhappy homes where mothers and fathers battle with each other and do worse to their children. There are homes where bones are broken, where there are tears every night and day, where there is only toil and hate and, yes, even death. For you are right too. There are villains in the world who slay the ones they should love, out of madness or for sport.”

He watched the boy’s eyes first widen and then well. Bright red beads balanced on the edge of spilling. If they ran, he would go to bed with hunger and then grouse all the more as he waited for their feeding night. So he laid the wide white spider of his own hand upon the child’s other shoulder. Jonathan gripped his side tighter. The woman grasped the boy’s small fingers.

“But this home is safe from that. We would none of us have come together were it not for love. Your Papa, your Mama, myself, we are all creatures of singular will. We do not do what we do not wish to do, and so we would not be here if we did not desire it, if there was no love in these walls. You are the proof. We made you together.”

The boy sniffled. His scarlet tears did not roll, but settled back with a blink.

“Like Pandora? She was made out of lots of pieces from lots of gods.”

“That she was. And like Pandora,” his hand drifted from the boy’s shoulder to drum his fingers on the book, “you have gone and opened something which brought you to tears. But there is Hope yet. You shall not lack for your own Loves when the time comes, diavol. For now, know that you need not weep for others and their clumsy pairing. Your heart will bleed forever once you start. And if that should happen? Why, your poor Papa will never have blood enough to satisfy you again.”

The boy’s expression squirmed for a moment, uncertain.

“…Really?”

Jonathan bowed over him, smiling, “Your Father jests. I will always have enough for you.” In his shift, more of the mottled throat was laid bare while his hair hung in a silver-white curtain. Through it peeked those strange sapphire eyes; melting ice set in soot lashes and a cadaver’s sockets. The mollifying mien of a living corpse.

An image passed behind his eyes of that pale smile daubed with blood.

The oil bottle dug against him in its trouser pocket.

“But not tonight,” he intoned. His palm moved from the book of fairy tales and up to the hand Jonathan still had on his son. The man barely tensed as he was pulled up alongside his Master. “Feeding is not for another dusk and your Papa has work waiting. Your Mama shall hear out the rest of your progress.” He flicked a glance her way. “Perhaps she could introduce you to one of Papa’s own favorites. I believe it was, One Thousand and One Nights.”

This time he could not stave off at least half a chuckle as his Harkers all seemed to jolt as one. Loathing here, curiosity there, and, laughably, a prickle of incensed decorum from Jonathan himself. There was even a flush in his pallid cheek.

“Would that not be best to reserve until he’s older?”

“My friend, he is reading of murder already. What harm could your little adventures do?”

“Sir—,”

“What’s it about? What happens in the Nights?” from the boy. His gaze now bounced eagerly among his herd of parents. There were few things his Papa would deny him and so to hear of something even he would try to hold out of his son’s reach was more tantalizing than any forbidden chamber or pretty dowry box. “Papa, I’m old enough, you can tell me!”

I can tell you, came the woman’s rescue. The parts you are old enough to hear.

“But Father said!” If Father said, the family Did. That was one of the rules. A good Lesson to hold above all others. But Jonathan’s eyes pleaded with both the promise of bribery for mercy and, again, that absurd flame of parental dismay. Very well.

“Father said perhaps,” he corrected. “And I said introduce. You do grow fast, child, but not fast enough. There are secrets meant for men and women that you must wait to learn before you can access all there is to consume. Until then, you can see what you can wheedle from your mother on the matter. But first, give Papa your good-day.”

Another shocked descent for the boy, another raising of hackles for his Mama.

“Papa’s working all night?”

“Ah-ah, not all night. You took him up for half of it, did you not?”

The boy shrank guiltily against his pillow, mumbling, “Maybe…”

A third, from the woman. At most.

Her eyes and scars seemed to blaze as he knew his own to do. Now it truly was an effort not to think of her as kin and shudder for it. The air in the room seemed abruptly charged as her line of sight refused to drop from his.

You could make her. Walk her off to the bookcases, even. See if she cannot accidentally smash her fingers under a leaden tome. Maybe—

Jonathan’s hand gripped his. Cold against colder. Then he was on his knee, cupping the child’s face.

“It is my fault, Sweetheart. I should have kept better track of the time. There is something that needs working out tonight, very important for your Father’s own affairs.” Another smile for the boy. Spring come to thaw. “Now please, can I have your good-day? I should not like to head to bed without it.”

And just like that, the boy was up and folded in his free arm, squeezing back like he could pin the man there to stay and read of Scheherazade and her Sultan until the sun rose. But his Father was watching and so he consoled himself with the embrace and the good-days and their bloodless kisses to each other’s cheek.

“Mama’s turn!”

Jonathan scarcely had time to repeat him, nodding—“Mama’s turn,”—before the woman had snatched him to her. Not a common display, this. At most they knew their Master would suffer only some saccharine peck and a pining stare in his presence. Let the woman rut while he at least had some distance and a turned back. Now she seemed on the edge of eating him. Not that Jonathan appeared to mind.

His eyes were shut far more lightly than his Master’s had been not an hour ago. A gesture of bliss rather than nausea. Because his eyes were closed, he did not see his wife’s eye crack open and shoot a line of mingled hate and joy into her Master’s skull. Over Jonathan’s psyche and masked from the boy’s questing mind, he dragged a mental dagger and spill of salt over hers.

This he punctuated with a very clear, Curvă.

She winced under the twist of the spectral blade in her brain, but did not let her nails become claws in Jonathan’s cheek. Her eye narrowed. Another blade was sent back to him.

There was even a dimpled hint of a smile as she enunciated, oh so lightly, Încornorat.

Jonathan bit back a yelp as he was hauled to the door with barely time enough to call back a, “Good-day, Darling.”

He no longer had his hand in his Master’s, for his Master held him by the wrist. So it remained until three long halls were between them and the library. Then another hall after that. Stairs. Hall. Stairs. Towards the tower.

Where all dragons keep their maidens.

The thought’s attempted humor died before it even drew breath. Kin of his goddamned kin, indeed. He could hear his little brother cackling up at him from Hell. Who did the contemptible sow think she was to dare? To even conceive of vomiting such a label at his feet? She, the one with the wedding band!

Yes, the same plain ring as his. While you, barehanded, claim to own them both. You are Master, you are Groom. And yet…

Jonathan sucked a breath over his teeth.

Their pace halted in the moonlight of a window-loaded wall. A glance at the trapped wrist showed it was connected to a hand going blue as the mortal bones grinded and creaked. The white hand curled open to reveal a hint of the bruise to come. Jonathan kneaded the spot without recoiling from his Master’s side.

The man’s smile had fallen away like a veil. Here was only his face as it was. The sweet-bitter mark of surrender that was the mournful turn of the lips, the frozen dew under the hoods of his lashes. Tired but waiting for the next scene. Wisely keeping the obvious question tucked in his throat: What’s wrong?

Instead his Master heard, “I received correspondence from Vidor today. He says the delay is due to losing one of the horses. They had to comb two villages for a replacement, but he thinks they can make it by mid-July.”

So casual, so ironed out into the cadence of Agent and Client. Anything else, Sir? Anything we might discuss in arid tones before the inevitable, Sir?

There was such talk available, if his Master felt like bothering with it. Stony talk of setting stone. A long-belated repair of the old damage to the castle’s crumbled edges. He knew there were also pamphlets and science journals waiting tidily on the ebon desk with the usual bureaucratic flotsam. Dreary things about the advancements of pipes and electric wires that would be an arduous and superfluous hell to weave into the grand old stonework. Especially when, in fifteen years’ time, there would be no humans left to want them under Castle Dracula’s roof.

Still, it was a good sign, these tries at what the English called ‘homemaking.’ Renovating his cage kept him busy between bleeding and writing. More, it gave an excuse to be allowed out of the tower. The same tower where his life might have gone on even to this night, with only the hungry visits of wife and child to prove they still existed. 

His Master had daydreamed about it more than once. How it would be the dance of that distant summer intensified and expanded when Jonathan Harker found he was locked permanently in. There would not be so much as the meager freedom of the office, where he could scratch and type and imagine he was far away in his snug English firm. No, in his dreams, he’d left Jonathan only the tower and the bedchamber at its top. Only what food his Master brought, what clothes his Master offered, what sundry supple tasks his Master put to him in that narrow box in which the spoils of war lived and bowed. Unable to dare so much as the thought of escape, even with a will that was all his own.

But no, no. Better to leave that sword hanging. A punishment threatened did more work than the punishment itself. Really, for all the savory misery it might wring from him, all the placations that might be offered for release, it would hardly satisfy in the long term. Not unless he wanted a repeat of his missteps with his prior Loves, turned idle and useless but for proving the castle was not his dwelling alone.

All this musing passed within a heartbeat he did not have. In the present, he crossed his arms.

“A lost horse, he says. And how did they lose it?”

A calculating flicker of the blue. Careful, careful.

“A broken leg, Sir. It had to be put down.”

“A broken leg. On what mountains? In what ditch between here and the mason?”

“He didn’t say.” No quaver in the voice. No dropping of his gaze. But there was a hairline crack in what should have been the calm of one delivering dull news. Small, but there. Then, the fatal line: “Why does it matter?”

Ah, my friend. Sometimes I do wonder if you enjoy dangling raw meat before my nose.      

“It matters because you are hiding something.” His hand landed light and immovable on the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not lying, Sir.” Yes, that much his Master could tell. Except.

“We both know there are worlds of difference between speaking the truth and choosing not to lie. Even the boy knows that.” The hand did not tighten, but claws now scraped against the shoulder. “So. What was it that Vidor blamed for his poor lost horse?” Jonathan opened his mouth. What could have been a word was cut off as he was suddenly wrenched around and marched toward the office. “No, let us not exhaust you with recital. Surely you still have the letter. I shall see it myself.”

“Sir—,”

But they were already at the door and the door had already opened on a handy gust. The same breeze tugged the heavy wood shut and, in passing out a different crack in the office’s window, skirted between the man’s legs. Jonathan hardly had time enough to flinch before he was thrust in the tufted chair that stood facing the desk. His Master was already thumbing cheerily through the immaculate filing; here was another reason to neglect his little fantasy of the tower. Mr. Harker really was an artful organizer. Never a paper out of place. Even the ones he wished he might get away with tossing on the fire.

But such liberties were only for his client to enjoy.

Case in point, here was Vidor’s letter, folded back into its envelope, neatly slotted in the Pending drawer. He kept his attention halved evenly between the note and his wincing friend in the chair. My, but the latter’s intuition had honed well with the years.

“He writes to me and says wolves attacked and ruined the stallion’s leg. Wolves cause him to be late.” He refolded the letter until its edges could slit a lying courier’s throat. “Wolves. Along the route I mapped for him.” His eyes leveled at Jonathan’s head like twin pistols. “You would hide this from me?”

“No, Sir. Only—,”

“Only what? You wish to see me deceived? To see these vermin get away with wasting my time as they drink and chase the slatterns along the road? By all means, explain.”

“I thought only that he must have made an error. That what he thought were wolves were merely dogs. There are few small breeds here and some are bred to outweigh their lupine cousins. More to the point, I do not see the why of purposefully delaying your delivery, even for a drink or a dalliance. Vidor and his men know they’ll not wring more money from you in losing time. The trek to and from all the destinations involved takes up days and energy all of them would rather spend at his home or some attractive holiday.” The closing statement: “He is not a liar, Sir, only mistaken.”

‘Please do not kill them.’ If only you had a violin to play as you grovel.

Out loud he sighed and shook his head.

“Do you never grow tired of covering for the ineptitude of others?”

It wasn’t an unfair question. Jonathan and his woman had been the key to dredging up the exact methods by which his Master’s web around England was forming and been instrumental in tearing them away. The Dutchman had led the lordling, the doctor, and the American along in slaying his poor Lucy, his fetching first claim planted upon the land. But the pack of them would have been running in circles without his dear Harkers. Too quick, too canny, and all the while shouldering the brunt of the effort in the hunt. There was some chiding of kismet in that, he knew.

He recalled that nascent night’s exact words.

You dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.

Words from an unsuspecting old thing who’d had to run for his unlife for the first time in ages as Jonathan Harker slithered out the window of the Piccadilly house, steel thirsty and flashing. Coming to slay him. To pierce his heart and sever his head in the middle of a screaming street. Prepared for a cell or his own death as the chattel shrilled, not knowing there would be only dust where a carcass should fall. Yes, yes. He would have. He could have.

Once.

But Fate ensured he reserved that knife for his friends, who had sinned even worse against his woman. If Jonathan marked his Master as a thief, then the stalwart dogs who had dared to turn on the sole bitch in their midst were worse for daring her destruction. Such was the price of not recognizing a Jackal while busy hunting a Wolf. In fact…

“You say Vidor is mistaken? That he lost his horse not to wolves, but other beasts? If this is so, I would not wager it was a dog that did the work, but a jackal.” He folded his hands and smiled. “You wish him to be spared the punishment of a liar. Why not assure that the reality matches his words? It need not be done with the kukri. In fact, it need not be you at all. Dear Mina, she so regrets depleting you. Perhaps she would appreciate the sport of her own hunt.”

Jonathan did not blink. The fear remained in its careful place, the fatigue alongside it. But there, lurking just under the membrane of the willing prey, was something else. Cold and sharp.

“Even if such were not against our arrangement, Sir, there would be a dilemma.” There was no tremble as he said it.

“Oh dear. What dilemma is that?”

“The waste. Leaving aside the concern of relatives and friends raising an alarm about a group of missing workers, it will be counted as another strike against this place’s stability.”

It was an effort not to clap. Good boy, Jonathan. Follow the trail.

“Stability?” he pressed, doing what he could to drip with pompous ignorance. Jonathan did not crack.

“Yes,” he told his Master. “The stability of this place’s image as the home of a respected Count and not a guaranteed death trap. The people of the Carpathians live in the center of your influence. They understand what it is to risk angering you. But you know firsthand that this place exists inside a shrinking circle. More information flies faster, more straight lines are drawn that whittle the world down into maps that mark every dark corner down to its smallest inch. Which means that if Castle Dracula, to say nothing of its Master or those he controls, gain a reputation for erasing visitors in bloody fashion, people will just stop coming here. 

“Unless those people are in uniform and hail from tiers of governance above the one you choose to wear rather than frighten the human gentry with the reality of you. I know I say nothing you do not know. You have not kept these mountains under your thumb by being careless. That you would suggest the idea of Mina or I casually murdering innocent strangers as either their punishment for tardiness or to simply tug our respective chains to have us do a trick you already know we are capable of suggests only two things to my mind.

“The first, that you have more important issues on your mind than the delivery of a commissioned pile of rocks. The latter is an easier annoyance to deal with than the former, so you have laid it on the chopping block first.”

The white hands remained folded, but their claws grew again. His fangs ached. What blood he had left in his veins was all very busy rushing to a single extremity.

“How very astute, my friend. And the second thing?”

“The second thing,” Jonathan said with a precise note of exhaustion thrown like a comforter over his riskier patter, “is that you don’t know how difficult it is to convince anyone other than novice solicitors or loyal caravans to march up the mountains, even with what you’re paying. Modern men don’t need to be superstitious when they’re already skittish about known threats. Like the wildlife. Or the cliffs so high you cannot see the foot of them.”

“Or murderers?” The word was a purr and a knife. In answer, a whisper:

“Or us. Yes.” With this boulder pushed up the proverbial hill, Jonathan folded his own hands and stared back at his Master. Not to see whether the boulder would roll back down to crush him, but how best to lay in its path and cause the least amount of damage to those behind him. To that end, “I do not seek to belittle what you truly deem important, Sir. But Vidor and his troubles seem too small a thing to earn your genuine ire. If something more is wrong, I should like to help.” His eyes gleamed. His Master wondered if they might draw moths. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

The same pitch. The exact same. One echoed from back and back to—

‘Balaurul meu, you cherish your wrath more than your joy. You rage over having nothing to rage at. You rave only for the sake of baring teeth, tearing after whatever happens to be nearest. It is no good for you. You should devour only what is worth consuming. Tell me what that is, if you can name it.’

The chill of her hand on his. Her eyes deep and killing as the sudden crack of ice over a lake. Drowning him.

‘What is it you want to eat?’

He looked to Jonathan. The look tried to be a glare. A threat. A promise.

Jonathan’s look—

The lake, the freezing, pulling lake, drowning again—

—did not falter. An invitation to anything. To be and endure whatever his Master demanded.

The office had seen plenty of use before. A fine backdrop for the cliché of the mishandled secretary tucked under the desk on hands and knees or, the better to see him, said secretary bent and spread across the ebony. Other rooms had their turns, of course. Many others. Sometimes his own chambers, the ban lifted for such special occasions. But most often it happened in the tower.

Somehow he felt it would not be enough tonight. Even if he took his friend on a tour of the entire castle, every room and turret, even into the obsidian walls of his own coffin, it would not be enough, yet he could not place the why of it. There was the woman’s provocation to consider. Then the abrupt haunting from the ghosts his traitor mind had conjured to harangue him. The undead could not produce their own ghosts, he knew. Not counting those of the imagination.

That much would explain the leering vision of his brother.

Not so for her.

A wife whose unhallowed chamber was all her own while the dead brides in her wake were left to wander elsewhere. Bluebeard would balk. But Bluebeard had never had his Countess.

Perhaps the imagined whisper of her was right.

Perhaps he was only angry for want of something to pounce upon and feed his wrath. Something to overtake, to conquer, to crack a relieving fissure into the ever-denser callus growing over him and his unlife. Such restraint he lived under for the sake of a charade! For all that his subjects mewled over their lot, there was not a single devil in Hell who did not know how he now chafed under his friend’s ‘contract.’

So many ages he had spent withering himself, finding less and less point in the ownership of his genius loci and its shivering cattle, less and less point to the study and toil and terror of his manifestation. A Limbo broken only by his desperate planning for the taking of England, the modern Rome with its gluttonous hands sunk deep into the refined world and its culling colonies. It had been something to wake and drink and think for. A purpose to the infinity he had bought so eagerly only to grow listless with it like a cagey child bored of his gift.

Then had come his Harkers.

Jonathan, his blessed, blighted, bloodstained Jonathan, had come to show his belly and his throat to ransom his loved ones to his enemy’s mercy. A bargain made for the sake of the stolen woman who could not go from him, the raw newborn that she was. A newborn with a newborn; their impossible babe.

Oh, how fast it could have ended then.

How quickly he might have torn the Madonna and Child to ribbons—Better! Have her tear the latter apart in her arms first! Let his friend watch!—and fallen on the sweet screaming fool who had cast aside his blade. His friend might have been baptized against the red pool that had been the bride and brat he damned himself for with the slaying of innocent men. Then dragged down and away into his Master’s tomb to await the beginning of their new eternity together.

But he had done the wise thing instead. He had accepted the terms, had let them into the space once filled by his slain Loves. This he did not regret. Nor would he ever, for the sake of his mind. Oh, O, his mind! Damn them for a hundred little scratches as he bit into their throats, but the Harkers had saved and salved that much. Every night was freshly riddled with the promise of performance and pained fealty, of the warring of wills, of the crushing fist, of the rapid wheeling mental clockwork that he once chased so feebly while he rotted among his harpy Loves.

True, true. Except you have now grown too content in this little circuit you now walk. Walk, not run. Fed, not slaked. You became the nightmare of these mountains for a reason. The women had their helpings from the children’s sweetmeat veins. But you? You were the hungry shadow to watch for in the forest. In the roads. In the secret dark of the mountains. You were a horror who could be avoided when full, but brought death down on the unwary of any age when it came time to feed. Now here you sit. A pampered boyar like the rest, waiting on your helpings of flesh and succor while a Child is somewhere being tutored and a Woman makes a nuisance of herself and the only one carrying the whole thing is a Vassal playing duped and dutiful Atlas.

So much power. So much of him awake and thrumming. So much left caged.

A Wolf turned to a Dog.

Back in the office, time had passed only by another heartbeat. Plus the cracking of an armrest in the talon of his hand.

Jonathan did not react to the flying splinters, but did slowly, carefully, crane his head enough to steal a glimpse of the window. To his Master’s surprise, a twinkle of hope fell across his face. If not hope, enterprise. He faced the glowering shape of his Master behind the desk.

“The moon is full tonight.”

“What of it?” Each word a thorn. But this seemed only to draw Jonathan up another inch.

“How many hours are left until sunrise?”

“My friend, I am stung.” When he grinned it showed his teeth to the gums. “You wish to be rid of me so soon?”

“That is half my thought, Sir.” Jonathan leaned forward, gripping his hands so they couldn’t quake. “The other half being that you might benefit from a hunt.”

Tonight was a parade of surprises. Shock ruled his face while an agonizing ache struck him at the chest and groin.

“A hunt,” he parroted, already scenting the condition of the thing.

“Yes,” Jonathan nodded. “Though I am hardly a winning stag, I have not forgotten what it is to run from the demons of this place. Nor have I forgotten that my escape was built on luck rather than Providence.”

“My Loves were long since spoiled by then. Ravenous, yes, but comfort so often won out over craving. If it were not so, I should have returned to find half the Carpathians drained in their greed. Even here, our own home, they tried so many times to pin you rather than exert the effort of a chase. They could have pounced while you rested on the couch or at the window, but no. The trance came first. Lazy, lazy.” He clicked his tongue against a fang. “That in mind, I fear you would make a poor quarry. You escaped through lax claws and slow jaws, my friend. I would have you within the minute.”

Within this one, perhaps.

Jonathan risked a small shrug and looked again at the risen moon. Past midnight now.

“Perhaps.” A hard swallow. Then: “Or perhaps you are too used to easy meals to bother. I understand, of course, if you worry you cannot outpace me—,”

The chair slammed into the rug as Jonathan slammed into the tufting. A hand like a noose was locked around his throat. He neither gasped nor gagged. Only waited for his Master’s decision. His eyes drowning, freezing.

The oil bottle weighed more than a mountain now.

 ‘What is it you wish to eat?’

“You will have five minutes, stag.”

Out the window, down castle and cliffside, into the fringe of the forest. He willed the film of sparse clouds away to further free up the moon.

No lantern. No compass. There had been no pause to change shoes. Jonathan didn’t even wait to be asked before unlinking his pocket watch and passing it into his Master’s hand. This he did placidly enough. But his eyes gave him away, so wide and lambent in the gloom.

A wariness radiated from him now. The belated fear of one who has only just realized a foolish wager was made. It was not a fear of death—that particular aroma had lasted only so long even in their first faraway summer—but that unmapped dread of consequence which can make fatality seem a reprieve. His Master was happy not to relieve him of it.

“Five minutes, Sir?”

��Four and three quarters now.”

The last word had barely hit the air before Jonathan Harker dashed into the dark. A healthy pace for a trim young man. Remarkable, his Master knew, for one so routinely exsanguinated. It was almost precious to watch how his speed changed once the shadows grew dense under the canopy. As if the poor stag truly thought such a thing could mask his trick. But the hunter’s eyes were far keener than his prey’s and so he could tell at once when the healthy pace broke into the expected gait. From a mere quick jog to a fired arrow.

He had puzzled over the timeline of his friend’s escape from the castle more than once. Even among the plainer signs of that surreal metamorphosis, this aberration deserved attention. Such speed in a body that he himself drained the night before! Athletes of every era would have blanched at the idea of cutting across the Carpathians in their prime, let alone in the solicitor’s state. And that would come only after descending the towering face of castle and cliff without so much as a rope. Yet down and away his friend had flown. A powerful proof of the extraordinary.

One that went on to seem miniscule beside the scene of the men returning his soil.

The matter should have been equal parts tedious and amusing.

It had been the same men who had dug and boxed the earth in the first place, just as content to take his money and goodwill to reverse the process once the movers in England saw to collecting and shipping the crates. The Eucharists’ polluting presence had been ordered removed upon request. Jonathan himself had invented a delightful excuse that had been a joy to read:

‘In addition to a personal tragedy cutting short his intended transferal to London, my client has had the misfortune to discover an English variant of his homeland’s superstitious parties in the form of a band of modern-day zealots. They are apparently of a sort who regard Matthew Hopkins as an idol. While my client has not suffered overmuch from what he believes were failed attempts on his life by these individuals, they have taken pains to track the cargo that was delivered from a rich deposit of Transylvanian soil.

‘Irony seems to haunt my client, for his unwell hunting party seemed to regard this collection of scientific fodder as bewitched graveyard earth and so heaped—and, I may add, shamefully wasted—a loaf’s worth of the holy Eucharist onto the loam. My client requests that the movers sent to reseal and ship the abandoned crates do him the courtesy of removing the Wafers from his samples to the best of their ability. If the Wafers have attracted pests in the meantime or if any granules have scattered in the topsoil, feel free to clear these out as well. He sends his gratitude in advance.’

Words and money enough to reverse the shipment had brought the earth back home. A bitter victory for both sides, admittedly. Here was proof that Count Dracula had officially taken his bootheel off of England’s throat for the moment. But here too was the return of those men who had not only moved the earth to begin with, but had rushed their boyar out of reach. With their speed and aid, the woman was lost. The kukri had drunk. And all of this had come in the wake of their seeing the poor Englishman bleating and pleading in the window.

A sight that had rightly spurred them to laughter.

They had laughed again as they returned with the wagons, knowing what Jonathan was to their boyar now. Jonathan had already begun gleaning the language and so knew what commentary they had to share as he oversaw the arrival of the boxes and their unburdening. His Master had hidden to oversee him in turn. To watch his face and inhale the despair. Alas, there was too much dead in him for their jeering to stir much of anything in the way of insult. Jonathan Harker seemed a soul built for subservience and the polite receival of abuse. Even the caravan’s head, resplendent Old Danil, had frowned at his men the way a father scowls at his boys for kicking at a lame dog.

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? Seeing only a dog. A leashed dog, collared until he choked, crippled and toothless. Go on, laugh. They are safe.

Really, they had wasted much of their breath and time on laughter. Their boyar’s own grin had faded with the ticking of the watch as they lazed and drank and nudged the boxes only as breaks between the taunting chatter Jonathan appeared so deaf to.

Until they spoke of his wife.

The woman had not been present, needing to cradle her infant in the chapel to quiet his fit. But her Master had spoken of her in the correspondence with Old Danil. It was to be expected that she would leak into the men’s talk. Her scars, her silence, her beauty, how she had been ‘taken in bed’ as her husband slept through it all, how perhaps her Master would be good enough to have her share her hospitality with them, ha ha.

Jonathan’s stillness had changed. The late spring warmth had curdled around him as his head turned to those who spoke. They were clustered at the end of their wagon, two thirds of the boxes still stacked behind them. Jonathan had stared. The laughter had dwindled. Bluster had simmered in their tongue.

‘What, dog? Don’t like us talking about your bitch?’

Jonathan had not answered.

Jonathan, his Master knew, was silent as a flurry when there was a task at hand. Swift as a hailstone too. Between one blink and the next, the men had been hurled aside like flour sacks and Jonathan was on the wagon. A blink after this saw the men shouting and scattering as the earth-boxes were hurled off one after the other. The same boxes it had taken up to three men apiece to hoist. More shouts, more scurrying as the next wagon was emptied. Again, again.

Jonathan had turned to Old Danil, unmoved from his chosen post at the courtyard gate. A single iron brow had managed to rise over the whole scene. Jonathan had held up the purse full of pay his Master had given him for services rendered. His back was to one of those who had spoken of touching his wife. The man had his knife was out. The man took a step forward.

The purse of gold had flown back and cracked that man’s teeth. Then Jonathan himself fell on him as the man’s curse turned to a shrill. Other knives and pistols were scrambled for.

At the height of this, thunder had cracked in the clear night sky.

The Master of the castle emerged.

The men had jumped. Old Danil had craned his head. The man under Jonathan changed to a tone that ordered as much as begged through his bloodied mouth.

‘Get it off! Off off get it off me my hands please my hands damn you cowards get it OFF—!’

Jonathan had remained set upon his task. His Master could hear the crunch of it trapped in his fists.

‘Jonathan. Up.’

Jonathan had gotten to his feet, but without releasing the squealing man’s hands. It was a fascinating thing to observe now that he was not the one on the receiving end of…ah, but he still did not have a name for it. The enigma of Jonathan Harker, a man with a monster lurking in the chambers of his heart. A poet might call him a creature of Eros. Damned, empowered, and possessed by the weight of Love. But his Master was no poet and so admitted he had only his own title for the thing.

Jonathan, his Jackal. Obedient in all things—anything—but for the border of his Love.

When his eyes lifted, they had burned cold.

‘You heard,’ he’d grated in the men’s own tongue. ‘You heard.’

 ‘I did.’ Calm. Even. Easy, easy. Good boy.

Oh, the delicious balance of that moment. Did he dare shred the contract just to see if his friend would go mad at the rescinding of his one and only caveat while strangers lined up to have their turns in his wife’s coffin?

He had paused long enough to make dear Jonathan wonder. Just long enough to see his face harden to a full rictus. The unlucky fool in his friend’s hands let out a fresh shriek as something new broke and other bones crackled. Around them, the men had stood paralyzed in uncertainty, weapons half-drawn. Old Danil had checked his watch.

‘Let him go, Jonathan. Wait for me inside.’ He’d had to fling his will out at him. Hard. ‘Now. I shall see to the rest.’ Jonathan had released the man as if invisible fingers were fighting to pry up his own. Which was not too far from the truth. The man had scrambled away on knees and elbows, his head permanently turned to keep an eye on Jonathan—only to freeze again as his boyar clapped a white hand onto his shoulder. The courtyard had sucked in a collective breath. Every grip turned limp as jelly on their scabbards and holsters.

Jonathan had gone in.

His Master had chuckled, walking the broken-handed man to his wagon. To the blood-dewed pouch of gold abandoned on the ground.

‘You are to be envied, my friend. He left you with only a warning.’

‘Envied! Look at my hands!’

‘I see them. And you are lucky to have them still attached. As well as your head. He was being polite, you see.’ The hand on the man had tightened until the print of it bruised. ‘The last men to talk of laying hands on her did not get to live long enough to regret it. I do not know for certain what he did with the bodies, but I think they are buried. Wolves and jackals do so love to save their bones.’ Tighter. More than sweat had run on the man’s face. ‘He is such a loyal creature now. I have made him so. I have made him much more. And, like his Master, he does not take kindly to jokes made of touching what is his. What is ours. But perhaps he merely misunderstood, yes? Perhaps you and your brothers spoke of trying to bed another boyar’s property? Surely this is so. If it were otherwise…’

He had let his teeth show in full.

And the men had risen up in an assuring chorus that sang yes, yes, of course, they spoke of another castle’s woman, not his, never his. And the broken-handed man had scooped up the fallen gold with mangled fingers. And Old Danil, moved at last from his sedate constant enough to imitate curiosity, had approached him as the men fled back onto their wagons.

‘The Englishman. What is he really?’

‘Mine.’

Which was what mattered in the end.

Mostly.

He could possess so much without effort. Take where and what he liked. But that his friend, his Jonathan, was so alien a thing among the mortal flock made both the victory of his surrender and the temporary loss of England all the sweeter. For he had not run merely from the clamoring of the Dutchman and his pups or the waving of the Cross. Whatever Jonathan was in body and soul was as rare as…as…

Remember the sight of her in her loving throes? Before she was vourdalak, before you had ever whispered of the Mountain together, you had watched her at work. A favored serving girl left bloody after a visit from a soldier taking his due. An invitation to a dark room, unrecognized in her stolen serf’s guise. And then! Then! The art of it! The speed, the hush, the fruit of the harvested Adam’s apple! With this you saw her color her lips for the first time. And you had crept from your hiding place, offering to aid her in disposing of the corpse with the same tone as a courting youth offering his lady a rose.

Rare as a white stag, perhaps.

The initial defeat would have burned a thousand times more had it been the work of a lesser creature. The consolation—the whole concept of the contract—would have been cackled at before he gutted the wretched couple with his own hand. But his Harkers were worthy, curse and bless them for it. And Jonathan, his prize, his spoils, his quarry darting through the night for his pleasure, felt more worth the delay of conquest with each passing night.

He checked the watch.

The five minutes were gone.

In a blur, so was he.

It was easy enough work catching up. His poor friend had not thought to disguise his route by darting in new directions or taking pauses to steady his drumming heart. Every breath was a harsh pant. But for all this, he did not make the capture itself simple.

New bursts of speed came whenever he felt his Master’s presence press close. Each was a helpful lunge that would have left an ordinary predator snapping his jaws shut on air. It hardly hurt that his Master was enjoying the run too much to end it with a mere leap. Instead, he lingered over swiping his fingertips at the bare throat. A hand was pawed through the white cloud of hair. The teeth of a great bounding Wolf caught and tore the billowing shirt.

On and on down the slope they went, children at play.

He was at play, at least. Jonathan seemed to have found no fun in the game. Whenever his Master drew parallel there was always a look of anxiety bordering on terror waiting on his face. The eyes, like trailing ghost-light, stayed planted firmly on the terrain before him. Almost as though he were trying to outrun more than his hunter. It was when the latter politely allowed him another little lead that it became clear where the man was heading.

A chide and a chuckle rose up in him as he heard the rushing stream. The one meager haven the forest had to offer. Of course.

He let his friend leap down into the water, smiling at the muffled gasp that followed his splash. A sound that stopped short of becoming a curse. As if the noise would be what gave him away. Feigning a tutting posture, his Master idled to the ledge and let himself sprawl. He was halfway into his mist form and was not disappointed when Jonathan peered up at the effect with a shudder. Hovering between flesh and fog made a roiling giant of him, as though a great shadow cast by a candle were made solid.

Letting his eyes flare and his smile curl past the point where ordinary muscle should have permitted it, he shook the haze of his head down at the frozen figure in the water.

“Ah, now, now, my friend. That’s cheating.”

“Just…” Jonathan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “…endeavoring to give you a challenge, Sir.”

“Ah, of course. Always so considerate.” He let the smile become a maw as his arm unfurled down, down, down, the hand at its end wider than a man’s head. “My dear friend, Jonathan.” He solidified back into himself as Jonathan was snatched up onto land, the illusion of safety snapped neatly in two. “I believe that is you captured, stag.”

“It seems so.” The words were thin. His wide eyes seemed to both see and dismiss him. He actually shook in his Master’s hold. Taking notice, Jonathan forcibly settled himself by grasping his own arms. His head hung until the sodden hair could mask him. “Forgive me, Sir. I had hoped the water would be warmer.”

“Transylvania is sparing with her warmth, my friend. Even in spring.” His own gaze had ducked lower as he examined his catch. No, the stream had done no favors for the fish, but plenty for the fisherman.

He wears white far better than his wife.

Aloud, “But the nights are mild when hunter and quarry are wise enough to avoid such tricks. When the boy has grown out with a few years more, perhaps he should join us. He cannot subsist on you forever. Once our lovely family dinners are at an end, we shall all of us have to seek our fill…”

Jonathan stilled entirely. His hands gripped tight a last time before relaxing. Somewhat.

His head didn’t raise as he asked, “…You are certain you wish to invite him?”

“What reason is there that I shouldn’t?”

“There is none, I suppose. Nothing but my own mistaken assumption.” Jonathan moved to stand. His Master’s hand jerked him back down on his haunches. Still his head stayed bowed behind the pale curtain of hair.

“What assumption was this?”

“It is nothing, Sir. Please, forget I mentioned it.”

“What assumption, Jonathan? I am listening.” He heard silence. Sighing and smiling he whipped a mesmer hook into his friend’s will. “Jonathan. Speak.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched apart with a grimace.

“I had thought…that we might make use of this for something else…something private.” Finally, the head rose. The ice chip eyes had gone dark. “Where neither of us would have to be mindful of others.” He had bitten his lip in the effort not to speak. The skin had broken and painted him there. “My apologies for misunderstanding.” At ‘My’ the blood smeared without Jonathan appearing to notice, still dripping from the stream. His whole mouth was glazed red.

Looking back at the stream in what was either shame or—

No. No, it can’t be.

—disappointment, Jonathan did not see his Master’s eyes turn to lanterns.

“I love them. You know I love them. It’s why we’re here. Why I am here. And every night…” His fists balled into stones in his lap. The wedding band caught a sliver of moonlight. “Every night I must smile for them. For Mina. For Quincey. Sometimes for you. But it isn’t what it was between us in that summer, is it? When I thought I was acting only for my life and not my humanity. When you were seeing how far I could bend until I broke. Two months of pretending wasn’t bad back then. But that is old ground now. It feels ancient already. If you order a smile from me now, you order it. You couch it in pretense occasionally, but that much has been tainted by the comparison we live with every night.

“The playacting of it all. That’s for our son alone. A sweet theatre too cloying for the adults in the room to perform when his back is turned. And even with Mina I must—,” The lump of his throat leapt and choked him. “I have to give her something. Something we can both pretend is worth what we’ve given. So I smile for her too and she smiles back and I must try to bury so much under the bedrock of my mind to keep her from tripping over it in horror. Which leaves you. This.

“You can believe me when I say this or not. That doesn’t matter. I keep no diary to purge myself into and I have no doubt that if you show this memory to her, she will take it as a cruel joke you invented to hurt her with like so many others. Or else she’ll see it and know her husband has finally gone mad.” New wet tracks rolled over his cheeks. Clear as the stream. “You are the last refuge I have for admitting the worst of myself. The tower is no more than a box to rot in. My Mina, my Darling, how much worse would I become in her eyes if I were to be anything less than the Love paying his reparation for being too selfish to let her wishes be honored and have our friends live? And our boy. Our son. He will never know.

“There are only two monsters in your castle. Mina does not believe me when I tell her both of them strain under their performances. I cannot blame her. There is a slim line between the Count I first met and the one I serve now, but it is there. And for one who has spent lifetimes untethered by anything other than his own caprices, I understand this means much. I am grateful. I hate that I am grateful. I hate that I have just run from that great stone stage of a prison we call our home, and thrilled at the distance, knowing I was not merely dashing to a town in which to put on another act. I recognized my thrill and feared it and that fear did not stop it.

“Nothing is left, you see. Hope is out of the box and burned over a candle and there is nothing left that is sane or good to reach for but the safety of my Loves. Always, always that external greater good, never my own, and knowing such is deserved for what I’ve done doesnothing to soften my want of something, anything not nailed down to catering to the entire mess—to the fantasy that I’m anything other than what I am. Even if it is this. Two monsters in the dark with nothing good to intrude upon their abuses.”

Jonathan kneaded his eyes. Bloodshot blue.

“Ha. But I’ve ruined it already, haven’t I? Now that I’ve said I enjoyed it, it will be taken away. Perhaps that is best. This whole thing was foolish start to end.” Jonathan turned to look at his Master. “Perhaps we should…”

Jonathan saw his Master. Seeing him, there might have been an instant in which he realized he had said too much. Discarded some invisible ward without thinking or else let the current of his babble pull him into deep water. For something had happened during the pour of his words. Something which could not be taken back. Something that regarded him with a starving avarice that had been nurtured since the night two students clambered cackling and screaming from the Mountain, lightning and ice welcoming them back to the sight of a sky.

A new thunderhead rolled overhead. Abrupt and sultry as a tropic tide washing across the stars.

“You talk of monsters and their abuses as if you comprehend both. I fear you are acquainted only with one.”

One hand gripped the damp shirtfront.

The other thumbed open a glass bottle, spilling oil.

“Allow me to educate you on the other.”

Jonathan Harker was taught his Lessons.

He learned them on the thin bed made of his Master’s cape, with cadaver skin finally thawing in the tangle and grasp of each other, the only pause for words or breath allowed between the sealing of a nursing mouth on bloody lips. The castle had never housed a thing like this for them. Not under any command, any tugging of trance, any handful or taste stolen with the idleness of a man stroking his pet. Under the storm and worn by its maker, Jonathan seemed either to shed a husk or shut himself into an armor.

Whichever it was, it gave credence to his phrasing. Two monsters. They loved—

Hands, his hands are still cold, always, always her hands were cold, locked into my skin arms back can feel the lines drag there no matter no matter you can drink it away or let them stay a banner-badge-brand to bring home to the chapel do you see do you see little Sister you lose like the brother who came before and knew it when he died and oh oh it is the Mountain again out in the open after the years of work of horror of being Horror and here we are against the rocks and filth and grass again under the rain but oh O so soon so fresh from it all we could not be tender yet not yet and so we loved

—like they fought.

Jonathan turned them over first. The shock and strength of it let him manage it, the same curt motion as hefting an earth-box. He sat bent and digging his fingers into the undead hide as if to shred or cling. For a moment the view was enough to paralyze. Here was the white head thrown back against the marbled night, eyes bright as the lightning, howling a sound that could have been a shout in pleasure or fury or the harsh note of a lunatic that lost itself in the next thunderclap. His lip was bleeding again. The rain carried it over his chin and down a teasing line along his throat.

The moment passed and Jonathan was crushed on his back again. Still holding. Still held. He tried to rise again, that mystery of power straining against the pressure of his better, his Master, his Lord above God, his—

“Balaurul meu. Say it.” Had his voice shaken? No, a trick of the noise. So much thunder, so much drumming rain, so much balmy wind moaning in the trees.

“What?” A thrust. A cry and clutch.

“These are your Lessons. Now say it.” Another jolt, a snap of lightning. “Say it.”

“Balaurul meu,” in a gasp. “Balaurul meu. Balaurul meu.”

Good. Good. More.

“Eu sunt al tău. Now!”

“Eu sunt al tău.”

More.

“Sunt al tău pentru totdeauna.”

Jonathan repeated this and every line after, echoing and reechoing so that the two of them might only have been the ghosts of lovers reverberating in a cave. On and on, every oath that could be thought of, every line left branded in the walls of memory was poured out and engraved on the learning tongue. And his friend would keep to every word. Oh, yes. That was certain.

There would be no running beyond his reach, no raising of will he could not break, no leaving him injured and roaring a name out into the sleet, or begging the same name at the threshold of a cemetery where Hating eyes crawled like insects upon him, no, no, no. Not with him. Not with them. Not with the beginning of a new eternity here in the dark with his monster, his maiden, his victim vassal jackal bridegroom—

“What are you doing?”

—who fed him his draught of blood and drowned him in a lake of freezing eyes—

“Sir.”

—his Scheherazade who was prey and play and predator and anything everything all things with the magic of her talent on the altar of her Sultan’s lethal loneliness—

“Master. …Count.”

—and no, no, how could he waste such a thing, risk it slipping away—

“Stop!”

—over the stream and into a rotting future in a pauper’s graveyard, no no no, never, not him, no— 

“Dracula!”

He came back to himself as if slapped.

Perhaps Jonathan might have dared it if only his hands weren’t so preoccupied. The man still sat where he was slotted, but now with both palms flat against his Master’s chest while the pair sat upright under the rain.

The left side had been split open by a claw and now dribbled its dark fountain down his ribs. Its wound welcomed like a smile as Jonathan strained an inch from having his mouth crushed against the blood as his wife’s had been, two implacable hands clamped at his head and back. Pantomime of an embrace. If he snatched the man’s wrists up, if he took his hair for a handle and forced him down…

There’s still time. What say you, Count?

“Please,” Jonathan huffed through locked teeth. As if it would be barrier enough. “Please, not yet. They still need me as I am. Please.” The Arctic eyes slid up to the hellfire of his. “Please.”

The dead hands ceased their slow press, but did not move. Fingers twined and stroked in the wet snow of his hair.

“Draga mea. You know you only prolong your Purgatory as you are. I and my Loves, your ‘Weird Sisters,’ we were not without our pains at the start. Lifetimes as men count them came and went. It all turns to less than a heartbeat eventually. Even Mina,” a name he was proud to make sound like several other four-letter words, “for all her lovely vitriol, even she will someday match me in passing out of this shadow. Hate grows stale. Tiring. So too does despair. Do you think I laughed with my Loves outside your door because I ordered it? Do you think I let them get away with going behind my back to take what was mine, with mocking me to my face, because I remain forever in one mode?

“We three, we are in the middle of a long Lesson. The boy is a happy surprise, but even without the curiosity of him, it would still be us. Me and my Harkers, so hard-won. You and I in our sea of wonders. Whether or not you wish to hold onto guilt once you are free of humanity, time will still march, and you will still be mine. A moment will find you, despite how you drag your feet and cling to the miseries of an unclean Good Samaritan, where you will break as you broke tonight—and you will laugh and love as I do.” 

It was fascinating to see how responses rose, fell, and faltered at the edge of his friend’s tongue. Negations all, and all of them caught on the tightrope between lie or truth, both saturated with shame. Catharsis and comfort dangled out of reach only because he refused to crawl from the Pit he chose to burn in.

For his Love.

“You say it is inevitable?” Jonathan’s voice was now a croak. Gone raw with baying.

“I know it is.” 

“…Then it shall wait.” Four words made heavy with regret. The sheer weight of the latter, the dread of the hanging sword and the ached-for release of finally being free of waiting, were almost enough to stir another round. But even with the red taste lapped again and again from the torn lip, the well nearly ran dry. The bulk of remaining vitality was already going toward mending his split chest. A sight that made Jonathan sigh with what could have been relief or sorrow. “It must wait.”

“If that is what you will.”

“It is.” So saying, Jonathan paused. Then, so quiet it was almost less than breath, “Thank you for this.” Jonathan tried to stand. The white hands gripped again and threatened to shove him back in place. It was just a single day from the evening the family dined. The hunt could end with the intended meal and so provide the fuel for yet another gauntlet.

Or.

“Thank you, who?”

Jonathan’s tongue curled at the start of a Sir. But a creeping thread of mesmer reached out and prodded the proper response from him almost before he knew he was speaking:

“Balaurul meu, my thanks for the hunt. I look forward to being broken again. Te iubesc.” Jonathan leapt in his own skin as he heard himself. “That isn’t funny.”

“Of course not, my friend. Merely practice ahead of the inevitable. This is funny.” Jonathan had wobbled up to his feet and left himself open to a swat that made him yelp and stagger. The monster was asleep again, it seemed. Just as well. The fair maiden needed returning to the tower and some rest before the dragon broke his fast with the other suckling mouths.

It was as he mused on this and admired the view of his friend stretching and bowing to retrieve their clothes from the trees’ shelter that a stone broke against the back of his skull. Others pelted his shoulders. Wrath came to an immediate boil and just as quickly froze as he regarded the falling pellets. This freeze expanded until gooseflesh spotted him from the neck down. Jonathan’s voice reached him as if from the other side of the world.

“What is it?”

“Ice.” Then, because he needed to hear it said, “Hail.” He had unmoored his mind from controlling the sky and Nature had taken her reins back. Rain swept too high in the gale would freeze with or without orders. Fool. “It is only—,”

Looking up, he forgot what he meant to say. He forgot language. He forgot he knelt naked on his cape in the muck as he had once knelt before Powers older than any name for what Man called God. He forgot time and he forgot space and kept on forgetting until the only memory left was the one standing in front of him.

No, not memory.

Her.

She stood under the canopy of the boughs, her ice cascading by her as it did within the portrait. In lieu of the painted gown, she stood before him half-dressed. The garb she’d worn on the bier hung lightning-burned on her still. She looked as she’d been the night of the tug-of-war with the failed solicitor, Yorick saved from her rending, the thunderbolt thrown blind. He’d run as the Wolf. Slunk back as a Dog. He had dropped words of mockery and anger and hate and want and threat at the edge of her necropolis like a heap of bones, all of them amounting to the same frail skeleton of a plea as he pressed it into her mind.

Come back. Leave these chattel to their dreaming. Do not sully yourself in their earth. Come back. Come back. Te iubesc.

Și te-am iubit, balaurul meu, had come her answer. Her head bowed until the ice chip eyes whetted to points. But you broke that Love when you tried to break me. Your love is too much like war. Your cherished Conquest. You would have had me as a bound Bride. A partner made a prisoner. This I could not allow. No more than I could stay to help you march upon the world and slit its throat simply to exercise the ability to do so.

Lightning and hail had snapped at each other again. Tempest tempers raging.

Why, then? Why the Mountain? Why the peddling of your soul and self for what it offered just to consign yourself to this waste!?

The hail had softened to an almost gentle patter.

Certainty. Proof to myself that those I Love will be safe with my protection. Even if I must endure their Hate in the how of it, my Loves will never suffer while I stand guard. That is all. I need no more. Go back to your castle, Dragon, but know that it is better you kill your little Englishman or turn him away.

She had frowned then as she frowned in the portrait and as she frowned down at him here, now, stripped bare upon the earth.

Do not play Alexander. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same.

She moved toward him in the present. The hail did not touch her as she walked.

A dream! Yes, of course! Only a dream! It must be, she must be, do not fool yourself, old devil. Get up. Wake up. Now. Now!

But he didn’t. He was awake. And if he wasn’t, he would have snapped Morpheus’ neck if he dared to rob him now.

Close. Closer. Yet he remained on his knees, gawking up. Afraid that any motion might erase her like smoke in a breeze. His mouth was the only part of him that dared move. Not that he could hear himself. He didn’t dare speak so loud that he might miss something from her lips. But she came silently until his head was level with her skirts. A single hand reached for him, white and blue and grey with the pallor of her kind, cool as snow against the cheek she once rotted from his jaw.

But he felt her.

He felt her.

His arm snapped around the back of her like a vise while his free hand clapped against the fingers still resting on his face. She was not mist, could not be mist, for her kind were too solid, and this time, this time, she would not be gone, would not leave him, let her cut and freeze and skin him, but she would not go again.

Draga mea. Draga mea. How are you here?

You forget the time, balaurul meu.

Her trapped hand lifted his face from where he crushed it against her stomach. The eyes that met his were no longer ice or ghost-light. Only coins. The Ferryman’s toll.

Tonight is mine as it is yours. As it belongs to all our kin. The graves are open and the dead come forth to walk. And talk.

The scarlet sickle of her frown turned up.

Enjoy your Walpurgisnacht, my Dragon. I have enjoyed mine.

She was gone.

In her place stood Jonathan, caught and confused. Concerned. His mouth opened.

Do not ask me what is wrong, Jonathan Harker. Do not dare.

His mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. Then, carefully, he offered the folded black bundle of his Master’s clothes. These were snatched away and their courier almost thrown more than released. Around them the hail thinned away. The rain ceased after it. Jonathan kept himself very busy with peeling up the muddied cape and snapping what muck he could from the exterior, doubtlessly wishing it had not been the velvet one that needed cleaning. But when he could help the cloth no more, he turned to his Master, still fighting with his buttons.

“Sir?”

“What?” No answer. His Master turned to bark the word again and stopped. Jonathan had rolled up his sleeve. Here was the tiny map of his son’s feeding. Kisses ringed with white and blue and grey.

“If—If you want it.” Jonathan gestured his gaze and his head at his Master’s face. “You have lost some. Sir.”

The meaning was lost to him for a moment. Then he realized his cheeks were wet with more than rain. In the same instant he took note of Jonathan’s right hand, the one that had been flattened and trapped against the bearded cheek. He’d fussed with the cape because he did so one-handed, trying not to lay the bloodstain on it too. The same was smeared onto the white of his shirt where his Master had set his head.

Even knowing what he would find, a white hand rose up and swiped under his eyes. Bloody tears came away on his fingers.

“Sir? Do you want it?”

‘What is it you want to eat?’

Jonathan was captured for a second time that night. This time the hunter feasted. Not from the wrist, but the bend between neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of the nape. He was filled with heat and ache and when his teeth slipped back behind the sheath of his lips, the mouth stayed planted where it was. The same went for the cage of his arms, binding their catch for a moment that might have been a minute or an hour.

“…Are you sick?”

“No,” Jonathan breathed with what tried and failed to be a steady tone. The voice of someone trying not to sound as if they were scrambling for comprehension. “No, Sir. I feel well. Not ill, that is.”

“So you say. But I must have caught something from you to act so against myself. Perhaps it was something from your mouth.” A mouth finally scabbing. It left the bluish lips a mottled violet. “Or else the night itself is playing tricks. Too much lightning in my eyes. Do you disagree?”

“I don’t, Sir.”

“Yet you are not ill.”

“I do not believe so. But I could be mistaken.”

“Wrap yourself, then.” He stepped away and plucked the cape from Jonathan’s hold before twisting it into a cord tauter than steel. Rainwater fled it until it was all but dry. “Transylvania’s seasons are so very fickle. It would not do to have you unwell for tomorrow.” Before the requisite agreement could leave him, Jonathan found himself both swaddled and off his feet. His Master pondered the image of the hunter hauling home his quarry, his friend flopped over his shoulder like an indignant piece of game. But that would leave only one hand holding him.

That in mind, Jonathan was bundled up into the snare of both arms while remaining supremely unclear as to why. 

“This isn’t necessary, Sir. I am fine to walk.”

“Sunrise approaches. You are not up for a race back.” He said while dawn could be felt two hours away and his own pace merely ambled. “Rest, my friend.”

“I—,”

Rest.

An order that took his friend’s mind by the scruff and dragged it to bed. Jonathan furrowed his brow against the mesmer, squirming like a child even as his eyes drooped shut. The lakes iced over.

“I just…just wanted to ask what you meant…before…”

“What I meant?”

“Called to me… Didn’t know. Don’t know. What was the word? You never taught me…”

Sinking, sinking. Almost gone. He whispered down at him now, light as far-off thunder.

“What word?”

“Thought it must mean, ‘Come to me…’ So I came.” The lashes fluttered and fought with gravity. Lost again, showing only slivers of frost. “What does Dolingen mean, Sir?” He was asleep before he got an answer. Still, his carrier whispered.

“You misheard, my friend. That is all.”

Up to the tower, stripped and dressed, tucked into bed.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

A far more fruitful occasion for the term than the debacle of battling trances. Such a bleak little comedy. The thought brought him back to the boy and that inciting matter of the snared wolf, his would-be pet. Something near to mirth made him grin. He knew he was to blame for the child’s initial fascination with the creatures. A seed planted in infancy when, as a taunt, he had willingly cradled the babe as his parents stiffened mid-kiss. He had stood teasingly close to the window.

As he did, the wolves had started to sing of their own volition. The boy had perked up at once despite his hunger.

‘Rrooo, rrroooo. Fah-rr. Rrooo!’

In his head, a muddled but excited impression of wolves traipsed back and forth across the shared mindscape. The pack outside had howled again.

‘Rrooo!’ 

His Father had opened his mouth on jaws of changed teeth. No longer a man’s neat rows and the hanging fangs, but the jagged mountain range of the Wolf’s. He’d howled lightly as the child all but glowed with recognition.

‘Roo? Fah-rr roo!’

As his Harkers watched, their Master had entertained the child in a way that would have left any other parents in the mountains squealing prayers. For he had changed first his jaws, then his eyes, then the whole of his head to mirror those fantastical Folk of the picture books where Herr Wolf could knock at his victim’s door with a paw in a glove. The boy had shrilled delight and scrabbled merrily at his fur, even tucking his head into the open muzzle to see if it was really just a trick. But the proof had been offered as his Father lost his arms and legs to be a Wolf in full. One the size of a small bear.

In his defense—as if it were necessary—it had kept the boy from pestering his Mama to hurry so Papa could feed him. Ah, how he’d sulked upon looking in his Papa’s mouth and finding no signs of the Wolf there.

‘No, diavol. I am the only Wolf here. Wolf. Lup.’

‘Wohll. Luhp.’

 ‘Very good. Now take your kiss.’

It had sprinted along from there. Now the boy had graduated from attempting to trance a wolf into permanent residence to trying to coax the entire pack into natural obedience. A friendship to span three generations. He really did have his head too deep in the fairy tales. Perhaps there was a Lesson waiting in that. A small one to assure he did not idolize the softness of things overmuch…

But that could come later.

For now, the night still lingered with, fine, he could admit it, a wisp of the fairy tale. Here rested a beauty, living and dead, the only color resting across the mouth. Gently, he pricked the scab of the bottom lip open again, smearing red. Jonathan slept on.

There was no witness as the man collected a last kiss in ignorance before his dragon skulked down from the tower.

Down and deep and into the dark of the chapel. He did not stop to change and so was pointed out at once by the boy, always so eager to stay awake. His current project, a lopsided schematic in charcoal, was abandoned.

“Father, why are you all wet?”

“I was out hunting. Your Papa nearly got away, diavol.”

The boy gasped while his mother, still sitting with him and his palette, narrowed her eyes.

“You were hunting Papa?”

“I was. He almost got across the river. But he was caught in time, not to worry.”

“But why were you hunting him? Papa isn’t a,” the boy tried to think of hunted things, “a rabbit or deer.”

“No, he is not. Your Papa is many things, but not such meager creatures.” He looked over the child’s head and through his mother’s skull. “We were merely at play, diavol.” This came as an even greater shock to the boy.

“Grownups play? I thought all you did was work. You and Papa were supposed to be working all night.” A statement that carried all children’s dread; the fear that age came with a great dull void where enjoyment used to be.

“Grownups do work a great deal. Sometimes too much. Your Papa and I had such a problem and so we went out to play. You and your mother are free to do far more play than work, of course, so such things are outside your needs.”

The woman smiled and hummed into the shared mindscape:

Our play has turned to work, as it happens. Rather, it is work he wishes to try.

A hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

Show him.

Bolstered, the child gathered up his drawings and stacked them as neatly as he’d seen his Papa’s papers. As he did this, his mother sent a private message to Father:

What did you do?

He thought of showing her. He’d been thinking of it since first stealing her husband out of his clothes. But tonight was dense with secrets even as the Veil had turned to gossamer. Moreover, it was important that a man held some things out of reach of his woman. For everyone’s good. Especially when it left the imagination free to conjure up far more creative possibilities than a collection of curious wives’ heads.

So the answer he tossed back was merely that of a closed door, a key thrown into the abyss, and a fraction of truth.

Nothing that concerns you, ‘Sister.’

The boy rushed him before anything more could be said. He offered his drawings with a small flourish.

“See?”

His Father flipped through the sheets.

“I see a book in the process of being torn apart.”

“No, no! Being made!” He pointed to what was, to him, a clear depiction of himself and his mother piecing books together with nebulous arms. There was also a wolf sitting on a crescent moon and a bat flying in the dotted outline of a star. “I want to try bookbinding with Mama.”

“Child, there is a grove’s worth of blank pages in spare volumes for you to use. Why would you bother?”

“Oh. Just—,” the boy flicked his line of sight briskly from his Father’s face. The cobwebs and stonework were suddenly enthralling. Likewise the state of his own toes. “Just to make something. A fun kind of work. That’s all.”

It was all his Father could do not to sigh. The boy still could not lie to save his unlife, let alone duck a punishment for the attempt at lying in the first place. But before he could form the beginnings of a sentence, the woman came into his head, away from her son’s reach. This time with a uniquely acidic edge.

He wishes to surprise you and Jonathan with a gift. He’s realized he missed an important date and wants to make up for it.

Walpurgisnacht—this night, her night—almost rose to the surface of his mind. He buried and burned it behind a wall of fire. Casually.

What date is this? His day of birth has been and gone.

The woman glared at him with a perfect blend of loathing and disbelief. When he continued not to guess, perhaps partially to watch how much her ire would grow, she handed him the answer as one might hand over a chamber pot.

Yes. But he posed a question to me and I did not give him a lie. St. George’s Day has two meanings for this family. The eve before, anyway.

For a moment the answer was as baffling as the question. But epiphany quickly fell in place. He almost laughed aloud.

The first solicitor he’d beckoned had his useless life saved from the undead on Walpurgisnacht.

Jonathan had been delivered to him almost a year later, just short by a week. This had been on the eve of St. George’s Day with the glimmer of the blue flames lining the mountain road like a wedding procession. The night the boy’s fathers had first met. A magic alignment of dates to a child’s mind. Shame on his Harkers, letting the date go unrecognized by half for so long.

He smiled for the boy and stroked his hair, declaring, “Child, I am merely the bank vault to loot in such a request. You must convince your Papa to bring you materials, not me. Ah-ah!” He hooked the boy’s nightshirt before he could dash for the stairs. “Not now. Your Papa is asleep already. Wait for evening.”

For once the boy did not sulk over the coming of morning. He flitted as excitedly to his coffin as he had aimed for the steps, taking his art supplies and another book to wait for sleep with. The poor silk within would be ruined with charcoal and crayon before the year was out.

Having deposited his treasure inside, the boy whirled around and rushed back to his Father who stood waiting on the tomb steps.

“Can you do it all the way this time?” He feigned interest in the dirt and coagulation still under his nails. “I do not know that you have enough blood in you…”

The goading was small, but enough. He watched the boy shift from flesh to fog mid-step and surge up to his Father’s shoulders. His Father clapped once. It echoed against the chapel walls.

“There you are.” And, because the boy had earned it, he opened his arms. The child-mist became a child again, dropping as a proud little weight into his hands. He let the boy hug tight around his shoulders while the fragile curve of the head nuzzled his neck. “Good-day, diavol. Well done.”

“Good-day, Father.” A moment later he’d leapt down and circled around to his mother who stayed low enough to let him simply crash into her arms. They exchanged a bloodless kiss apiece to the other’s cheek. “Good-day, Mama!”

Good-day, Dearest. Please don’t sleep on your palette.

The boy notably made no promises as he climbed into his box and moved to close the lid. He paused before it could shut, looking out at them from the gap with eyes like expectant rubies.

Neither Father nor Mama could tell when the child had decided there was a ritual to complete before he could allow himself to begin trying for sleep, but it was one of the few points of their coexistence which they agreed upon in their distaste. The effect was doubled on her Master’s side, what with the final thread of any nuptial framing so grimly torn away since that evening’s confrontation.

Still, they smiled and closed the distance between them.

Good-day.

She laid her hand inside his and sent a vision of him thrashing and howling in a bonfire.

“Good-day.”

He skimmed her knuckle with his lips and sent back the sight of her abandoned on a mountaintop, the Dutchman having successfully removed her head and staked her heart, leaving her to the wolves and flies.

Finally, the boy shut his lid.

Yet there was no parting of ways. The woman gripped his hand.

Is he hurt?

“Of course not.” The pinned-up smile curled to a more natural state as he twitched his fingers out of hers. “We were only playing.”

You—

“I,” he hissed, still through a grin, “am tired. Many things more, many clever epithets, yes, but mostly tired. Whatever lecture you think is worth droning at me, it will wait for moonrise. Now go.” He leveled a finger at her coffin. “To bed.” If she had any more venom to spit at him, he made himself deaf to it. The wall of fire around his mind was turned up to a full conflagration as his will forcibly shoved her back to her box. The most she could spare him was another glower before the lid shut. Peace at last.

Of a sort.

He carried that feeling into his crypt and his coffin. Settling into that familiar dark, he would have called the feeling wholly new if not for the certainty that he had experienced it before, so many ages ago. Not a mere settling, not a tallying of little victories. It was peace. Peace as it counted to him. Even with the brief rattling of his foundations in the wake of Walpurgisnacht. Of women endured or women craved. Even with that.

There was peace. There was thrill. There was Hope drowsing in his box.

Look at yourself. Scrape this saccharine filth out of your head at once.

He didn’t. Though he was happy to build over it. Scenes of a future that may not be centuries into the future, but mere decades. Perhaps less. A future of ruling night and bled oceans. A future that bowed its head and bared its throat to him. A future where he laughed and the sound was not alone.

Like music and crystal. Like thunder and ice. Like broken things ecstatic to finally be pieced together in his image.

His future.

Their future.

That was the core of it, he knew. Thinking and enjoying in a plural shape rather than solely his own. Such was the dulcet trap of the domestic life.

In this vein his thoughts turned to the evening’s waiting kisses, the cozening of the boy before his pliant Papa, a trading of barbs with the woman, and, since they both could use it, perhaps an overdue bath for himself and his friend. Exsanguination tended to make a body languid, whether from the loss or indulgence of blood. A sweet-sluggish cleaning away of last night’s evidences would be most welcome. Even if his friend went and did something silly, like washing ahead of time to save the trouble.

No, no, my friend, I insist…

From that thought he leapt to others and others, descending down the trail of implausibility until he found himself somehow on a balcony of the English’s gaudy confection of a palace. He knew with the certainty of a dream that the boy was grown and flashing the winsome lie of his smile at a pack of hunters who’d thought themselves safe behind the Cross and Wafer just before they began to lose pieces. Elsewhere, his Sister was watching her former ‘brother’ of a lordling writhe upon the lance she had pierced him with, the sweet logic of fantasy refusing to let him die quickly as he paid at last for the theft of their Lucy. And with him? With him were his Loves. Both folded into the sides of him, painted red from the lips down with feasting. Ice chip eyes soft against his basilisk gaze. Two heads of snowdrift hair resting over his heart.

Yes, yes.

Peace at last.

She felt the Dragon slip into sleep.

Felt the Scarred Love stir carefully in her box. Testing the psychic waters. Wait, wait, but not too long. Yes, she could wall her thoughts off better than he knew. No, she did not dare risk anything but perfect ignorance either way. Up traveled the line like a wisp on a breeze. Brushing the mind of her living Love.

Darling, from her.

Darling, from him.

Their minds spilled up and down to each other. It was one of many secrets the Dragon did not know. This secret was as simple as it was vital: There were no secrets between them.

They gave the Dragon hollow prizes in the night. Pandora’s Box was empty. Bluebeard’s chamber left unoccupied. Even as the scenes they endured for the other, for their child, for their Love, all conspired to raise a fury that would blister the sun in both their hearts, there was no doubt in them. No accusation. The only tears shed were for the other, as ever.

I should have been closer! Should have at least stayed inside, in earshot! Mina, he could have—he was really going to—

He didn’t. He never will now. Nor will he think the room ever mattered to me. Not when he frets over his master’s chamber being plundered. All was as he left it. As I left it.

It was a thin respite she’d had before the Dragon made his attempt on her. Time was too short for more than confirmation. The work had to come after. While the boy was busy in his books and his mother was busy in her own and his fathers were out and away and lost to anything else. On that note.

You did not have to give so much of yourself to him. To let him do worse than he already has and preen over it. As if he deserved more from us, from you, than what he was content with before tonight. Oh, my husband, my Love, he will expect the same and more from you now! You cannot—

I can because I must. I must because it worked. It will work again. Just give the date and it will happen.

Jonathan.

Wilhelmina. We must not merely hope, but know he is distracted for you to do what’s needed. We must have the guarantee that his eyes will not look through yours and see what you’ve found. What you have already learned. Or was the hailstorm truly an accident?

It was not. Only an experiment. One made at too dear a cost—

Then she did not lie?

She had not.

The key was in her book?

The key that was written in blood from her own hand. It penned the details of translation from the Scholomance’s text. This had not been part of the Lessons, but her own precaution. She had split the key across the borders of the journal’s pages, hiding them in the illuminated ink. Her blood was the dullest part of the lush illustrations and carried a chill when traced. She had not made them easy to parse.

Yet the pieces were found tonight. Once they were arranged into the whole, it allowed the reader, the Scarred Love, the one whose mind had carried in it a grain of Sight long before she was bitten by the Dragon, to make sense of the first scraps of knowledge left waiting in old pages.

True, the Dragon had his hoard to go over, given the chance.

Given the time that one Love would sell himself to buy for the other.

But there had been early prizes waiting in the book behind the stone. One whose theatre had aligned so beautifully with her own small addition to the show. It had taken much, stretching the vision so far. Not in blood, for she craved none when there was no Love to carry it in their veins, but in focus. In keeping her pressure subtle as she pulled ghosts through the Dragon’s mind like a haunted sieve.

Walpurgisnacht had helped, insomuch as the forces that surged behind the night could be said to acknowledge anything like a human calendar. Such things moved more like a tide or a season. All one could do was ride the crest of them when possible. It might have been possible earlier. One, two, three, four years ago.

Except the child would be too young then. Not old enough to be left alone, with his reading and play and the practice of howls at the window while his Mama drifted off to do whatever mothers did. This year he was old enough. This year he could be trusted not to be an innocent witness, there to mention to the Dragon that his Mama had found the strangest things waiting for her inside a wall.

It was this year that she’d come to the Scarred Love by a daylit dream. Explaining what the Dragon had planned for her. What might be planned for him in turn. They had walked the labyrinth of the castle and into the abandoned room that was so Hated and Loved with its mementos still resting where the Dragon left them. The Dragon would move them as soon as he could once he found the Scarred Love there. Perhaps somewhere no prying eye or misty figure could reach. If she was to take advantage, to piece the key, to note and save and use it again, it had to be done within Walpurgisnacht. And the Dragon could not know.

All this was delivered up to her Love in the tower. How to parry the Dragon’s advances? How to hold his body and mind at a distance?

Each Love had given their answer.

Each answer had been Hated.

Each answer had worked.

Now they were a step closer. A foothold in the side of the Mountain. Good, good.

She was already retreating with the coming sun when she felt the brush of that entreating mind again.

They stood beyond the mindscape now. The dreamscape allowed for more Sight. Here the Scarred Love was not scarred, nor of the undead. Only what she remembered of herself. A living woman, scarcely more than a girl, clasping a journal that no longer existed as if it were a rosary.

She, the visitor, stood only as she was. Still corpse-wan, fair hair left in a fall as eyes of frost stared on unblinking. But she was not the ragged thing the Dragon saw. Her friends had come up from the ground for her, finding a dress to change for what was burned, their hands mingling with her own as they rebuilt the mausoleum stone by stone. Their kind was immune to the wild rose and to the garlic blossom, and so they’d planted them in abundance for good measure. The ash sapling grew higher each year. Such they knew, even as they settled easily back into their rest. Into the vourdalaks’ serene torpor and its mingling of souls, their Loved and Loving phantasmagoria.  

You are going? from the Scarred Love. 

I am. I must. from her visitor. The year brings few hours where we are allowed even more than the lot that Supernature grants us. My will and Self can only hold here so long before it snaps home.

Where is your home? How far? The question buried underneath, too important to leave unsaid: Can you help us?

Her visitor showed her the waiting home. The dead village laced with its history of disease and suicide and so much cruel decay born of Nature at her most callous. A village whose people had huddled within their scant borders, refusing to carry their ills out to their neighbors. Who had seen her ride to them and pleaded with her to stay back unless she sought death.

I told them I did. My heart ached with want of Love. With the burden of Hate. I left the Dragon to seek reprieve from both. You know yourself how difficult the strigoi are to end. It is far harder for the vourdalak. Yet I was prepared to try for such a miracle if I could not sate my nature. Satiation came when I found home with them. My friends. My Loves. It is a place not far as we would reckon it. Horse or train, perhaps, but not us.

The Scarred Love swallowed a breath she did not have.

Then..?

Her visitor shook her head.

I cannot help you as you would wish it, Mina Harker. It would mean leaving my Loves. It would mean the Dragon warring with me, which would mean warring with you. Or do you think he would not sacrifice you as insulation against my frost? No, you know he would, contract or no. Just as he would endeavor once more to cage and break me, as he endeavors with your Love. The Dragon is the best student of the Scholomance. I can battle him, I can escape him, I can parry and dance around him. But I will not be what destroys him.

You are a student too! from the Scarred Love. Vivid and livid with the unvarnished core of herself. Her dreamscape bled. You have your numbers! Your storm! We live in his chains, with our child and my own mind at his mercy, with my Jonathan a slave and worse to him! Please! Please… In her coffin, the Scarred Love wept precious scarlet lines down her cheek. Please do not go. Do not leave us with him.

Her visitor ached. Of course she did. She had combed through the entirety of the Harkers’ souls at a glance like Psyche herself filtering Charon’s harvest. There was much to pity in them and more to Love. But.

Would you like to see what he did to me when last we crossed paths, Mina Harker?

She did not wait for an answer. Only showed the Scarred Love how wise she had been in choosing the vourdalak and its endurance as her shape of undeath. She could not scar, could not crumble from an injury. But pain came in its plenty. Especially when a lightning bolt powerful enough to shatter stone and set her ablaze came firing down.

The Scarred Love watched in horror as her visitor keened and roasted and died.

And stood.

And healed.

And scoured the burnt flesh off the new skin, dead though it remained.

That he did by folly. A bolt with intent would have done worse. As for my storm, I mastered only enough to slay the living, who are the far more industrious and plentiful villain. I once shattered half the Dragon’s face off with my cold. Yet it mended with blood and time enough. Meanwhile, the only scars I have seen on himself and his kind amount to three marks.

The Son left a brand with His forsaking of you.

You kept the muting cut upon your throat, made before you had changed.

And then there is the Dragon’s only unhealed wound. A scar left by a spade in your Love’s hand. Why is that, Mina Harker? More, why is it your mind has suffered his petty puppeteer strings, yet rebuffed the transformation’s inebriating influence? You have not dulled in the years since you turned. You have not diminished to the state of the ‘Weird Sisters’ or your lost Lucy. If the Dragon were not so preoccupied with himself and his Conquest, he might know to worry.

A student of the Scholomance is admitted only once, Mina Harker. The Lessons are not easy. Triply so if not given access to them beneath the Mountain. But you have seen it is possible. That you were able to use the key at all marks you as a student. ‘Studying abroad,’ you would call it. You have the freedom to learn and to master all that you can bring yourself to dare. Which means you can master what the Dragon has. The will of the Weathermaker, the Speaker and Wearer of Beasts. It can be done.

Worst of all for the Dragon, he does not remember that what is sacred is not always the property of an Abrahamic hand.

You and your Love possess a holy strength that is innate. It does not hail from any church. The gods who bless and burden you, who have gifted you souls so tightly knit, are as old and steeped in sacrifice as the tutors in the Mountain. Some have even taught there.

Here, the visitor smiled.

It was one of them who made the first vourdalaks. The Passionate Dead who exist in only Love and Hate. Our Loves are made prey and protected forever, those Hated are marked for destruction. Love and Hate are your whetstones, Mina Harker, as they are Jonathan’s. Whatever weapon you wield, it will be sharpened to an edge the Dragon cannot heal from. Do you understand?

The smile broadened into a bitter curl of sharp ivory.

The Scarred Love thought she recognized the look. Her husband had worn it once as he whetted the kukri and listened to yet another announcement of doom in their hunt for the Dragon.

 I am not leaving you with him. I am leaving him with you.

The sun was coming now. Her phantom grip loosened. Almost time.

Almost time. Is there anything more you wish to ask?

The Scarred Love thought. Her answer came fast.

…What side of his face was it?

 Her visitor’s eyes burned white-blue, ice and flame at once. There was no tinkling crystal to her laugh. Only joyful madness.

The left, Mina Harker. Aim true.

Years would pass. Twenty long years of domesticity, of a sort. It was at the cusp of those twenty years,

As a young man boarded coach and ship and train,

As a Dragon found his keep robbed of its living treasures,

As a vow was upheld in a baptism of blood,

As a storm brewed at the will of a new Mistress,

As a thunderbolt fell with the precision of a needle onto a shock-slack face,

As a scar as brilliant and agonizing as the lightning itself erupted in the weathered skin,

As a Dragon realized this scar was the second one due to stay until he was dust,

Countess Dolingen of Gratz dreamed of her husband.

And smiled.

[reminiscingtonight]

Closure

Leah Williamson x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Something soft I wrote last night. Posting early because we gotta celebrate that Arsenal win somehow, right?

[WOSO Masterlist]

She looks beautiful. Despite everything that’s happened, she still looks beautiful.

You’re sitting at the same table, no doubt because Keira wants her two best friends by her side on such a special day, but still, you can’t help but wish she sat you anywhere else but here. All night Leah’s been looking your way, not hiding the sadness and longing whenever your eyes meet. You try to distract yourself with Georgia’s random musings, but even she can’t compete with the magnetic call of Leah’s gaze.

“You should talk to her.”

You’re quick to shake your head. You took it as a win that the blonde hadn’t followed the two of you to the open bar. “She doesn’t want to talk to me, trust me.”

Georgia sighs, picking at the napkin in front of her. “The two of you are obviously still torn up about the whole break up. Just go talk to each other and make up.”

“I’m pretty sure Kei and Luce would rather we not. They don’t need us causing a scene on their special day.”

It was a long time coming, Keira and Lucy’s wedding. You had months to prepare yourself for the inevitable run in you were going to have with Leah, but it still didn’t help when you finally laid eyes upon the blonde.

The two of you had been together for what seemed like forever. You met for the first time during a youth camp eons ago, relationship building as the years passed by. By the time you signed your first senior contract with Arsenal, Leah had already asked and taken you out on a couple dates.

Leah bled red and white, a gooner through and through, it was almost fitting that you were the exact same. The two of you stayed together through all the ups and downs of both your club and national careers. When you won the Euros, you were sure nothing could beat that feeling. 

And then Barcelona reached out.

You were elated. Leah… not so much.

Looking back at it now, the month between winning the Euros and the start of the new season was marred with countless arguments and fights.

Leah didn’t want you to leave. “We have a life here together. You can’t just throw it away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away, Leah. It’s Barcelona. It’s… it’s a dream. One that I want to take with you by my side.”

Breaking up was the last thing you wanted.

Somewhere it gets lost in translation. 

“If you go, that’s it.” The words are spoken in the quiet of your bedroom, Leah staring at the ceiling, biting back her tears.

You have to fight the urge to hold her. To tell her what you know she wants to hear. “I love you. I will always love you. Please don’t make me choose between my career and you.”

In the end she makes the decision for you.

The night you fly out, you press a shaky kiss against the side of her head. “I love you. I’ll call you when I land.”

Leah doesn’t pick up.

A day later she deletes all traces of you from her social media accounts.

The box full of your things arrives midway through the next week.

It’s an abrupt end to a story you never thought you’d have to close.

You try calling the first couple weeks. Each time your calls go straight to voicemail, but you tell her about your time in the city, the girls you play with, how much you miss her. 

The one time your call goes through, Leah interrupts you before you have a chance to say anything. “I wish you never loved me. And that I never loved you.”

She hangs up before you can answer.

It feels like a dagger to the heart when you catch a story of Leah at a party, wrapped around another woman. Tabloids run wild the next couple days, pictures of Leah locking lips with the mysterious girl splashed all throughout the internet.

Injuries prevent you from attending the next couple of camps. The only time you end up putting on the England jersey is the one time Leah’s out with one of her own. 

It almost seems as if karma’s mocking you for leaving your home for the unknown. 

It’s Georgia’s soft nudge that has you breaking out of your thoughts. You realize with a start that Leah’s making her way towards the two of you.

“Hi.” She sounds breathless. A little nervous. Your heart still flutters at the sound of her voice.

“I’m just gonna…” Georgia makes a jerking motion with her hand, quickly departing before you can stop her.

You’re left staring after your friend, silently cursing her out in your head.

Neither of you say anything as Leah gingerly takes a seat next to you. You can feel her staring at the side of your head, but you keep your eyes down, focused on the drink in your hand.

“I think it’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking that it should be us out there right now.”

All at once your muscles feel stiff. There’s unshed tears pricking your eyes, because truth is, you can’t help but think the same. 

The two of you had been together for close to a decade. Your friends always joked that the two of you would be the first to get married, but you and Leah were happy where you were, still feeling a bit too young to tie the knot. The two of you had talked about it, agreeing to wait until later, until you had a firmer grip on life, on your football careers.

But here you are now, a little past your mid-twenties, alone, wishing more than anything you could go back to those early days. Those days when you still had Leah and could call her yours.

You chance a look up, but Leah’s looking off into the distance, staring wistfully at Keira and Lucy who are in the middle of their first dance.

“Our best friends are getting married, and I should be happy for them, but all I can think about is how that should’ve been us. That should’ve been us standing up there, saying our vows. That should’ve been us slipping on those rings, following through on forever.”

When she finally looks back at you, you can see the watery sheen in her eyes. 

“Leah,” you whisper, hand darting forward to wipe at a tear before it can make its way down her cheek. Leah all but leans into your hand, eyes slipping closed at the familiar feeling.

“Do you regret this? Us?”

It breaks your heart a bit to hear the vulnerability in her voice. Leah’s quiet, expression a bit pained, as if you hold all the power in fixing or shattering her heart.

Your hand slips from her cheek, and Leah’s face turns panicked for a moment. At least until it drops to her collar. You avoid her eyes as you fix up the crookedness of her jacket.

“I’ve done a lot of things that I regret. But loving you,” you pause, finally lifting your eyes to meet Leah’s. “Loving you is something I’ll never regret doing.”

And it’s the truth. All the fights, all the arguments, you’ll never regret a single moment you’ve ever had with her. Because through all the bad, you still had the good. You still had the memories of Leah chasing you around the house, tackling you onto the bed with a giggle. You still had the memories of Leah cuddled up next to you, pointing out all the trashy things about the rom-com you’re watching, though she stays because she knows they’re your favorite type of film. You still had the memories of nervously padding up and down the halls, of Leah screaming and jumping into your arms when the two of you get your first senior call ups, when Leah gets asked to be captain, when the two of you make the Euros roster.

You have the firsts and lasts, though you didn’t know the lasts would be the lasts when they happened, but every moment you’ve had with Leah is special in their own ways. You would never regret a single moment of calling her yours.

“I hear Barcelona’s nice this time of year.”

The question is there. Silent and hidden, but there.

You nod, not able to stop the soft smile on your face. Leah’s looking a little bashful right now, hand brushing against yours, not quite daring to hold them quite yet.

When you walk back to your table, a new drink in tow, you do so with your arms brushing each other’s, pinkies gently hooked in the space between. Nothing can be fixed with just a couple words, but for the first time since you left home, your heart feels full, knowing that there’s still a chance. The book hasn’t fully closed yet, and you’d do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

[thedeviltohisangel]

All The Things I Did (Princess Era): I Would Be Your Only Dream

a/n: knight!john x princess!cass au is here my loves! i hope you all enjoy this little glimpse because i think there are so many beautiful possibilities for scenes in this universe. i will write more if you guys think you would want to read it! this is their first meeting in this universe and i hope you fall in love with this version of them just like you have in canon and in the modern au. let me know all your thoughts (dirty or otherwise) xoxo

John was barely paying attention as Gale was walking him through the center of the village, pointing out the stalls where he could find the best fruit or vegetables or trinkets to send back to his family if they were curious about his new life at the castle. 

“Princess Cassandra is not allowed in the village anymore after the last incident.” The mention of the Princess got his attention. 

“Incident?” 

“The head of the watch found her attempting to sneak into…” his voice dropped to a whisper, “a house of the night.”

“Most would call it a brothel, Gale. The Princess isn’t allowed to explore herself?” He was positive that the exploits of her older brothers, on and off the field of battle, were legendary across the realms. 

“Not when her betrothed is coming to retrieve her at the end of the next moon cycle.” John rolled his eyes. He had learned quite a few valuable and useful things about himself during his encounters at a brothel or two. Who was a knight of the realm to begrudge the Princess the same opportunity? Especially if she had a loveless marriage ahead of her. 

“Good thing protecting the Princess is your calling and not mine. I’m merely here to win some coin in the tourney and be on my way.” 

“You’ve been a nomad for too long, my friend. Why not try resting your head here for a little while?”

“Staying still invites trouble. I’m not in the business of trouble anymore.” When he and Gale had first met, offering their swords for the glory of the King many years ago, they had both been bloodthirsty young men. Gale had outgrown that desire, met a nice girl on his travels and fallen in love and married her. John had taken his sword on the road, offering it in service of whoever paid the most and for whatever purpose they deemed fit. He was known for being the best and that was exactly why Gale had written him and asked for him to participate in the upcoming tournament. The prize was substantial, the possibility of land and titles, and he knew his friend could only benefit from the stability something like that could offer. 

“Trouble still always has a way of finding you, my friend. Whether you are looking for it or not.” As if to illustrate his exact point, the sound of a child crying reached their ears. Both men stepped towards the child at the ready to offer their services when a green cloak appeared out of nowhere and crouched down to the height of the child.

“Hello there, little one. There is no need for tears.” John watched as her delicate hands reached to touch the child’s face, his tears dissipating at the caress of her fingertips. 

“I’m going to grab a watchmen. I’ll be right back,” Gale offered with a clap to John’s shoulder. He jogged off in a separate direction and John took a few steps closer to the woman and child.

“Would you like me to help you locate your mother?” she asked, presenting the young boy with her hand. He nodded and placed his smaller hand within hers. 

“A lady such as yourself certainly should not be wandering the village without a sword to accompany her.” The woman turned to face him quickly, the hood of her cloak falling from her head to reveal a scarf covering all but a few tendrils of her hair. All his confidence dissipated as her eyes rested on his. There was a tightness to his chest he would never be able to explain and his heart was racing at a sheer glimpse of her beauty. 

“And who are you?” she asked in her own breathless voice. She couldn’t look away from the blue of his eyes. As if the spring sky itself was nestled in the orbs. 

“A man offering you his sword as you seek to reunite this child with its mother.” Cass assumed he must be new here. Otherwise, he would have dragged her off to face the wrath of her father or, worse yet, her mother for breaking the rules and sneaking beyond the castle walls again. This man, this indescribably handsome man, was offering anonymity for a little bit of time. And with that came freedom. 

“Very well. We will start at the bottom of the hill where his cottage is.” She held the hand of the little boy and was off in the direction he was pointing, John following after them dutifully. He watched with a smile as she conversed with the young creature and nodded along with all of his musing and remarked with appropriate ease as he recounted the tale of losing his mother. They reached the bottom of the hill and turned towards the row of stone houses and thatched roofs.

“Does he belong to the crying woman?” John pointed in her direction, the little one dragging the cloaked beauty in her direction. She threw him a smile over her shoulder and he smiled back despite his best intentions.

“Oh, my child!” The woman welcomed the boy into her arms as he called to her with glee. “How can I ever repay you?” Cass shook her head.

“The unbridled joy in reuniting you both is enough to fulfill me. Nothing further is necessary.” The mother looked to john.

“I only accompanied to ensure they reached you in one piece, ma’am.” Up close, the cloak of the enchanting young woman was made of velvet. If he was going to shae anything loose from anyone, it was going to be her.

“You must at least take some food for your troubles.” The woman disappeared for a few moments before appearing with two braided pastries and handing them one each. 

“Thank you, ma’am. Now I best be going. Keep an eye on that one,” he  nodded towards the little boy, “seems to enjoy finding trouble.” He meant it from one troublemaker to the other. Speaking of which, John thinks he recognized a bit of a kindred spirit in the beautiful girl as well. 

“I appreciate your offer but now your services are not needed, Sir…”

“No title. Just John. Humbled to serve at your pleasure, my lady.” She offered her hand when he reached for, his lips softer than her goose feather pillows in the castle. He rose and she offered him her pastry.

“I don’t eat anything given to me by a stranger. Just a precaution.” Her sister had been poisoned while walking the market of her husband’s kingdom just last year. Ever since then, she had been under strict orders to only eat things tested by the King’s Guard but even without the order, her own paranoia would have created that rule herself. 

“You must have not gone hungry during the famine of our childhood.” Velvet cloak and no food insecurity paired with her clear attempt to hide her hair and inability to hide a face that he had swears looked carved from marble. Who was this woman?

“I did not. I was very lucky.” Nothing about her life in the castle had changed even as famine rang throughout the realm. Her father has always ensured she and her siblings wanted for nothing no matter the circumstances and no matter the price. 

“My lady, I insist you let me accompany you home. At this hour, you should not be alone in the town center.” The sun was setting it’s last few rays and the local people were boarding up for the night. Only those with unsavory thoughts would remain.

“Oh, but that is exactly when this place comes to life. When one can truly explore and learn and expand the capacity of their mind.” She spun with glee as they began the trek back up the hill. “Is this your first visit to our land?”

“Nay. I have stopped here briefly before but my friend is a member of the King’s Guard. Asked if I would participate in the tourney and I accepted.” She hummed her acknowledgement and thought through all the Knight’s and who might have a friend as handsome as this.

“Is your friend Sir Gale?” 

“It is.”

“In my mind you two would make such a pair,” she teased as she gathered her skirts in her hands and began to increase her pace. “I hear the princess will be in attendance tomorrow. Plans to give her favor to a deserving knight.” Something about the way she said it piqued his interest. He couldn’t put his finger on it but knew there was something akin to a riddle in her tone.

“Is the princess not often in attendance?” He was walking slower to keep pace with her, the setting sun casting her face in an ethereally golden glow.

“Not since her betrothal was announced, no.” She grew sullen at the topic and he wished to put her smile back on her face. 

“The princess’ beauty is legendary throughout the realms. I am anxious to see if she could even hold a candle to you, my lady.” Cass blushed and smiled just as he had intended.

“You’re quite charming, John.”

“Not charming enough to have earned your name it seems.” She opened her mouth, poised to offer it to him and accept whatever consequences came with it, when she recognized Sir Gale walking the cobblestones towards them with a squadron of watchmen right behind him. “You’re a little late, Gale. We’ve already managed to save the day without you.” John smiled but it slowly fell from his face as his friend and the other knights stopped in front of them, dropping into bows. 

“Your Highness,” Gale spoke, “we must escort you home.” Cass held her breath as she felt John’s eyes burn holes into the side of her face. It had only been a couple hours of knowing him. Had only been in his presence for a short amount of time but she knew she wanted more of it. Knew that wandering the village with him had been more freeing and more inviting and felt more like she could do it forever than anything else ever had. 

“That’s why you wouldn’t tell me your name,” he whispered. There were tears behind her eyes as their gazes locked. A fleeting moment of something raw and pure flitted between them. Something that if nurtured, could light the entire world on fire.

“Please, John, do not hold this against me.” 

“Your Highness,” Gale urged. 

“I hope you enjoy the spectacle of the tournament, Princess.” John bowed his head to her respectfully before he was off in the opposite direction of the imposing castle in the distance. Desperate to be away from her and the intoxicating way she seemed to take up all the air. 

Cass pulled her cloak around her body tightly and began to trudge in the direction of her home. Alone and cold and a sense of emptiness swirling within her. A gilded cage awaited her. Meant to keep her inside, beautiful and stoic and pristine. Meant to keep anyone out who wasn’t deemed the same status of her or her family. She knew in her heart that someone like John was meant to be kept out. She knew in her heart she was meant to be kept in. she knew in her heart that one afternoon with him was not going to be enough. 

Cass knew some walls were meant to be crumbled. Some traditions meant to have fire set to them. And she had plenty of fire in her soul to go around.

[haru-natsuka]

The Unending Daze Part 3 (Malleus Draconia x Wife Reader x Ace Trappola)

Chapter start from below trailer*

>> Trailer <<

"My darling wife, the joy you have brought me throughout the years is without compare. Our children are fortunate to have been gifted with such a loving and caring mother as you,"

Malleus spoke with affection, his voice like honeyed words that melted the hearts of everyone that heard it. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his warm breath brushing against your skin.

But just as you were getting used to this blissful scene, your old friend, Ace arrived in an unexpected turn of events. He claimed that he was your husband, which left you perplexed and bewildered.

"Wait a minute, that's not right! I'm your real husband! He's just trying to manipulate you with a dream. Wake up, now! Our children need you! I need you, Y/N!"

You were unsure how to proceed, caught in the middle of a confusing situation. In this situation, you feel conflicted and uncertain about whether your old friend or your darling husband had spoken the truth

>> PART 3 <<

You could not remember anything from the night before. Your eyebrows were furrowed in frustration, and the only memory you can recall is preparing for bed alongside Malleus. However, today, Malleus was nowhere in sight, which is quite strange behavior for him. You began to wonder whether you made a mistake last night. Since morning, you had not even caught sight of him.

"Mama! You got that wrinkle again" Marcellus tried to straighten that wrinkle off your forehead, but as he touched you, you suddenly flinched with a sense of revulsion and horror. The feeling of those wooden hands running against your skin reminded you of the illusion of a puppet. You could not help but imagine your son's face as having a lifeless wooden form with smiley eyes, while you looked at him.

No, why did you even imagine such a thing? This was your youngest son, who always seems so adorable and innocent to you. His skin was just as fair as Malleus's, though his horn was not as sharp as his father's because it was still growing. He was the exact copy of Malleus, except for his eyes, which have your color and shape.

You felt a sudden suffocation as the imagery of your lifeless son flashes through your mind, overwhelming you and causing you feelings of intense guilt and shame. Your son's innocent smile and warm eyes kept on interchange with a cold and lifeless demeanor as it emptily stared at you. You just desired for a moment of escape, to get away from this place and find some peace. You were not a good mother at all.

'Get away from them!'

'They are not your family!'

You heard a dark voice echoing in your mind, warning you to stay away from your son, from everyone in this world. The voice was similar to your voice, almost like it was warning you of a danger lurking near you.

'Run!'

'Run! Be safe! Don't be caught by him anymore! Stop-'

You felt a growing sense of desperation, as your breathing started to quicken and your heart began to race. You wanted these voices to go away, to leave you alone here in your mind. Your mind became filled with this darkening gloom, and you could not seem to shake this unsettling feeling.

"Y/N! Come back to me!"

You heard someone call out to you with a concerned tone of voice. You felt a strong hold on your shoulder as they asked you if you were doing alright, but your mind was preoccupied with the voices that continued to echo within your mind.

You pushed the man away, wanting to escape from his hold and give yourself some space. You looked up to see a red-haired man staring at you with absolute panic and concern in his eyes. Immediately, you felt your eyes tearing up, and a sudden urge to cry came over you.

Despite your efforts to maintain your composure, the tears began to fall. Your heart started to pound with a slight ache, and you were unsure of the reason why. How could your friend, Ace, make you feel this way?

"I'm sorry I'm late Y/N. You have gone through so much" Ace's tone was warm and caring, and there was a hint of sadness and remorse in his voice. He tried to take a step closer to you, but you backed away immediately. You felt uneasy around him, and a sudden sense of familiarity was growing within you as you stared at him.

Your heart beat quicker, and you started to feel a sudden sense of panic and fear as you realised you cannot locate Levan and Marcellus. A sense of desperation grew within you as you looked around, hoping to see them somewhere. Your thoughts were scattered, and your emotions were running high, making it hard to think clearly.

"What are you doing here, Ace? Where are my sons?" You asked in confusion.

"You don't seem to remember me at all, do you, Y/N? I'm your-" Ace said with a sad expression and his voice sounded somewhat hurt when the reality of you not remembering him hit him hard. Before you could focus on him any further, a strong wind blew in and threw him into the trees, his body injured and blood running down his head. 

You could hear Ace whimpering and groaning in pain from where you were standing, and you felt your feet moving towards him, driven by a compassion that was beyond your control. However, before you could take another step, Malleus appeared in front of you, acting as a barrier between you and Ace.

You could hear Ace's pained groans, but you cannot see him anymore. The sight of Malleus, standing protectively in front of you with both Levan and Marcellus in his arms, blocks your view completely.

Malleus's voice is soft and reassuring, and his expression is one of genuine concern. "Are you alright, my dear wife?" He stares at you intently, keeping a protective grip on Levan and Marcellus.

Malleus's gentle voice filled your ears, and his reassuring expression compelled you to draw your full attention to him. The feeling of wanting to help Ace suddenly seemed to dissipate, and you felt yourself compelled to abandon your previous intention, instead immediately rushing towards Malleus, Levan and Marcellus.

However, the look from Malleus's eyes stopped you. His eyes had a look of wanting to destroy your old friend from NRC, which caused you to hesitate. The scene felt a bit familiar and yet you could not recall anything specific as it remained vague.

As you felt the draw and rush towards Malleus, there was a wave of confusion as Malleus's intense gaze fixed upon you, his eyes appearing to radiate hatred towards the wounded Ace.

Your mind struggled to make sense of the intense energy and emotions that you were sensing, and you felt a vague sense of familiarity with the situation. You felt like you should remember something specific about this, but you could not recall anything clear or concise.

'Don't you remember me? Please, don't play around like this.'

'I know I'm not a really good husband, and I admit it but I will be better. Be with me, please'

'I will never stop searching for you, Y/N'

'Y/N. I'm glad you are alright'

Your memories of Ace are still very vague, but his words seemed to have a familiar ring to them. Like you had heard him speak like this before, but you could not recall any concrete details about your relationship with him. Who was he to you? Why did he seem so desperate?

"My dear wife, you are safe now. I will finish the man off. No one should take you away from me." You watched as Malleus sets Levan and Marcellus down beside you, both of your sons appearing frightened and clinging tightly to your skirts with their hands covering their faces.

Your husband turned towards the place where Ace was last seen being thrown at, but there was no sign of him. Malleus's tone was still one of protectiveness and care, but the words had a definite hint of hostility and anger towards the missing Ace.

Later that night, you discovered a pendant sitting neatly upon your study table. Your curiosity compelled you to open the pendant, and a note fell out, scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. You read the words on the note, your breath catching in your throat as you realised the implications.

The note spoke of a desire to rescue you, and your hand trembled slightly as you glanced down at the photo enclosed within the pendant. The photo showed you leaning your head upon Ace's shoulder and your hands gently touching his. Beside the two of you, two young boys are sitting and smiling softly, looking as if they were enjoying the scene.

PART 2 <<, >> PART 4

@d3sperate-enuf