#if for nothing else than my own reference

[cheralith]

character ; shidou ryusei || wc ; 690 a/n ; just something i conjured during my lunch break, sorry for any errors!

it wasn't uncommon for artist!shidou to sometimes use you as a reference whenever he was conjuring his latest piece, often finding ease in working with your body than others. you're a long-term friend of his that has seen his creations even before he gained a spotlight from art curators all over the nation and you've seen how his creativity has exponentially flourished through the years. he had gone from a starving artist to being showcased in acclaimed museums and art exhibits in just a few years time and you couldn't be more proud of him.

he likes to use you as a real-life dummy, telling you to come over to his studio so position your body as he pleases. sometimes you'd get stiff and he'd yell at you, frustrated, but you'd turn your nose up and tell him to behave or else you'll leave. that usually puts him back into his place.

he's built his reputation for being rather... eccentric... when he's not calmly creating, so you suppose it just helps his persona image to gain more attention from the public. you blame it on the one showcasing where he was extremely upset that his manager insisted he displayed a certain sculpture he wasn't content with, and ended up completely destroying it amidst the showcase in front of hundreds of people to prove a point.

"here's to the shitheads that think they know art better than the artists themselves," he had heaved, a smirk being thrown at the camera that was showcasing the entire thing live. "i decide what is art. not you."

he's been drawing blanks for awhile now and calls you to come over to his studio after work and you see him preparing a large slab of clay.

"sit," he says, not looking back at you and juts his head to a nearby stool.

"what sort of pose do you need me to do this time?" you ask with a sigh, heaving your workbag down and preparing your limbs to position themselves into whatever awkward position shidou wants.

"nah, nothing of that sort," he shakes his head, "you just gotta sit there and look pretty, doll."

"huh?" you're flabbergasted. you might actually leave the studio without a weird pain in your arms for the first time.

"i'm practicing realism," he says simply. "obviously can't use a flat picture, can't get all the right shadows and angles. so i need a 3d reference."

it struck you as odd shidou was known for his absurd, abstract pieces that seem to defy all the lines that contemporary art has ironically restricted upon itself. his pieces were nothing less of eye-catching, his sculptures often being made out of whatever material shidou could get his hands on, his paintings lively with color and shapes and texture.

but you don't question it any further and sit yourself down in front of him. he goes to touch your face a few times to just analyze its angles and highlights, but the closeness of him making heat rise on your face. he gets to work eventually, starting with your head. and he asks you to come to his studio for a solid week or so, just simply working on nothing else except creating an insanely realistic replica of your face from the slab of clay. you've never seen him so concentrated before on an art piece.

on the last day, where the final touchups have been sealed, you bid him goodbye in the late evening, as he's just cleaning up some minor details. just before you enter your car, however, you groan and realize you had forgotten your phone in his studio and trail back into the building.

when you approach door, however, you peer silently inside just to make sure he's in there and he is.

but he's still, staring at the sculpture at your calm face rather quietly... intently. you open your mouth to say something to alert him you were here to pick up your phone, but words falter when shidou cups your sculpture's face and places his lips on the sculpture's own pair, cold clay lips meeting the warmth of his.

[gorbo-longstocking]

Cover It Up | Modern!Caracalla x GN!Reader

Summary: Every few nights, like clockwork, Caracalla shows up at your door, drunk, or high, or both. There is so much that he says, and so little that you can bring yourself to tell him. It’s the same now as it always is.

Tags: Modern AU, GN!Reader, references to drugs and alcohol, implied past child abuse (Caracalla), implied addiction problems (Caracalla), so much yearning, reader is a medical student, kind of sad and angsty, this is technically an side story to my main fic Do Not Blame the Sea but it can be read as its own thing, Caracalla and Reader’s relationship here sort of parallels how it is in the main fic

Word Count: 1.7k Words

Song: Lost Kitten - Metric

Do Not Blame the Sea Masterlist

Before the door even opened, you knew who was standing on your doorstep. Who else would visit you in the late hours of the night when the moon was drifting lower on the horizon in order to make way for the sun? You couldn’t name another person in your life who would dare bother you during the few seconds of solitude you so desperately craved. No one else would expect you to be awake. Not your parents who would lose their minds if they discovered you were doing anything but sleeping or studying, and certainly not your fair-weather friends from college who knew nothing of your insomniac tendencies. It was always him. The one you’d drop everything for, no matter what it was.

It was always Caracalla who knocked on your door.

“Good morning, doctor.” He leaned on your porch railing, his feet unsteady. The stench of booze radiated off of him in waves, nearly suffocating in its intensity. On his chin, vomit was crusted to his skin, and you let out a sigh.

“Caracalla, I don’t think anyone would consider it morning yet. Come in.”

You always thought he was beautiful with the night sky behind him. While your apartment was nestled too far in the city for there to be stars, the midnight blue complimented his eyes perfectly. His imperfections were hidden during the day when you saw him on campus, that was when he was far too fixated on hiding them. It was only at this hour, when sweat made his makeup run, revealing acne and pockmarks, and the humidity made his red hair curl, did you think he was more handsome than you had ever seen him. Caracalla would never believe you if you told him. If anything, he would believe your words to be a joke. So, like all thoughts in regards to your affections for him, you kept them to yourself.

Reaching out an arm, you opened the door wide to help him inside. His hand was clammy, far too warm to match his drunken flush. Judging by the size of his pupils, alcohol wasn’t all he had gotten into. You had known Caracalla long enough to know his drug of choice tended to be cocaine, though with a frustrating tendency to indulge especially when he didn’t know what he was taking. The likelihood he simply ate a random pill he found on the floor of a frat house was annoyingly high. He giggled as he clumsily made his way in the door, pressing his body against yours. Despite his rancid state, you found yourself craving his warmth. You always did.

“Doctor, doctor, I need my doctor,” Caracalla slurred as you led him to the couch. When he flopped onto the cushions, his eyelids fluttered shut before he forced them open again. That made it easier to guess what was in his system, it meant whatever he took wasn’t an upper. “Need you to take care of me. Get to it.” He was always so demanding, and a bit of fondness fought with your exasperation. Before you left to get him a glass of water, he reached out to wrap delicate fingers around your wrist. “I’ve missed you.”

You missed him too. In order to keep the words from spilling out, you gave him a tight smile and pulled away. His glassy eyes flickered with a familiar frustration you paid no mind. Once you were in the kitchen, you fell into a routine. Water to hydrate him, a wet towel to wipe the vomit from his chin, and some tylenol for the morning. Like every night Caracalla came, you would tell him to sleep on the couch, and like every night since you met him, he would find his way into your bed. You set the medicine on your night stand.

“Tell me you missed me too,” He demanded once you were in his line of sight. His eyes were squinted, unable to open them any wider than they were. When you handed him the water, he drank greedily, and before he could wipe his chin with his sleeve, you crouched down to wipe him clean. Caracalla hummed, nearly a purr, as you steadied yourself with a hand against his cheek, leaning into your touch. “I know you did, I can feel it.”

“I’m surprised you can feel anything aside from how badly the room is spinning,” You grumbled.

Caracalla laughed, high-pitched and sharp. His gold tooth glinted in the dim light. “I must be dreaming, but I see four of you, doctor. Surely one must want to soothe my aches.”

“Those aches better be the urge to sleep.” The wet rag you were using caught on his bottom lip, dragging it down. Over a year of yearning made you stare, though you would never dream of taking advantage of him in this state.

Caracalla followed your gaze to his mouth and he smirked. His voice fell into a whisper, breath hot against your face. “The urge to fuck.”

“My answer is the same as always, Caracalla.” Before you removed your hand from him, you gave him a firm pat on the cheek. Disappointment made his face scrunch up. It was a cute expression, and maybe it was a quarter of the reason you kept turning him down. The other half being the fact he was only ever intoxicated when you were together, and the final quarter being your parents inevitable disapproval. “It’ll never happen.”

Caracalla stood, swaying in place for a moment. Once he found his balance, he stumbled the memorized route to your bedroom to curl into his side of the bed. It was embarrassing to realize that he had his own spot in your home now, but with how often he showed up, it only made sense.

A year and a half ago, you wanted nothing to do with Caracalla. You barely knew he existed outside of the rumors that followed him like a plague. Of his pet monkey that made him a miserable roommate in the dorms, of the fact he was a walking petri dish of STDs, his promiscuity, his tendency towards hedonism over his grades, and most of all, the fact his daddy knew the dean personally, so it wasn’t as if he could get in any lasting trouble for any of it. He was in your biology class three semesters ago. Like most people he considered below him, he paid you no mind until you were stuck together on a group project. You intended to do all of the work if only to avoid him, and he seemed content to let you.

You hadn’t meant to find him hysterical and barely coherent in his dorm, nor did you mean to endear yourself to him as entirely as you by calming him down. Apparently, his father had left him quite the nasty voicemail. You didn’t listen, you deleted it the second you got ahold of his phone, but you could put the pieces together well enough. Especially with the half-sobbed pleas for mercy Caracalla cried into your chest.

After that, Caracalla latched on, and like mold on bread, he grew on you. During the day, he barely paid you any attention. It was only at night did he make his affections known, drunk, or high, or both, always showing up when the rest of the world was asleep. You didn’t know why he bothered. If he truly meant what he said, surely he wouldn’t ignore you as he did during the day. When he kissed other people, he made sure you knew, watching your expression out of the corner of his eye. There was a lot about Caracalla you didn’t understand, and you were certain you never would. You wanted to, though. That was why you buried yourself against his side, slinging his arm over your shoulders to help him into your bed.

This was how the night always ended, Caracalla in your arms, snoring away. This time, however, he remained awake, staring up at you. It was obvious it was taking everything he had to stay awake. He took turns closing each eye, one resting while the other bored into you.

“Go to sleep,” You muttered.

Caracalla whined and rubbed his cheek against yours. “I don’t want this to end.”

The admission made your breath catch in your throat. You didn’t want this to end either. He was always gone by the time you woke up.

“Then don’t leave.”

His fingers tightened in the fabric of your pajamas. “It’s better that I do, my doctor.”

“Caracalla.” Licking your dry lips, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “Why do you always come back? If you’re not going to stay, why do you look for me like this?”

He hummed, and for a moment, you didn’t think he’d respond. Finally, clumsy and slurred, the words tumbled out of his mouth and burrowed into your chest, “You make me feel safe.”

You wished he could say it when he wasn’t on some pill when it actually meant something. Still, you couldn’t help the flutter your heart gave. Your eyes burned as you tightened your grip on his body. “I hate it when you’re like this.”

“I hate it when I’m sober,” Caracalla sleepily replied. “I remember too much.”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you let yourself ask, “Do you forget these nights too? Is that why you hardly look at me when we’re on campus.”

“I could never forget you.” He was drifting now, and with a deep breath, he forced himself to hover over you, his palm planted on the mattress beside you. With a desperation you shared, he pressed his forehead against yours. “Kiss me.”

It took everything you had to turn away. “Not when you’re like this. When you're sober, I will. I promise.”

Defeated, Caracalla let himself slump back against you.

“I’m never sober.”

“Then you know what my answer is.”

With him curled around you, you barely heard it, the same confession he made every night, spoken with the conviction you tried to ignore. “I love you.”

You didn’t respond.

A minute passed in silence, the only sound in your small bedroom the sound of your mingled breathing. Gently, you shook Caracalla to make certain he was asleep, and when he didn’t move, you told him what you’d been hiding since the first day you held him. Your own declaration that made your stomach churn with fear.

“I love you too.”

And, like every night, Caracalla didn’t hear.

A/N: I know I said that I wasn’t going to do DNBTS oneshots, but I listened to Lost Kitten by Metric and saw visions of this. This is sort of a tumblr only fic, I dunno if I’m gonna out this on AO3?? I gotta think on it. Like I said in the tags, this is supposed to sort of mirror where Caracalla and Alga are relationship wise in DNBTS, just a smidge angstier. Caracalla unable to truly be with Alga in the way he desperately wants due to public perception, but until he can, Alga will continue to push him away despite wanting him too. Cue insane amounts of yearning. Also something, something Caracalla is incapable of change.

For those who don’t know what Do Not Blame the Sea is, it’s my main fic! So, if you liked this, go check that out, hehe. I don’t have much to say here, really, so this author’s note will be short. Bye-bye! I hope you enjoyed this little thingy, please like, reply, or reblog if you did! It’ll encourage me to indulge in more side stories and AU’s <3

[chiaraforfun]

I think they both make fair points actually, because what @elenasalvatore1 is referred to what happened once they where together, and @jilyydoe to both before and during.

I've always been a big fan of Hinny, and I find this extremely true analysis a bit unsettling, lmao. However, I would like to clarify 3 points that are very subjective.

The first is that yes, Harry and Ginny probably wouldn’t have stayed together forever instead of what Rowling later decided, because they were likely together for insufficient reasons. At the same time, I don’t see Harry with Hermione as a good match (I could easily write a fanfic about it because it would work well as a romance, just to be clear). I don’t know if it’s because they literally grew up together, and I can’t fully support those couples who date young and end up marrying, but I never saw them as "in love".

They had a beautiful friendship, that's it.

However, it's also true that I love Romione, which goes against that last thought, BUT there has always been that... I don’t know... distance? The friendship that Hermione and Harry shared is not the same as that between Hermione and Ron. You could almost feel that tension from the start. So, I guess it makes less sense to me.

Point two: Ginny in the books is very different from the films, where they made her too flat, and while it may be true that the premises of their relationship were somewhat toxic (okay, maybe a bit more than somewhat), them being together makes sense. I reiterate, not forever, because I believe they would inevitably break up sooner or later, but in the books, it makes sense, and she is fantastic. I mean, she is mean to Fleur behind her back, but so is the rest of them beside a few if I remember properly. It's not an excuse but I think I remember Ginny and Hermione both making fun with Mrs Weasley.

She makes fun of Ron but let's be realistic, I did the same with my brother and he did the same with me. I'm not proud and growing up we changed but let's not forget she's still young!

All the dynamics makes sense if you think of her age.

We are so used to see the golden trio as "older" because of what they fight but in truth they are not.

So I guess I do give her a bit of an excuse for her behaviour. Also because she was funny, I'm sorry.

And then, as @jilyydoe pointed out, Harry's last thought before dying was about her so—why not!

Point three: for once, we’re not reading about the extremely predictable relationship between the protagonist and another main character. I mean, come on, let’s break away a bit. I love f/m friendship!

True friends, not romanticised.

Point 4 (that I forgot about): I really don't think that Ginny loves because of his popularity.

Surely that’s the reason she had a crush on him in the first year, but I don’t think that’s the reason she fell in love with him. I believe the story of the younger sister falling in love with her older brother's friend is an old classic, but there’s a deeper reason behind it. And it's the same thing here, among many reasons, right? I mean, Harry was constantly with Ron, he spent a lot of time with the rest of the brothers, and it often happened that he was at the Weasley house. In my opinion, she started to fall in love with him precisely by spending time together, gradually more and more, especially since at the beginning she was a bit pushed aside by her brother, lol. Then, indeed, she tried to have her own experiences and well, we all know how it went from there, toxic dynamics included.

But, I don’t think she fell in love with him for popularity. That, I would say, was just the spark that ignited everything else

I get all your other points and yess it's ruined a bit my idea, I won't idolise their relationship anymore (😭 ), and I get it, it's not that perfect, but maybe that's why I like Hinny so much; it’s unpredictable. It’s a couple that means nothing from a distance, but for them, it’s everything.

I don’t know, it makes sense to me, and I apologize for not being able to explain myself better. English is not my native language, and unfortunately, I don’t know how else to convey these concepts.

P.S.: The thing that makes me cringe a little about Hinny, I have to admit, is that it gives me a bit of a “mommy issues” vibe because of the hair, lmao.

Ya'll really gonna come in here and tell me you love Harry Potter but you hate Hinny.

You're going to tell me to my face that you love Harry James Potter, a man who has been through so much. Lost his whole entire family., and you're going to deny him his greatest source of comfort.

Are you actually going to tell me that you think ferret face or someone who Harry has described as a sister to him is a better fit for him than someone who makes him happier than he can ever remember being.

He was willing to die happily just thinking about her kissing him. Literally his last dying thought but you're gonna come here and tell me that you hate true love.

Please.

[br1ghtestlight]

i imagine at some point objects probably were a lot more powerful and able to control their abilities (and are still very much like that in other universes) but in their own universe after hundreds of thousands of years of evolution theyre just kinda like. whatever. it isn't even something they'd say that they "lost" to begin w/

my rambles about my ocs and their (extremely lame) ~powers/abilities and other random in-universe object stuff

jayden can withstand far colder temperatures than most objects cuz he's a slushie (other ice/snow/etc related objects would be similar cuz this is an biological trait passed down through family lines). he's also cold to the touch :) he has internal biological mechanisms that make it so he stays cool/unmelted even in warm temperatures so hes very nice to cuddle up to during a hot summer day. hypothetically

^ similar to jayden except the opposite for sunshine. he's relatively unaffected by heat/fire unless it's super extreme and is warm to the touch. can sometimes be a liiiiitle bit too hot and burns other objects if he's embarrassed or overly emotional. youch. similar to touching the skin of someone who has a fever. his siblings dont share this trait however cuz theyre a rainbow and a cloud so they have their own weird stuff going on. more relevant for fire/warmth related objects

(i also imagine that for this reason you're more likely to find objects who are immune to extreme heat/cold native to countries or areas of the earth where that weather is common. like for example most objects native to the far north like northern canada/russia/sacndinavian would be cold-objects biologically and would be more likely to be sent to work in those extreme temperatures than others. the "type" of object someone is or their abilities can be very loosely traced back to where their family mightve originated from but it wouldnt be comparable to human family lines. for example two is a beach ball and can float on water and he's from a pacific islander country where a trait like that would be evolutionarily useful. but someone native to the coast of california or iceland could also have that trait, so it isnt exactly 1-to-1 to a specific place)

blue of course can use themself to draw since they're essentially "made" of crayon wax but it would be kinda weird and not useful ?? if for some reason they did use all their crayon wax drawing or were broken in another way there are probably medical treatments to fix that but bcuz of the diversity of objects it would likely be quite hard to find and expensive. for example, some of their siblings have shorter wax ends or theyre completely broken

in general i think objects that are "broken" or have imperfections from life would be more of a visual class divide. because objects who are rich can go to a specialist and pay for the expensive treatment (applies to some objects and not others. obviously) only VERY rich objects who care about appearance would have no scratches or chipping from everyday wear cuz literally who cares tbh

beach ball can float in water but he also CANT go underwater like. at all. similar to trying to push a real-life plastic beach ball underwater he'd just bounce up again. if he was really committed he could probably take a very frustrating bath but its more likely that plastic/floating objects would just take showers instead. He is incapable of drowning though so!!!!!! bonus

watermelon (and other fruit-related objects like starr) tend to rot and wrinkle over time as they age like real fruit would. they can also get blemishes or bruising (starr has none obviously) but if they lose like. an entire chunk of themselves somehow they're able to regrow over time :) being outside or in the garden with soil probably helps this process. similar to how a body can heal a broken bone it just takes a while

rainbow can draw/write in herself to remember things (and DOES. frequently) but will probably need to get her pages replaced every few years bcuz of that plus general wear-and-tear. not as expensive of a process bcuz its very standard for paper-based objects which are not a small minority. getting her front cover replaced would definitely be more of a pain-in-the-ass and equivalent to a major surgery but its unlikely she'd ever need that

NOT even a power or ability but bubblegum does actually taste like a bubblegum lollipop. if you were to lick her. dont though?

it isn't like an absolutey off-limits to use an object for their "inanimate" purpose but. its generally seen in bad taste to use or try to eat (??? why) someone else unless you have their permission and it may be viewed as like assault if theyre a stranger or press charges idk

like rainbow can draw in herself and blue could use themself to write something down but someone ELSE doing that would be extremely weird and socially taboo. but if you have their permission its like yeah sure whatever. can also be seen as a sign of trust/intimacy but in most cases (like eating.... for example) it isn't something theyd ever want or need to do. like just eat normal food you weirdo lmao??

^ this is BASICALLY threesome sex

but in general objects evolved to be FAR more durable than their inanimate counterparts. it isn't like a paper-based object getting wet would mean they'd die without regeneration (which obviously they dont have in their world). maybe they'd need to dry out for a couple hours. glass objects are pretty tough to break and made of almost unshatter-able glass (unless you're hit by a car or something idk) and most injuries can be repaired so its unlikely you'd ever die just because of your object type

[atopvisenyashill]

Bran The Time Traveling Toddler

Yes that IS a reference to the Tyrion the time traveling fetus theory. The thing about MY insane theories is that they actually make sense and I’m right. Follow me please down the worm hole!!

There’s very clearly Someone Influencing things when it comes to the Starklings and even the overreaching plot in general - there’s enough weird magic surrounding them, whispering in the wind, that it’s a no brainer they’re being watched over. The question is WHO and WHEN. For me, personally, I think it’s Bran, and I think it’s an older Bran from the future (whether it be Bran In TWOW and ADOS or Bran post canon) trying to lead his siblings to safety.

Now, like my Harrenhal meta, I don’t think I’m saying anything new so much as compiling what people have said scattered across the interwebs. There’s a lot of theories about whether Bran can time travel, time travel in general in the series, how george has dealt with time travel before, and about the three eyed crow’s identity and I agree with bits and pieces of what other people have said - preston jacobs is a more famous example of this theory for example. But I don't want to get caught up on things like time travel paradoxes because, like, i don’t care about that, and george has talked about how time travel is more fantasy than scifi bc it’s just not really scientifically possible. do you know what that means? it means there’s no weird physical paradoxes because it’s ✨magic✨ and Bran isn't literally going through space and time. It's as Jojen says-

With two eyes you see my face. With three you could see my heart. With two you can see that oak tree there. With three you could see the acorn the oak grew from and the stump that it will one day become. With two you see no farther than your walls. With three you would gaze south to the Summer Sea and north beyond the Wall

Through his greenseeing abilities, Bran can see the whole of a lifespan, from conception to burial, and can pop out at any point in that lifespan, because a span of 100, 1000, or 1,000,000 years is all the same to the weirwood. So I don't think it's in the realm of Crazy Ass Theories to say that Bran is capable of a more magic based form of time travel. That he can whisper in people's dreams, on the wind, taking on the voice of the old gods themselves and doing his best to nudge things the way he needs them to be in order to keep the people he loves safe.

I also don't think Bloodraven is Three Eyed Crow (though I do think he also uses this metaphor of "flying" wrt magic, and that's why Euron also has a comment about flying in his dreams - I just don't believe that metaphor originates with Brynden himself. Rather, I think he picked it up from somewhere else), but instead, it's Bran, using the weirwood network to get all the pieces on the board he needs where he needs them to be for the endgame. Notice that Brynden doesn't seem to know what Bran is talking about when he mentions the Three Eyed Crow-

"Are you the three-eyed crow?" Bran heard himself say. A three-eyed crow should have three eyes. He has only one, and that one red. Bran could feel the eye staring at him, shining like a pool of blood in the torchlight. Where his other eye should have been, a thin white root grew from an empty socket, down his cheek, and into his neck. "A … crow?" The pale lord's voice was dry. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words. "Once, aye. Black of garb and black of blood." 

Brynden mentions the watch, but doesn't mention the three eyed crow. Everyone simply refers to Brynden as the greenseer, not the three eyed crow, except for Bran himself, who simply assumes Brynden is the three eyed crow (and we know magical assumptions in this series are generally wrong!).

What’s double interesting to me about this “bloodraven is the three eyed crow” assumption is brynden himself makes his “a thousand eyes and one” comment - but doesn’t mention a third eye. Meanwhile, Bran’s narrative is obviously filled with bird references and the opening of his third eye from Bran feeding the crows on the towers before he falls then longing to go back to the crows afterwards, of a crow sending Jojen to “the winged wolf,” of his dreams of living as a bird in maester luwin’s rookery with his siblings - Jon Snow even compares him to a bird in their final scene face to face when he thinks bran has “fingers like the bones of birds.”

And notable that though both Rickon and Bran have a greendream where they talk to Ned in the crypts of Winterfell just before Ned is executed, Rickon makes no mention of a three eyed crow, but Bran explicitly sees him-

The mention of dreams reminded him. "I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad."

"Shaggy," a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father's tomb. With one final snap at Summer's face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon's side. "You let my father be," Rickon warned Luwin. "You let him be." "Rickon," Bran said softly. "Father's not here." "Yes he is. I saw him." Tears glistened on Rickon's face. "I saw him last night."

What that says to me is that the Three Eyed Crow has the ability to speak directly to only Bran and can only otherwise appear in a more ephemeral way to others. With the established rules about not being able to communicate properly with the past, I think this makes sense - being able to use the weirwood hivemind/greenseeing powers to appear in a different form to yourself but unable to appear in a concrete form to anyone else.

I think it's even likely we'll see Bran doing some of this nudging and whispering on page in ADOS or maybe as early as TWOW, but it won't be the exact same sort of "Bran can literally reach out and touch someone in a weirwood dream" that they had in the show with the later scenes. It'll be more like that very first scene in the show where we see Bran influence the past slightly - you know, when he calls out "father!" and young Ned turns around, having heard a voice on the wind-

And there's a direct parallel to ADWD here, where Bran is certain Ned heard him speaking in the godswood but Brynden says it's not possible (not possible for Brynden perhaps!)-

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man's gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard's lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth. "Winterfell," Bran whispered. His father looked up. "Who's there?" he asked, turning … … and Bran, frightened, pulled away. His father and the black pool and the godswood faded and were gone and he was back in the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling his limbs as a mother does a child.

It's not quite time travel. It's like the acorn and stump metaphor - Bran can't appear in his physical body in the past but he can make a bit of noise, perhaps even be mistaken for one of the old gods.

As TWOW and ADOS go on, I think we'll see Bran's powers grow (likely in ways that frighten him and horrify the reader), and we'll see the very beginnings of him influencing the plot that happens during the previous books, showing up in scenes we've already experienced, similar to the Ned scene above. I think this because, well...he's already done it!

Now, as for What Time Traveling Bran Has Already Done - it’s tricky because we have a LOT of magic users waking and shaking. I’m not including every single instance of weird whispering or funny birds here, just the moments I think are more likely to be Bran than anyone else because I think Bran mostly deals with his siblings. I imagine they're easiest to reach out to magically because they already have the ability to access magic, and they're also the people he cares most about. The most obvious to me is in A Clash of Kings, when Jon hears a voice on the wind, very similar to the young Ned scene in the show-

Jon VII in A Clash of Kings

The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for his brother, for a glimpse of a lean grey shape moving beneath the trees, but there was nothing, only … A weirwood. It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen, no more than a sapling, yet it was growing as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?

Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow. He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.

This moment was when I really started paying attention to Weird Shit Bran Might Be Doing because of that line "not before the crow." Now, we know Bran mentions talking with Jon later on, in the very last chapter of the book, here-

 He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon. Though maybe he had only dreamed that.

But I think it's both Bran in the present and Bran in ADOS speaking here - brothers reaching out to each other in their fear, and future Bran piggybacking off that connection to send a warning (this is back in Jon VII, during the shared Jon-Bran dream as before)-

Then he realized he was looking at a river of ice several thousand feet high. Under that glittering cold cliff was a great lake, its deep cobalt waters reflecting the snowcapped peaks that ringed it. There were men down in the valley, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Some were tearing great holes in the half-frozen ground, while others trained for war...This is no army, no more than it is a town. This is a whole people come together.

Bran warns Jon of the wildling army headed their way because he needs the Night’s Watch to stop fighting the wildlings, get them safely out of the True North (so they can’t be reanimated as wights), and focus on the Long Night. When you read the passage, it seems as if Bran is trying to awaken Jon’s third eye - something present baby Bran isn’t concerned with, because he barely understands his own third eye awakening. But a Bran in ADOS or beyond would know exactly what to say and do to get Jon and himself to wake up! Not just because of the paradox, but because of his connection to his brother and his vast understanding of his own magic. Similar to the idea that “who would know how to motivate Bran better than Bran himself” who would know how to motivate Jon better than one of his beloved siblings?

Arya X in A Clash of Kings

In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. "Tell me what to do, you gods," she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya's skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father's voice. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said.

“But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan."

"You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you."

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would." She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

Once again, we have a voice - it seemed as if it was her father's voice - telling a Starkling to do something specific, reminding that Starkling of their ties to Winterfell, the north, and home. The voice she hears, speaking her true name, is the kick in the pants Arya needs to grab Gendry and Hot Pie and get out of Harrenhal. There's something interesting, engaging, heartbreaking, that when Arya is at one of her lowest points, lamenting the loss of her pack, and out comes the voice of one of her pack urging her to keep faith, and helping to inspire one of her best moments - I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth. Again, we have a voice trying to get the Starklings to wake up and face their reality!

Sansa in A Storm of Swords

That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King. She dreamt of Joffrey dying, but as he clawed at his throat and the blood ran down across his fingers she saw with horror that it was her brother Robb. And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion's eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.

To be clear I think there’s a large change this is nothing. BUT. Considering Bran seems to be reaching out to his siblings, I like the idea that Bran, and magic in general, is trying to talk to Sansa but she can’t quite hear it. Winterfell and it’s magic and it’s family is calling it’s daughter home, even torn from her magical guide as she is, still trying to reach out through her dreams and through the animals around her. I’m desperately hoping that at some point in Sansa’s early TWOW chapters, we’ll start to see birds acting and speaking funny around her as Bran tries harder to reach his lost sister.

Theon Greyjoy in A Dance With Dragons

BUT. I don't think it's just the Starklings that get these messages from Bran - it's everyone he cares about, everyone he loves or will love. One of the other more obvious examples of this is Theon Greyjoy, himself clearly capable of some degree of magic, just like the Starklings-

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. “Theon,” they seemed to whisper, “Theon.” The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. “Please.” He fell to his knees. “A sword, that’s all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek.” Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. “I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands.” A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. “… Bran,” the tree murmured. They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water.

“he had been fond of the boy” please allow me this moment to contemplate killing myself thanks.

okay back on track but this is very self explanatory - we know Theon has some sort of capacity for magic because he had a vision of the Red Wedding in ACOK and unlike Jaime who just fell asleep on a weirweed tree, Theon was just up in bed. We see it again here, where Theon can hear a voice on the wind and then seems to see Bran’s own face in the face of the weirwood tree. Once again, the voice on the wind is trying to help a loved one of Bran’s find their way back to themselves, back to home. And Theon, for all the harm he has done, is still so so loved by Bran, and loves Bran in return.

Samwell Tarly III in A Storm of Swords

Sam made a whimpery sound. “It’s not fair …” “Fair.” The raven landed on his shoulder. “Fair, far, fear.” It flapped its wings, and screamed along with Gilly. The wights were almost on her. He heard the dark red leaves of the weirwood rustling, whispering to one another in a tongue he did not know. The starlight itself seemed to stir, and all around them the trees groaned and creaked. Sam Tarly turned the color of curdled milk, and his eyes went wide as plates. Ravens! They were in the weirwood, hundreds of them, thousands, perched on the bone-white branches, peering between the leaves. He saw their beaks open as they screamed, saw them spread their black wings. Shrieking, flapping, they descended on the wights in angry clouds. They swarmed round Chett’s face and pecked at his blue eyes, they covered the Sisterman like flies, they plucked gobbets from inside Hake’s shattered head. There were so many that when Sam looked up, he could not see the moon. “Go,” said the bird on his shoulder. “Go, go, go.”

Whoever this is - it's Bran!!!! - helps to save Sam and Gilly's lives, actively tells them to run for it, and just a little bit later, Sam is around to help save Bran in turn. I think there's also something to be said for the brotherhood connection here. They refer to each other as brothers in the book because of their connection to Jon; that connection to Jon, and therefore each other, means a lot to both Sam and Bran. There's a practical reason for saving Sam here in that he can help Bran in the "present" timeline, will likely help in the future, but more than that there's an emotional bond here and it seems to me that magic runs off emotions just as assuredly as it runs off of other important stuff like blood and and sacrifice and weirwoods.

Jon Snow XII in A Storm of Swords

With a raucous scream and a clap of wings, a huge raven burst out of the kettle. It flapped upward, seeking the rafters perhaps, or a window to make its escape, but there were no rafters in the vault, nor windows either. The raven was trapped. Cawing loudly, it circled the hall, once, twice, three times. And Jon heard Samwell Tarly shout, “I know that bird! That’s Lord Mormont’s raven!” The raven landed on the table nearest Jon. “Snow,” it cawed. It was an old bird, dirty and bedraggled. “Snow,” it said again, “Snow, snow, snow.” It walked to the end of the table, spread its wings again, and flew to Jon’s shoulder. Lord Janos Slynt sat down so heavily he made a thump, but Ser Alliser filled the vault with mocking laughter. “Ser Piggy thinks we’re all fools, brothers,” he said. “He’s taught the bird this little trick. They all say snow, go up to the rookery and hear for yourselves. Mormont’s bird had more words than that.” The raven cocked its head and looked at Jon. “Corn?” it said hopefully. When it got neither corn nor answer, it quorked and muttered, “Kettle? Kettle? Kettle?” The rest was arrowheads, a torrent of arrowheads, a flood of arrowheads, arrowheads enough to drown the last few stones and shells, and all the copper pennies too.

The Night's Watch seem to take this as some sort of divine sign, and Jon's friends take it as an excellent ploy from Samwell Tarly. But when Pyp confronts Sam over it a page later, Sam completely denies it -

“I had nothing to do with the bird,” Sam insisted. “When it flew out of the kettle I almost wet myself.”

Everyone has their theories about people warging Mormont's crow of course. I think what's interesting to me here is that Jon is really wrestling with the idea of leaving the Watch for Winterfell, in which case Janos Slynt was likely to take over command. Someone like Slynt being in charge when the Long Night is coming is a bad idea, and here, Mormont's bird directly contributes to Jon staying where he needs to be - watching over the wildlings and making sure they aren't turning into Wights.

(And this is getting into my other theories here, but IF Sansa as the Girl In Grey is true, I think this is a neat sort of timeline fixing - almost as if Bran is saying “no, not yet, the pieces aren’t aligned, Jon can’t leave yet, Brienne isn’t at the Vale to get Sansa, I haven’t trained enough, Jon still keeps slapping his hands over his third eye so he can’t see, I need to give myself more time here.”)

Bran II in A Game of Thrones

But...it's not just his family and friends that I think Bran is trying to help here, and of course, if he IS the Three-Eyed Crow, he isn’t YET. What I think is going to be a big climactic part of Bran's story is self sacrifice, giving up some of his own power, his own happiness, to save others. Yes, part of this is my absolute refusal to accept Borg Hivemind Fantasy Police State King Bran in that he will say NO to the hivemind, but I think there's something magical here as well!

I think in order to access great power you need to be willing to put your own body on the line.

Jojen mentions having gotten sick with "greywater fever" shortly before his greendreams started

Dany experiences a miscarriage then literally walks into fire in order to hatch her dragons

both Beric and Catelyn have to quite literally be gruesomely murdered in order for Thoros' fire magic to work to bring them back to life

Melisandre has to physically give birth in order for her shadow assassination to work

on and on it goes. In order to be capable of great power, you can’t just have a willingness to throw someone ELSE onto the pyre but yourself as well. But Bran is pushed out of the window instead of willingly jumping. Or...

The wolfling was smarter than any of the hounds in his father’s kennel and Bran would have sworn he understood every word that was said to him, but he showed very little interest in chasing sticks…Finally he got tired of the stick game and decided to go climbing….

The wolf did as he was told. Bran scratched him behind the ears, then turned away, jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb, when the wolf got to his feet and began to howl.

Bran looked back down. His wolf fell silent, staring up at him through slitted yellow eyes. A strange chill went through him. He began to climb again. Once more the wolf howled. “Quiet,” he yelled. “Sit down. Stay. You’re worse than Mother.” The howling chased him all the way up the tree, until finally he jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.

I think this is future Bran, finally becoming the Three Eyed Crow, inside Summer. Summer shows no interest in the game and it’s only then that Bran decides to go climbing. Future Bran is sacrificing himself for the greater good - but can’t stop his mournful cry of the fate that awaits his own young self.

[sskk-manifesto]

--

[wonder-worker]

people really do not know what they're talking about when it comes to Elizabeth Woodville's social status, huh?

[magicaleggplant]

2023 Dreams on Ice Videos

Highest quality videos I could find from public links. Thanks to all uploaders 🙏

Team Japan Women:

Kaori Sakamoto FS - Wild is the Wind / Feeling Good (choreo by Marie-France Dubreuil)

Mai Mihara SP - To Love You More (choreo by Jeffrey Buttle)

Rinka Watanabe SP - Avater: The Way of Water (choreo by Kenji Miyamoto)

Hana Yoshida SP - Koo Koo Fun (choreo by Kaitlyn Weaver)

Mone Chiba SP - Dark Eyes (choreo by Misha Ge)

Mao Shimada SP - Americano (choreo by Kaitlyn Weaver)

Ami Nakai SP - Baby, God Bless You (choreo by David Wilson)

Rena Uezono SP - Twilight

Team Japan Men:

Kao Miura FS - Attack on Titan (choreo by Shae-Lynn Bourne)

Shun Sato SP - Libertango (choreo by Kenji Miyamoto)

Sota Yamamoto FS - Exogenesis Symphony (choreo by Kenji Miyamoto)

Kazuki Tomono SP - Underground (choreo by Jeffrey Buttle)

Koshiro Shimada FS - Danse Macabre (choreo by Stephane Lambiel)

Takeru Amine Kataise SP - Adios Nonino

Nozomu Yoshioka FS - Final Fantasy VII

Haruya Sasaki SP - Gira con me

Team Japan Ice Dance:

Komatsubara/Koleto RD - Ghostbusters

Guest Skaters:

Haein Lee EX - Pink Venom (choreo by Misha Ge)

Ilia Malinin SP - Malaguena (choreo by Shae-Lynn Bourne)

[waywardsalt]

hm.

[orchideae]

Me over here while about to go to bed because work in the morning and it's 1AM already: Doesn't write a Fontaine character, is a Liyue fanatic at heart, and truly has no business talking about Fontaine. Meanwhile, has gone insane to numerous people so far about French language tidbits for the nation/some of its characters and the massive contrast between them, but especially the architecture, considering Fontaine seems to be inherently referencing historical France more times than I can possibly ever count, and it's the nation of justice (well, technically since Focalors, as I don't believe Egeria was ever known as the god of 'justice'? This whole concept of the gods and what they're officially gods of is still something that my mind goes feral over, but technically, a predecessor and/or ancestor holds/held the title of the same archon of course, but doesn't have to preside over the same 'ideal', or so from what I've been able to find; especially as we know that the gods don't 'reincarnate', with Rukkhadevata and Nahida being an exception... of sorts? Ish?) which is incredibly important to remember. It's honestly the concept of how 'you can tell a lot about people from their room/home', and here, it ties into potentially one or three(?) characters in a vastly interesting way. /mutters at self and Hoyo.

[fourspiceblend]

It's funny cause for the most part of the game, I didn't really care about people's criticisms of Engage's writing and thought they were just mad the story was straightforward and didn't try to be overly complex... But now that I'm (finally) reaching the endgame, there's a loooot of weird plotholes that 3H would be jealous of lol.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife

You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap

“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for

The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him

That one smile and he was done for

“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.

“Think that was my wife.”

“Yer what?!”

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife

Well, everyone apart from you apparently

He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves

Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case

Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course

By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway

“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”

By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and himself into you

You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing

“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand

“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book

“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips

“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch

“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him

Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses

“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind

“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white

“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”

Series masterlist

[nochepsicodelica]

You and Toji are sitting at a table at a bar, talking about different things that went on throughout your days over some drinks. Toji tells you about how Shiu's been a real asshole lately, because his marriage is hanging on by a thread and he hasn't gotten laid in almost a month. He gives you a look that you interpret as him saying 'thank fuck that's not us' to which you respond with a little smirk.

When it's your turn, you tell him about how the new hire broke the copy machine, knocked over and broke the water gallon for the water dispenser, and crashed into someone, spilling hot coffee all over their shirt, all in the course of one day.

"That poor fucker's cursed," Toji says, amusement riddling his expression as he brings his glass of whiskey to his lips.

"He looked like he really needed a hug by the end of the day," you add, biting back a smile, before you take a sip of your own drink.

"Tell me you didn't," Toji says, taking in the seemingly telling look on your face. "Ma."

"I'm kidding. It's jokes, baby. I have no interest in hugging someone I haven't spoken a single word to."

Toji flicks your forehead, watching with a grin as you bring a hand up to rub the sting away. "Gotta piss, be right back, doll. Want another drink before I come back?"

"I'll wait for you to finish yours," you say, to which he nods before standing up from his seat.

"Be right back," Toji repeats, affectionately setting a heavy hand on your head, before he heads off in the direction of the restrooms.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and scroll through your socials while you wait. Altogether, Toji was gone for no longer than four minutes, and yet somehow, that was enough time for a rando to pull a chair up to your little table and start a conversation with you.

"Hey," he starts. "Why are you sitting here looking all lonely?"

You turn your head to face the person with the unfamiliar voice, slightly widening your eyes as if to question if he's talking to you. He looks at you with raised eyebrows, awaiting your response. "Oh, i'm not here alone. My boyfriend is in the bathroom," you respond, with a polite smile, before returning your attention to your phone.

"Ah. What kind of man leaves a pretty thing like you by herself in a place like this?" The stranger says, in a tone that almost seems pitiful towards you.

You look at him again and attempt to keep your expression neutral. "He'll be back any second now. He's just taking a piss, i'll be fine. Unless you're here to make things troubling for me."

The man chuckles, entertained by your quick shift in tone. "With a feisty attitude like that and a pretty mouth to keep up, it seems like you want me to get you in trouble."

You furrow your eyebrows, blatantly offended by his inappropriate insinuation. It's disturbing to see how he turned your warning into something sexual.

"I already told you, I have a boyfriend. Try someone else," you respond, no longer hiding your irritation.

Toji scans the room for the table you're sitting at, locating you and who-the-fuck in three seconds. This man looks awfully cozy with you, leaning in close every time he speaks to you, so he doesn't stand around any longer and quickly makes his way back to you and this new "friend".

"You sure you don't want another drink, doll?" Toji asks, sitting down in front of you, again, his gaze darting between you and this pocket square looking man. There's a difference between your demeanor from before he left and now. You clearly aren't comfortable, anymore.

"That's it? That is your supposed boyfriend?" The man asks, attempting to minimize Toji by referring to him as if he's nothing in comparison to himself. "Oh, princess. You see this watch?" He asks, raising the cuff of his sleeve to fully reveal his golden watch. "Four thousand dollars, and that's chump change."

You look at Toji and pull his hand into your shaky one, giving him a forced smile. Toji keeps his eyes on yours as the stranger continues spewing arrogant sludge about how much money he makes a year and how even the luxury car he has parked outside didn't put the smallest dent in his wallet.

"You would have it so good with me, baby," he continues blabbering. His hand goes to your wrist, a gesture that Toji quickly puts an end to by aggressively shoving the man's hand away, your empty glass clattering on the table from the force. Toji would have snapped the man's wrist and twisted his hand off, but he didn't want to scare you with the bloodshed. He feels like he's buzzing from the anger bubbling inside, and surely it won't be long before he acts out.

"Don't fucking touch her," Toji spits, glaring at the man with an expression that would have put him six feet under, if looks could kill.

Your heartbeat is in your ears and your blood is boiling. This man is disgusting for being persistent towards someone who doesn't want him. It's masochism, at this point, with the amount of times that you've made it clear that you're not interested.

The man snorts, snobbishly. "He brought you here, of all places. Even just glancing at him, you can tell this cheap ass place is all he can afford. He'll never be able to give you everything you want, so just come with me, doll face."

You rip your hand out of Toji's grasp and stand from your chair, delivering a resounding blow to the man's already hideous face. Tables and chairs wobble as he tries to keep his balance, but when you quickly strike him again, hard enough to increase the pain you felt in your knuckles with that first hit, you manage to knock him onto the ground.

"Fuck you, you fucking asshole. You don't know shit!" You grit out, dropping down to try and land another hit to the man's bleeding face. By now, Toji is behind you, restraining your arms and pulling you back as a small crowd begins to form to observe the commotion.

"Ma, come on. Let's just go."

"Let me dent his fucking face in, Toji," you mutter, writhing in his grip.

The vile man manages to sit up, dabbing his fingertips against his busted lip. Though there is red blossoming on his face, his lips still form an amused, twisted smile. He laughs as he watches you get reeled back by Toji, seething as you are dragged away like a child having a meltdown in the middle of a store.

"Hey-- Hey, I said let's go," Toji says, his tone sharper when you continue to try to break out of his hold to fight the idiotic sociopath.

You take a deep breath and stop, willingly letting Toji take you away from this chaos you created in his defense. His hand rests on the nape of your neck, as he guides you through the stuffy bar and leads you outside to the car.

"Stop pacing," Toji says, watching as you threaten to make the asphalt beneath your feet waste away with every step you take in your heated state.

"Fucking asshole, dickhead, motherfucker." You groan, loudly, furiously, before covering your face with your hands. "It's fine, it's fine," you mumble to yourself.

"Then, stop pacing," he repeats, watching on as you walk the same steps, over and over, as if you're on autopilot. "Ma, eyes. Eyes." His hands go to your shoulders, manually forcing you to halt your movement. "Listen to me. I said eyes."

"I'm so... I can't stand still," you say, weakly.

"Stop looking around. Right here," Toji instructs, lifting one hand from your shoulder and pointing two fingers at his eyes. You release a shaky puff of air and hold his gaze as best as you can.

"Talk when you're ready," he says, following your eyes whenever they derail from his.

You aren't ready soon enough. You feel like your heart is trying to burst out of your chest and the adrenaline coursing through you isn't helping at all. Your hand hurts. Your knuckles feel bruised and they're bloody. The night might be ruined, but you felt your reaction was the only way to release the pain you felt when that nothing started talking the way he did about Toji. All you can think to do is hug Toji to prevent yourself from crying about your cause for attacking the gross man. It's all so much. You've never felt so strongly for someone, to the point where you hit a stranger for insulting them. It's scary how Toji brings that defensive, yet, offensive side out of you.

Strong, heavy arms reciprocate your embrace, keeping your tense body close. You feel warm and safe, his scent and the pressure of his hold managing to slowly calm your unsteady heartbeat. After a few seconds of quietness, you turn your head and rest the side of your face on him, finally prepared to speak.

"I didn't like how he was talking about you, Toji. He was talking shit even before you came back, and I hated it. I hated it so much, that I felt nauseous and if I hadn't done something, I would have been sick."

Toji sighs, not out of disappointment or feelings of that sort, but because you seeking out danger for his sake, was not something he ever wanted to see.

"Doll, you know how much I love you."

This sounds like a layer of sugar preceding a talking to. You're trying not to be nervous before the scolding even begins, but you feel the need to brace yourself, as well.

"I love you, too," you mumble.

Toji knows it. He's known it all along, and the events that transpired tonight were just another way of you proving your love and showing how much he matters to you.

"Want you to look at me," he says, lowering his arms on your back, allowing you to make the space necessary to give him your attention. He offers you a soft smile. "Don't get all fidgety on me after you just ripped a stranger's face open."

"I feel like you're about to yell at me," you say, lowly.

That makes him want to laugh, but he keeps his amusement to a minimum, since you're clearly anticipating something terrible.

"Nah. When have I ever raised my voice at you?"

"Never."

"Exactly. Never, and I won't start now, but I want you to get this through your pretty head... It's not your job to beat people up for me."

"I know, but-"

Toji shakes his head. "Hold on, mama. Let me finish talking, then it'll be your turn."

Your heart feels like it's in the depths of your stomach, but you nod, and allow him to continue talking.

"I'm not mad at you, i'm not gonna yell at you. Just wanna keep you safe, is all. That guy was already a fuckin' weirdo, harassing you like that and trying to get you to go with him while I was right there. I wouldn't be surprised if he was into hitting women, too, if he's so comfortable with making them uncomfortable."

It's quiet while you think of what to say. You don't want this to escalate into something that turns you against each other, when it started out as an act of love. You could argue about how you did this to defend him, but in the end, you know his own need to protect you, will stomp all over your arguments.

"I'm sorry we had to leave, but i'm not sorry for the reason behind it. I don't regret what I did."

"Ma..."

"No, Toji. He didn't even know you and yet he still said things that aren't fair." Your voice quiets down, the beginnings of stronger emotions threatening to outwardly reveal themselves. "He insulted you. He questioned your abilities as my boyfriend when he saw me alone— even after I told him you just went to the bathroom. He judged you superficially, he said you can't give me everything I want and--" you pause, interrupted by a shaky inhale and the painful lump in your throat. "Sorry," you mumble, when the first set of tears roll down your cheeks.

"No, you're alright," Toji says, in response, his warm hands coming up to cup your cheeks, thumbs wiping away your fleeing tears. There's a small pinch in his brows. Why are you crying? It's something he can't ask you, because he knows that if he makes a big spectacle out of it, you'll end up drowning in your tears and shutting down everything you have to say. He resorts to keeping your cheeks dry and encouraging you to keep talking.

"Go on, mama."

You sniff, before picking up where you left off. "I don't care about all that, Toji. I don't care where we go to spend time together, because we're together. I need you, not for you to buy me things or take me to fancy places. That's not what I'm with you for."

Your heart is beating fast, again, its rhythm no longer controlled by fear or nerves, but instead the focus that Toji has on you. He's good at holding eye contact with you, something that occasionally gets distracting if you become too aware of it. You notice that his expression is softer. Maybe it's your brief flash of tears or the way you are always subconsciously finding a way to indirectly recite some of the reasons for why you love him.

"I love you, Toji. That means I won't just sit around and let someone talk about you like you're worthless. And I know, I know you can handle things like this on your own and you don't need me, but it was hard to listen to that."

You pause, as if to give him a break from your bulldozing heart. Silence takes over the moment, both of you just looking at each other. Toji's speechlessness has you wondering if you spilled too much of your heart out to him. You know some things are better left to be figured out, such as the range of a person's love, and yet you just poured without measure. "You can call me crazy if you want to."

Toji's shit-eating grin is unexpected, but it's definitely a sight that lifts some of the heaviness you feel in your chest.

"You love me," Toji says, still smiling like a doofus. He knows your serious facade will crack if he looks at you like this for long enough. He can already see a shift in the expression of your eyes and the way your lips are pressing together just a little more. He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that pushes you even further towards that pretty smile he wants to see. When you finally crack and give into his charm, you do so with a mutter of 'you're so dumb.'

"I'm glad that's what you got out of my rambling," you say, wholeheartedly and in better spirits. Toji pulls you in, this time, his soothing warmth and familiar scent tangling around you, again. His chin rests on top of your head and his arms secure themselves around you, tightly.

"I'm not gonna call you crazy, ma. It's not what I think. Also, don't go saying things that aren't true. I do need you," Toji says, his voice level kept at an intimate volume, as if there are other people there in the parking lot with you. His words are solely meant for you to hear anyway and getting them to you in this manner ensures that you won't go home with your heart feeling heavy, after a talk that was meant to comfort you.

"You know, I don't care what other people think— and that's not to say I don't appreciate you throwing a few punches for my sake. You're a sweetheart and you care so much, but if it's a stranger saying some unimportant, dumb shit, it takes a lot for it to actually get to me. If it really bothered me, they'd be gone."

"Yeah... I know," you mumble, into his shirt, knowing you would do it again and again— countless times. You loosen your arms around Toji and he does the same, his hands dragging towards your waist after you separate.

"How's that hand?" Toji asks, picking your wrist up before you can even respond. He whistles at the sight of the slight swelling and the dry specks of crimson spotted over your knuckles.

"A little tender," you say, feeling a tinge of fear when his other hand lifts off your waist to feel the damage.

"Looks real good on your pretty hand," he says, dragging his index finger over the protruding bones of your hand.

"Does it?" You ask, your barely there smile falling when you wince at the little bit of pressure Toji applies.

"No," he responds, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to the sore area. You wince again when his thumb drags over your skin with slightly more pressure than before. "It doesn't. We'll ice it when we get home, alright?" He lets up on the torturous touching, but keeps your hand in his. The words aren't meant to hurt you. He doesn't mean them and he hopes he communicates that with the way he still opts to hold your hand. Your hands will always be pretty to him, he just can't say that to you, right now. Not if it serves as the smallest bit of encouragement for you to repeat what happened earlier, in the future.

"Okay." You nod.

"Gimme a kiss and we can go home or wherever, if you wanna stay out."

You tilt your head up and wait for his lips to meet yours. It's a gentle brush of lips, but the second Toji's hands start slipping under the back of your sweater and your shirt, you know it's going to be more than a single kiss. You can feel the night's cold wind nipping at your skin, as his hands go higher up, his fingertips reaching just below the hooks of your bra. To your surprise, he unhooks the garment, causing you to quickly press your hands to your chest when the cups loosen, to prevent them from fully sliding down.

"Toji," you manage to utter out during the wave of kisses. You turn your head, receiving a kiss that was meant for your lips, on your cheek.

"Yeah... I think we should go home," he murmurs, against your skin. "Maybe we can rock the car a little bit before we go, hm?" Toji smirks when you let out that flustered giggle he's so familiar with. He presses another kiss to your cheek before you turn to face him, again.

"Okay, but let's not blow it all here. We have a nice and comfortable bed at home. Let's add another good night to it."

You don't miss the way Toji's lustfully lidded, green eyes, keep glancing down at your hands on your chest, or how he's mindlessly caressing your bare waist, under your shirt.

"Alright, ma." He pulls out his car keys and with the press of a button, the car unlocks with a beep and the brief, dull sound of flipping locks. "Get inside."

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

[rapturously]

𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟, 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐞.

┊ count orlok x fem!reader.

✠⠀༷ ゜ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: after uncovering an heirloom thought to be long-buried and forgotten to time, your flesh is joined as one with the enigmatic count.

read part one here.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: heavy smut, willing consent, vampire antics (bloodplay, blood drinking, scent kink), extreme possessive & obsessive behavior, biting, scratching, making out, tearing clothing, unprotected p in v sex, loss of virginity, sex with a rotting vampire, cunnilingus, cockwarming, multiple orgasms, title kink (use of my lord), dracula references, a relationship based on lust/obsession/possession and not love.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: writing this has given me joy about writing again & it’s a fantastic feeling! loved working on this fic! thank you to everyone who has shown such love and support for my work, this is why I write and it means a lot to me! I hope you guys enjoy!

𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞.

Each night since he had first fed from you followed a similar pattern, lulled into a sensual subservience by his shadow, soothed by the allure of his voice. There was an innate lack of physicality that perplexed you, as if he were waiting for something else.

This enforced isolation by daylight allowed you to traverse the castle grounds, to explore the hallowed halls of this macabre mausoleum — you never felt truly alone. His presence stayed with you, a shadow haunting your steps.

Beneath the crunch of frozen undergrowth, you wandered. Within the shroud of the Carpathian Mountains, the fortress had seemed monumental, but in the flesh, it was smaller, a labyrinth of stone. It gave you ample time to admire the architecture and study his home.

The village became a mere afterthought, abandoned to the recesses of your mind, buried away, never to be uncovered. Your Lord was not physically present, more often than not, and you began to burn for his touch.

Phantom caresses and arduous visions could only sustain your craving for him for so long. He was not unkind, simply aloof and enigmatic, a being that seemed to give you everything you wanted, and nothing at all.

He had swathed you in clothing finer than you could ever imagine, fit for a noblewoman, lavished you in fine trappings and allowed you your own chambers. Even then, you wanted more — you wanted to be with him, beseech him to stay.

Wisps of warmth emerged from your lips as you stepped beneath an archway, the stone older than your predecessors. The grounds, still and eerie, retained a wealth of history, his ancestors still buried somewhere within the catacombs.

Orlok, you’d learned, was his ancestral surname, passed down through a noble lineage of a royal bloodline that far exceeded that of your own. He spoke nothing of his own beginnings, preferring to keep it all concealed within the dark.

For most of your life, you’d been taught to fear strigoi, tales of bloodsucking predators looming in the night, coming to snatch the innocent from their beds. You still felt some unusual uneasiness with your Lord, but it was humans you feared more than anything, those that tried to kill you.

Timeworn rags of your old life were left behind, scattered to the wind like a shattered memory. Whatever void was left within you, he filled �� like a goblet overflowing with wine, leaving you satiated.

Within dust-laden corridors, you managed to find your way from the castle’s exterior grounds to a spacious hall, one that you had not yet seen. A singular door, tall and scaling, sat before you, the doorknob possessing the head of a gargoyle.

It was untoward for you to go prowling around within the Conta’s private dwellings, and yet, curiosity seemed to get the better of you.

Left unlatched, you gently pushed against the wrought-iron surface, chest lurching with a flurry of anxiousness as it groaned in protest. Sluggingly, it began to fall open, revealing a private study, wreathed in still-burning candlelight.

It was dark, lacking any windows or inklings of natural light. Scaling stone walls were lined in archaic paintings, several massive portraits gilded in frames of tarnished gold. Shadows danced along the bannister, uncertainty swelling within your stomach.

Each painting must’ve been familial, finely-crafted imagery of his ancestors. There was only one that seemed torn to shreds, almost nonexistent as you approached. The name was worn by time, difficult to read, Dacian muddied with the rotten gold of the frame.

The study seemed to have little use, chaotic and visually disorganized, with books and parchment strewn about, the fixtures dilapidated and old. An oaken desk remained scattered with various documents, but it was one item that had ensnared your attention.

A locket, the silver having faded to an ugly, distorted brown, all color and liveliness stripped away. It was inappropriate of you to pry like this, but some unforeseen force compelled you to take it, to open it and peer inside.

Trembling digits slipped around the ornate chain, finding the hinge of the trinket as you opened it. To your surprise, there was a small, painted portrait of a young woman — beautiful, in your eyes. Her attire was ripped from that of royalty, with delicate features and a regal, dignified posture.

Upon closer inspection, she resembled you to an uncanny degree, eyes beset by kindness.

A soft exhale of surprise tore past your lips, thumb tracing over the curve of the locket, brows furrowing together. This stranger’s likeness seemed to replicate yours, almost supernatural, and yet, you couldn’t be farther apart, separated by class and the insurmountable reach of time.

It hadn’t been disturbed for many ages, but the peculiarity of it did not seem to leave you, even as you placed it back down. Perhaps, he’d known of your presence all along, but it did not seem to fit the mystique of it all.

Departing from his study, you closed the door, greeted by the vibrant rays of sunset.

It became a tedious game of awaiting dusk’s arrival, watching as the sun began to slip beneath the mountains, orange rays turning to violet. With twilight encroaching, you knew he would soon awake, emerging from the shadows.

A sliver of your being felt compelled to ask about the locket, but you did not want to invoke his ire, if he were anguished over it. He had left it behind for a reason, buried beneath mountains of parchment, and there must’ve been a reason for it.

The forlorn dinner hall remained empty, save for the roaring hearth, brought to life by your Lord. As you entered through the massive set of wrought-iron doors, you caught a glimpse of his form, sitting closer to the fire.

Even from afar, your gaze was ensnared by the bundle of white, gossamer cloth he carried, the fabric reminiscent of your nightgown. Claws pinched at the material, twisting it between his fingertips as he brought it closer to his visage.

A strange spark stirred within your stomach, a familiar heat that seemed to ignite some crackling tension, allowing it to permeate the air. A hitch formed within your throat as you closed the door, the thump of it reverberating throughout the stone ceilings.

A hoarse rasp emerged from Orlok, an unsteady inhale as he absorbed the scent of your garments. In the time between, when he slumbered within his tomb, it was your smell he longed for, akin to that of some mortal addiction.

As you entered the hall, he withdrew your gown from his countenance, able to sense your beating heart, growing erratic in his presence. Black hues craned to peer over his shoulder, masked by the thick fur of his overcoat.

The bane of his being, his obsession, his lifeblood — during his days of arduous slumber, his thoughts crawled with you, of your amorous cries and keening body. There was a newfound ecstasy in the coming of dusk, when he could see you again — no vision placed within his mind’s eye.

He was not an oblivious creature, not impervious to your misadventures within his castle. Your scent lingered, permeating each corridor with a peculiar bouquet of warmth, one that only you possessed.

Your living presence breathed a certain exuberance into the veil of his shadow, where life was little more than a meaningless sentiment. His decay only seemed stilled by your heart, a precious thing, something that he deeply coveted.

It was in his nature to possess, to consume — he welcomed you into his tangled shroud, a dark haze that often invoked such fright. Your terror had subsided into carnality, a frenzied passion that he shared in, but had not yet acted upon.

Peering into your heart, the Count saw your wandering about within his study, mesmerized by paintings of his predecessors — and then, cradling a tarnished locket. A growl of agitation rippled through him, coupled with a rousing anger.

“Thou has traversed to places of grave importance,” The gravelly, thunderous lull of his cadence sent shivers of dread down your spine, born out of a gnawing anxiousness. He knew that you’d gone into his study, a place he considered to be private. “Why?”

A stab of lurching dread lunged for your stomach, sending a shiver throughout your body. It was foolish of you to believe that he wouldn’t suspect your prying, hands idly clutching at the fringe of your dress, an attempt at relieving tension.

Slick perspiration licked along the back of your neck as you faced his sharp accusation with a shrewd countenance. “I am sorry, my Lord, I did not intend to disturb your study.” It was a feeble attempt at mending the friction between the both of you.

“But you did,” A living reminder of terror — of his true nature, that of undeath and obliteration. Despite his innate obsession with you, he was still capable of wielding an icy wrath that made you tremble with trepidation. “I command thee to speak.”

A guttural growl erupts from his rotten diaphragm, a snarl that causes you to straighten, gooseflesh raking along your spine. He beseeches you to tell the truth of what you saw, something that your eyes were never intended to see.

“The locket,” A wisp of a murmur slips between your lips, tone softening in a valiant attempt to uncover the mystery of your ancient doppelgänger. “Who was she?” It was an innocuous inquiry, born from a naive heart.

Centuries without a thought of the past, only centered around you — you had brought an onslaught of lamenting with you. The Count did not answer, neglecting to shed any clarity on the woman who bore your own visage.

It was his own hubris that brought about his use of necromancy, thinking he could resurrect one that had long been dormant to the world. For such an action, his flesh was cursed in undeath, roaming the nocturnal world as a harbinger of pestilence, of one’s darkest desires.

“Of little importance.”

There was a fracture within you, a war that waged as you stood with bated breath, pondering his statement with perplexity. You did not believe him when he said this, digits curling into the rough embroidery of your gown.

“I do not believe you.” Lacking an ounce of defiance, your tone screamed of someone who yearned to know more of this shadow that haunted your every step. The Count’s displeasure was visible, countenance twisted into something of sheer anguish.

Within the space of a singular breath, he manifested before you, firelight draining from your surroundings until all that was left was pitch and silver. He was intimidating like this, leering over you like a dark statue, black hues swirling with an unbridled fury.

He was often indiscernible, a presence without any sentiment, and only you could taste them upon your tongue. Now, he seemed to bristle with an unsteady rage, cold breath fanning across your face, his scent one of the yawning grave and frostbitten flesh.

“You do not know what you speak,” His voice was like a poisonous thorn, a clap of thunder that rattled the castle’s foundations. The Count still cradled your nightgown in one hand, twisted in a fist between his claws. “It is a lament, nothing more.”

Clinging to a misbegotten past — within your marrow, you knew that it was a shadow of someone he once coveted, just as he possessed you now. Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, your gaze flickered to the bundle of pale fabric bunched within his grasp.

A flutter stirred within your heart, a skipped beat that elicited a soft gasp from your lips. His shadow blanketed you in his carnality, his obsession, his veneration — it sparked a fire within your belly, one that nearly seared your bones into ash.

Words died upon your tongue, stuck within the depths of your throat as you searched for a proper retort, and nothing emerged. A void of silence seemed to stop you in your tracks, allowing for a tumultuous tension to brew instead.

The Count lingered, hovering in above you, the tip of his nose brushing across your scalp. A gust of your scent invaded his senses, euphoric and overwhelming, a most wicked affliction.

“This lament shares my face,” Threads of a darker temptation began to pull at you, his allure unmistakable, like that of the great unknown. Your utterance gave him pause, body sharing in your space. “Why?”

He would have you in every lifetime, in every century — he would devour time if it meant that he could possess you. It was an ugly obsession, a vexation that you did not fully understand, this hunger that only you could satisfy.

A singular claw languidly danced across the exposed flesh of your neck, pulse pounding away beneath your jaw. It was a sensual touch, one reserved for lovers, a caress that seemed to make your knees tremble.

“𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.”

There was a weight to his confession that stole every shred of air from your lungs until you were left with nothing but a burning. An audible hitch formed within your chest, nerves set ablaze. A fire smoldered within your belly, one that demanded to be extinguished.

Crimson strings of fate, tethering you to him — perhaps, you were intended to be here all along.

Through black forests and silver blades, through snow-laden woodlands and the maddening cries of your once-kin, you had found him. His salvation was not in the form of some fantasy or fairytale, but through him alone, this carnivorous darkness — you were made for him.

With an unsteady exhale, you happened to feel your back lean against that of the hall’s grand door, the steely bite of icy iron sinking through your dress. It wasn’t the uncertain gait of fear, but of bewilderment — exhilaration.

To be coveted in a way that transcended the bonds of humanity, to anchor yourself to this being of carnage and lust — it was a sensation unlike any other. Your tongue felt like lead, heavy within your mouth as you attempted to conjure the right words, anything to convey your devotion.

It was unspoken, your need for him — he could smell it, oozing from your pores like sap from a tree, wafting from your being, the sweetest of scents. He cornered you, his impenetrable darkness corralling you against the door, and yet, you felt not an ounce of dread.

“This flesh is bound to thee, the object of all that I desire,” He rumbled, the lull of his cadence nearly bringing you to your knees, and the flame only grew tenfold. You had not known such reverence in your lifetime — and you knew that you never would again. “You are mine.”

Through bated breath, your heart heaved with ardor, body crawling with the lap of a lascivious heat that refused to cease. “I am yours.” It was a promise, made in the throes of your Lord’s possession, vocalized.

Without coherence, your hand blindly clamored forth, reaching for him in a way that you hadn’t before. Warm, silky digits found his chest, which expanded with each hoarse rasp, a low growl escaping him.

Your embrace evoked a dark, ravenous famine within him, one that threatened to devour you whole. He watched with a thinly-veiled rapture as you sank forth, hands finding his haggard form, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

Rough-hewn furs drifted beneath your fingertips, and at last, you felt him — as real as the dust-laden stone beneath your feet, no longer feeling like some ghostly omnipresence. Claws languidly dragged themselves against your crown, perusing through your tresses in one drawn-out caress.

The soft, pliant curve of your mouth enticed him so, the very essence of temptation, like the lull of a siren’s song from oceanic depths. He wanted you to invite him in, as one would invite a godly presence, let you crawl to him.

Black hues bored into you, indiscernible with an amalgamation of emotions, some hidden to you. A sharp exhale split through your ribs, one that shook with an encroaching exhilaration. Your gaze did not tear away out of fear, transfixed upon him.

“Kiss me,” It emerged as a whimper, a plea of such intense desperation. He had only ever appeared to you as a veiled shadow, never to feel the lively flush of your skin, or the pulsating of your heart within your throat. “Please.”

It was as if his breathing became unnaturally laborious, more than it had before, threaded with a desirous exhale. This act of physicality would inevitably lead to a point of no return, flesh bound as one in some grim eternity.

Your mind had never wavered — not once did you show an ounce of spite or a will to depart from his side, digits beginning to curl into his tunic. You hoped that your touch would beseech him to act, and yet, he remained eerily still.

“You know not what you desire.”

He wanted to hear your devotion firsthand, spilled from your throat, laid bare like a sinner’s shameful confession. A twinge of pathetic frustration began to burn your features, body pressing closer until your chest had brushed against him.

“I do, my Lord, I do — I beg of you,” Breathy, wanton pleas left you in myriads, gaze glistening with an unrestrained ardor. Whatever he wanted from you, he would have it — you belonged to him. At last, his rotting lips ghosted above yours. “Take me — all of me.”

Control seemed fleeting, and you danced along the knife’s edge of desire, hoping to let it plunge into you like a mortal wound. Those elongated claws brushed across your cheek, coming to cradle your jaw in a way that only a lover could.

A throaty sound erupted from your chest, wisps of air ripped from your diaphragm when his lips collided with yours. You had not tasted anything like him before — a decay sweeter than demise. Passion took root, followed by lust.

The prickled coarseness of his mustache scratched against your mouth, and yet it hadn’t felt so heavenly before. Elation rushed through you like the swell of a tempestuous tide, prompting you to mold yourself to his own frame.

A growl stirred within him, one that evoked his possession over you, his domineering will. He tasted life within your lips, the warmth of fire, burning away the forlorn chill of the grave.

It was as if your surroundings had melted away, reduced to an endless sea of darkness, with only him as your guide. A ravenous pull laced itself into his kiss as he pressed you further, a sharp nail tracing across your jugular.

“To your chambers.”

The sharp, gravelly rumble of his cadence tore at your thoughts, ensnaring your attention as you straightened. Pitch-colored hues glowered upon you as you peeled yourself from him, obeying his command as you returned to your quarters.

He had not followed, manifesting beside the window as you shut the door, wrought-iron groaning in protest, echoing throughout the halls. The penumbra of his oppressive shadow fell across you, tangling you within the visceral gnarl of his obsessive desire.

Moonlight pooled through the singular window of your room, liquid silver casting a ghostly light upon his towering physique. No longer aghast by his haggard features, a man reanimated, you inched closer, seeking him once more.

You yearned for his mouth, for his all-consuming kiss, stepping forward until you were merely breaths away, lacking any shred of nervousness. Had you not been fantasizing of this for some time, you might’ve been terrified — instead, you felt excitement.

“Reveal thine flesh, for it belongs to me.” He rasped, desiring to see you closely this time, unable to flee from his gaze. With each visit of his shadow upon you, left him unable to truly revel in your eternal beauty.

Gooseflesh raked across your spine, accompanied by an arousing flame that ignited within your belly, burning so intensely that it threatened to scorch you, too.

You had not experienced an exhilaration quite like this — as longed-for like dusk that yearned for the moon’s enchanting silver.

Trembling digits found the front ties of your dress, untangling them with insistent tugs before you turned, back facing him. A gathering of silken ties and string pieced it all together, and your hands attempted to make swift work of their hindrance.

The feather-light embrace of claws raked across your bare shoulder, roughened pads of his spindly digits absorbing the heat of your skin. A wisp of icy breath rasped from him, hoarse and labored along the nape of your neck.

A shiver of elation rolled across your spine, lips parted with bated breath as he loomed ever closer, towering over you. God, did you want him, needed him — needed him like air, a strangled gasp of desperation.

Gnarled talons bunched themselves within loosened threads, and with an inhuman display of strength, he ripped your dress. Dark hues seemed to flicker, swirling with such lust — he wanted to bite into your passion, let it consume him.

“My Lord.” A wanton mewl slipped past your lips, listening to the shred and rending of fabric as the Count tore it from your body. Tugging your arms from the puffy sleeves, your breasts were exposed to the chill of your chambers.

His dismembering of your garments continued, elongated fingers and talons prying it all away, unraveling you, revealing you to him. Those large, gnarled hands smoothed over the curve of your hips, pushing the dress down, down.

A guttural growl unfurled from within his chest, a sharp noise that rattled your bones with a needy thrill. His initial tenderness was entirely unexpected, silently admiring the unblemished plane of your flesh.

The sharp bridge of his nose slipped against your throat, lips pressing a vigorous kiss there, roughened tongue lapping over your saccharine skin. With a keening moan, you sank into his hold, bristling at the sensation of a hand encircling your breast.

Teeth grazed across the hollow between your throat and shoulder, temptation oozing from your pores before he bit. A ripple of pain spread from his bite, enough to taste the coppery pool of your blood.

It was not a harsh bite, not intended to feed — that would come last. His penchant for your cruor called to him like a hymnal, rough tongue dragging over the wound he’d made. Talons caressed your breast, kneading at the pliant mound.

One palm closed around your neck, caging you in against his frame as he greedily lapped at oozing droplets of crimson. You felt euphoric, eyes pleasantly half-lidded as you stepped from your dress, bare-skinned and willing.

His touch evoked an enraptured ardor from you, a need so overwhelming that it seemed to wash over your core. Arousal hung heavy within the pit of your stomach, molten heat that oozed like honey between your thighs, scent ambrosial to Orlok.

The cool metal of his signet pressed against your jugular, nails cupping your chin. As he withdrew his lips from the hollow, stained in a sheen of crimson, he continued his trail of kisses along the nape of your neck, rumbling with a low rasp.

Each ragged, raucous breath he drew was accompanied by an invasive gust of your musk, vetch and bellflower, native wildflowers found within the Carpathian Alps. It was intoxicating, and he inhaled once more, lips sealed to your shoulder.

At last, he permitted you to look upon him once more, noticing the doe-like sheen to your gaze, the unusual fondness you held for him. Your desire mirrored his own, softer in-nature, but just as vivacious.

Without hesitation, your hands silently clamored toward his gaunt visage, a mask of ghastly appeal, features sharp and haggard. You wondered what he might’ve looked like in life — comely and regal, handsome; a true pylon of nobility.

Warm palms cradled his face, pads of your fingertips wandering across his cheekbones, over patches of decay and rot, over tangles of scars that would never fade. He seemed enamored — obsessed in an unholy sense, drawing to you like a shadow to a pious moon.

“Without thee, this hunger remains eternal — without thee, I cannot be sated.” The thunderous purr of his raspy cadence sent shivers down your spine, body calling out to him. This lust he filled you with was one of sheer ecstasy.

A simpering gasp ripped through your diaphragm, bringing with it a wave of want. It was as if your entire being was tethered to him in some supernatural manner — two souls, once adrift — now, two bodies joined as one.

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, and yet you conveyed your sentiments through your lips, coaxing him in for another kiss. This entanglement was of a primal sort — impassioned mouths, teeth, a moan emerging from your throat.

His hand held your throat, claws sweeping beneath your chin, along your jaw as he reciprocated with his own famine. He was ravenous, kissing you with a yearning fervor that made your flesh scream with a pleasurable fire.

“I burn for you,” It was a mewl, a wanton utterance that made his bones sing. Orlok snarled, a possessive sound, one that seemed to savor your vocalized lust. “Please, do not stop.” You pleaded, seeking his rotten lips once more.

There was a crawl to your kisses, but a necessary one. He withdrew, enough to shed his overcoat, a mountain of fur and fine fabric, now discarded alongside your dress. A hitch formed within your throat, longing to see his flesh.

A nail traced across your lower lip, holding your face with a smoldering possessiveness. Your gaze did not falter from the Count’s, whose pitch-dark hues burned with lust. Tenderly, you kissed the pad of his thumb, able to hear the hitched rasp of his breath.

With a longing embrace, your digits fluttered to the front of his fur-lined tunic, weathered and worn by time, finding the column of embroidered buttons. He did not recoil or foil your movements, pressing slow, hungry kisses to your jaw.

As you sluggishly began the process of disrobing him, you caught glimpses of rotting flesh, grey and ashen, preserved in his current state. To lay with a strigoi often meant that you would be forever tainted by darkness — tainted, you would be.

In life, ages ago, the Count was imposing and well-muscled, much of it still preserved, beginning to succumb to the slow gnarl of decay. Each warm stroke of your fingertips brought him to heel, craving you in a most abhorrent manner.

The silken-and-cord wrap that held the elongated tunic together came next, working in gentle silence as you untethered it from his person. Talons continued to grope at your body, leaving behind faint scratches, some deeper than others.

No longer burdened by the weight of sin, you felt weightless — able to drown yourself within his veneration, his obsession. It was a dark and twisted thing, an ungodly sentiment, and you remained unfettered.

It was your mouth that beseeched him for another kiss, mouths entangling, rough and hungry. The stiff, coarse bristles of his mustache scratched against your silky skin with each kiss, a low moan stirring within your throat.

He tastes dreadful — of ash and brimstone, like damp earth pulled from a tomb, and yet, your lips urge him to continue. Crimson stains sharp indents of teeth in the hollow of your shoulder from where he bit, now bruised.

Pushing his tunic aside, you were exposed to taut, haggard arms, his complexion grave-like, rotting — his perfection was unparalleled, in your eyes. Your palms spread wide against his bare chest, as cold as ice-laden snow, able to feel each heave of his hoarse breath.

The warmth he draws from you is akin to bloodletting, sucking the rot from a festering wound. He savors it, a kiss of light that he shall never taste, your passion blanketing him like sun warmed rays.

Wordlessly, you pull away, bare feet dancing across the deteriorating rug covering cold, stone floors. You move onto the bed, gossamer sheets ruffled from use, the curtains seeming to flutter of their own accord.

Sinking into the feathered duvet, you await his presence with bated breath, and he moves like a liquid shadow. You do not recall seeing him shift onto the bed to join you, clothing entirely absent. His physicality is pointed, spindly, gaunt — your breath hitches with excitement.

Patches of sinewy rot blanket his flesh like blotches of colour upon a canvas — time was not a generous creature. A lonesome beast, awakened by the grace of the maiden, you. He crawled over you like a shadow, a growl reverberating within his throat.

Drawing your legs apart, his tall, taut frame slithers between your thighs, each ragged breath one of obsession. His putrid musculature covers you, hand coming to cup your chin, elongated digits extending toward your crown.

Talons brush through your tresses, downy and soft, a stark juxtaposition to his wretched state. His gaze meets yours, evoking a subtle gasp from your mouth as you reach for him, palms finding their purchase at the nape of his neck.

The protrusions of bone are felt beneath your fingertips, the icy temperature of his flesh. Exhilaration stings your lungs, liquid heat becoming a swirling tempest within the pit of your stomach. One palm cradles the back of his skull, inviting him in for a kiss.

A moan sears your throat, bubbling forth before his mouth devours yours — frighteningly hungry, hips beginning to still against yours. You feel the swell of his member press into your core, setting your nerves ablaze.

Teeth scrape across your lower lip, dangerously sharp, like the serrated edge of a blade. His kiss is like that of a tempestuous storm — dark, foreboding, consuming — you wade into his waters with a girlish giddiness.

Reciprocating his kiss, you feel his claws begin to dig, raking against your scalp as his obsessive nature rages like a gust of furious wind. Whatever fleeting prick of pain you feel, it pales in comparison to twined mouths and the lap of his tongue.

A leathery palm encircles your breast, covetously kneading at the pliant flesh, nail flicking over the sensitive peak of your nipple. A gasp tore from your chest, lips colliding with his with such desperation, reveling in his caress.

Before him, before pledging yourself to him, you had never been touched — any kisses you received were fleeting and lifeless, momentarily bliss that lacked want. It was obsession you craved, the repressed desire to be coveted.

Lips moved in an ecstatic dance, a fervent union of flesh and lust, a twisted reverence. Carnality bled into your ministrations, your mouth paling in comparison to the domineering force of his kiss.

In one swift breath, his lips peeled themselves from yours, only to greedily smooth over the column of your throat. He worshiped your flesh, listening to the erratic pounding of your heart, hastily galloping with encroaching excitement, a sensual thrill.

Down, down — in a sluggish descent, Orlok continued his wet string of kisses, a low rumble coagulating within his chest. Like coarse bristles of a comb, his mustache tickled your flesh, mouth finding the pliant curve of your breast.

A myriad of whimpers escaped you, hands continuing to cradle his head, thumbs caressing along the nape of his neck. His noises were sounds of satisfaction, savoring the lively smolder of your skin as you stroked him.

Vigorous kisses planted themselves across your breasts, your sternum, above your heart — he did not bite, not yet. He was agonizingly slow, drawing out your pleasurable torment, causing you to writhe beneath him.

“My Lord,” You mewled, palms drifting towards your sides, fisting at the sheets as he slithered downward. A violent warmth stirred between your thighs, now slick with arousal. “Please, please …” Delicate pleas tapered off into whispers.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

It was his voice, so crystalline within the recesses of your mind — your body trembled, awaiting the inevitable wave of bliss. He offered his lust freely, like that of a shadowed plague that swept across you, gnawing away at your bones.

He inhaled — a hoarse, horrible sound that expanded throughout his diaphragm. The feminine scent that had mounted between your legs was nearly as tempting as that of blood, saliva beginning to pool within his maw.

With a lingering kiss pressed to the angular curves of your hipbone, the Count growled, mouth dipping further, until he reached the heat of your core. Claws raked across your thigh, pressing down into your supple flesh, leaving behind the marks of his possessiveness.

His tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, wet and ravenous as he began to lap at your core. Your noises emerged, unrestrained moans that tapered off into wanton whimpers. It was unexpected, his actions, yet not unwelcome.

Talons searched for your hand, dainty and delicate within his massive palm, fingers intertwining with your own. You used this as an anchor, heels digging into the bed beneath you as he greedily lapped at your aching slit.

Legs twitched and quivered from exhilaration, gooseflesh taking up residence along your spine. A wash of icy air fluttered across your stomach, over your breasts, nipples beginning to pebble with the sudden draft.

Sloppy, damp sounds resonate from below, the noises of a greedy, covetous creature whose hunger knows no bounds. His tongue possesses a mind of its own, dragging over your cunt in desirous strokes that leave you wanting more.

Fire unfurls from within you, a lustful burn that seeks to sear the both of you. It only grows in intensity with each flick of his tongue, snaking across your cunt as he savors your taste.

Joined hands rest atop your hip, his digits splayed over your lower stomach, claws occasionally piercing your flesh. No longer a stranger to the blissful pain he brings you, a moan leaves you, one that vocalizes the depths of your enjoyment.

“More,” You croak, back arching from the feathery surface beneath you, as if pulled into his darkness by some invisible force. He can taste your want upon your flesh, yearning oozing from your pores like sap from ancient bark. “More.”

The soft, desperate crooning lulls the Count into sating you, mouth greedily exploring your cunt, dipping into each crevice. It is then that his tongue laps over the pearl of your slit, causing a spasmodic tremor to pulse through your body.

A raspy, guttural growl shakes his throat, seeking the pearl of your cunt once more, dragging his tongue over it. You squirm, prompting him to continue, delivering long, wet strokes of his tongue to that sensitive clutch of nerves.

A crescendo of moans escape you in droves, your ecstasy vocalized to the black nothingness of your chambers. The curtains flutter, with bluish moonlight pooling in, its silvery glow tarnished by wisps of dark cloud, dancing across your body.

The Count continues to devour your cunt with his greedy laps and light graze of his teeth, hand snaking down to hold your thigh aloft. A tendril of drool drips from his lower lip, slavering as a wild animal would over their prey.

His tongue leaves you, shaking and forlornly, head angled towards the supple, velvety flesh of your inner thigh. With a sickening, wet sound, he bites into the skin, breaking it with ease as his mouth is filled with your tantalizing cruor.

A hapless mewl leaves you then, and from his wound, you feel a startling wave of ecstasy. Pain becomes pleasure, bliss — your hands are left to claw at the sheets, bringing the fabric into the confines of your tightly-wound fists.

Dexterous fingers seek to stimulate you even still, circling around your clit with a peculiar expertise. The muscle in your forearm flexes from use, tugging at the sheets with desperation. As he laps at your blood, your hips jolt into his palm.

He sups of your blood, tonguing over the freshly-made indent, still oozing with crimson. With a lap of his mouth, he moves to the pearl of your cunt once more, thin maw wrapping around it, stimulating you with his suckling.

Slurred cries of ecstasy slip past your lips, back arched, keening into any sliver of friction he offers. The air is stale, the scent of copper and decay fresh upon the wind, invading your senses like some noxious plague.

There is a primal messiness to his devourance, chin steeped in your blood, mouth latched to your cunt as he evokes bliss from you. A rush of white-hot delight sears your bones, blanketing you in a wave of pleasure, stomach swirling with a violent heat.

He brings you to your peak, claws digging into your hips, caging you in against his mouth. It is his unorthodox appetite that entices you so, an amalgamation of crimson ichor and your arousal, tongue sluggishly raking over your core once more.

Pitch-dark hues rove across your body, drinking you in, bewitched by your devotion. With a sluggish crawl, he begins to make his way along your form, mouth scraping across your flesh as he ascends, seeking to join you together.

The aftermath of your release lingers heavily between your legs, matted with your nectar and remnants of blood. A low snarl erupts from his throat, welcomed by the sensation of your silken digits cradling him once more.

It is he who kisses you — rough, unyielding, the piquancy of darkness. He ensures that you savor it all, the concoction of blood, your nectar, his unwavering veneration stinging your mouth.

Instead of repulsion, you were elated, clamoring to reciprocate his devouring kiss with one of your own. Your hand cups the back of his rotting skull, the other caressing around the nape of his neck. A wheezing inhale leaves him, as if he is attempting to swallow down your beguiling scent.

The incessant swell of his member nudges against your core, causing a shiver to roll down your spine. Talons rake along your flesh, scratching you like a hot-iron brand, his mark emblazoned upon your soul. He gropes at your breast, nails beneath your chin.

Each heated, consuming kiss leaves you struggling for air, each gasp one of desperation as you draw him closer. The closeness between you is one of a strange intimacy, his garish form bared to only you, a creature of gaunt bone and grey flesh.

Take me, take me, take me — your voice screams within your mind, like some incantation that you become transfixed by. Your Lord hears your cries, teeth drawing forth a drop of blood from your lower lip, skin breaking apart to reveal a pearl of crimson.

Without hesitation, his tongue drags across your mouth, taking with it your blood, setting fire to his lust. His spindly frame is enough to keep your legs apart, hips urging themselves against your own as his cock pushes into you.

The sudden intrusion makes you moan, foreign and unfamiliar, yet terrifyingly wonderful. His ragged breathing seems to hitch, his member taking root within your cunt as he sluggishly rolls against you. The pace he sets is somewhat erratic and rough, made to rut.

It had been many torturous centuries since he had last lain with a woman, the one who bore your countenance. The Count did not think of her now, focused upon you, this enchantress.

Some omnipresent force bids you to search for his gaze, black hues ensnaring you, visceral pits of carnality as his hips cascade into yours. Your body is flush against him, breasts heaving with delighted cries as you cling onto him like a drowning woman.

Friction dances between conjoined bodies, igniting your flesh with a feverish pitch as you feel his mouth clamor for yours once more. Unabashedly, you kiss him, tongue reaching into the cavern of his mouth, able to hear the soft wheeze from his throat.

Each prolonged snap of his hips send you reeling, cunt clenching around his cock, as if you are coaxing him deeper inside of you. He is sheathed like a blade within a scabbard, claws groping, scratching, reaching within you.

A brief ripple of pain wafts from your kiss-swollen lips, puffy from the bite he delivered. As tongues perform a desperate ballet, you hear him growl, a half-groan that coagulates within his maw, expressing his satisfaction.

Miraculously, your body bears the oppressive weight of his obsession with ease, blood slowly oozing from bites pressed into your hollow and thigh, marked by garish talons. Some have broken the skin, and yet your ardor for him remains entirely unvanquished.

The needy rut of his hips brush against your pelvis, cunt stretched around the swell of his cock. With another drag of thrusts, his possessive kisses come to a crawl, filling you with a twinge of disappointment. You miss the gravely chill of his mouth as he makes his descent.

He seeks your chest, a surge of sanguine ichor pumping throughout your veins, beside your breast. The Count does not intend to drain you, merely keeping himself satiated until the next dusk.

The rough pad of his tongue smooths over your jaw, planting a string of covetous kisses along your neck. Spindly, narrow digits press beneath your chin, holding your throat with a light pressure, claws extending toward your splayed tresses.

The notched bridge of his nose brushes along your jugular, teeth lingering beside your delicate flesh. You remind him of fine velvet, perfection beneath his hold, a plane of softness, all belonging to him. Invidious is he, seething with a yearning that only you can satisfy.

Still, he continues, his path of darkness one that leaves you wrought with exhilaration, continuing to rut your hips into his. The vigorous ministrations of his thrusts seem to momentarily pause, cock still inside of you, filling you in a way that only he can.

A pleading moan flutters from your lips, palms rooted to his ashen flesh, pillowing his rotting skull as he kisses along your body. Your back begins to arch, an incessant release mounting within you, arousal warm and slick between your thighs.

Honed, wet fangs seek the warm cavern between your breasts, sternum rising and falling with excitable sighs. A low, wanting snarl reaches your ears as Orlok bites into your chest, beside your left breast.

The damp crunch of teeth rending through flesh echoes throughout your chambers, accompanied by greedy, putrid gulps as he sups your blood. Pain blossoms throughout your breast, unfurling like the petals of a wilting flower.

There is an understanding of his appetite — you know that he would not bring about your demise, even if he willed it to be. The sudden swirling of your cruor within his maw seems to invigorate him, hips urging to life as his cock drives deep within you.

A whimpered gasp rips through your diaphragm, body reacting viscerally to the sudden drive of his being. Again, his pace is erratic, driven by lust and primal instinct above all else.

Wandering digits caress the nape of his neck, fingertips nearing the base of his skull, your other palm splayed out between his shoulders. You cradle him against you, feeling the arch of his physique as he ruts into you, pounding away at your cunt.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 — 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.

The hoarse baritone of his thunderous cadence invades your mind, making your thighs twitch, legs involuntarily squeezing near his pointed waist. Your cunt clenches once more, evoking a growl from within his chest as he drinks.

His head lifts, chin stained with crimson, teeth hidden behind his mustache. Pitch-dark hues rove across your pleasured countenance, finding you to be enchanting, beauteous.

Warm palms dance along his frame, causing him to hiss, a low, delighted sound that instills him with desire. The bite embedded within your chest oozes with crimson, crescent teeth indents likely to scar. He laps at your blood, feeling you shiver beneath him.

Nearing your peak, you writhe, clutching onto him, begging for more through strained whimpers. The Count does not cease, sluggish thrusts of his hips forcing his cock deeper, deeper — until there is nowhere else to go.

Reaching for one of your hands, he pins it out to your side, claws dragging across the feeble flesh of your wrist, coming to interlock your fingers together. It is a gesture that makes your bones burn, flesh searing with such fervent desire.

His hands dwarf yours in size, locking your arm into place, your other palm left to cradle his head. Warm, vermillion ichor oozes onto your chest, rivulets of blood trickling over your breasts.

Without hesitation, he openly rakes his tongue over the trails of crimson, seeking your sanguine cruor, cock urging into you with a sense of finality. It is then that his attention is drawn to your lips, swollen and agape, deliciously tantalizing.

Mouths join together through the ecstasy of your shared release, hips beginning to stutter as you rocked against him. His cock drove deeper still, driving into your cunt as you reached your climax. It was relief he felt, the sensation of fullness.

Upon his lips, you taste the coppery sting of your own blood, accompanied with his own stale breath, the coarse prickling of his mustache. You cry out into him, feeling him swallow your moans, eating your pleasured sounds.

Squeezing at his hand, he seems unfettered by your grasp, nails digging into his ashen flesh, body rolling into him once more before you begin to settle. The aftermath of your release is a dizzying one, white-hot haze blurring your senses.

A low purr reverberates from his diaphragm — a drawn-out sound that blankets you in a strange sense of comfort. He stills, mouth receding from your own, ogling the remnants of cruor left behind from your heated kiss.

“You are mine.”

Dacian is known to you, a captivating language that only sounds mysterious and dark from his tongue. You sink into the mattress, able to feel his cock inside of you, ministrations having ceased, and yet he remains.

You welcome it, digits stroking from the base of his skull to his sharp, defined features, like warm kisses peppering his icy flesh. Exhaustion floods through you like the crash of an ocean wave upon the rock, and you recline completely.

He does not move from you, blanketed across your body in a possessive way, head coming to rest entirely against your collarbone. It is your saccharine breath he feels wafting across his visage, like the first inkling of springtime.

Joined hands rest beside your head, and you feel elated — a joy not felt before in your melancholy lifetime. His monstrous frame does not detract, and in the silvery pools of moonlight, he seems more picturesque than ghastly.

“I am yours,” Through a tender whisper, your eyelids grow heavy with encroaching sleep, tired from what proved to be a lengthy entanglement. He had supped enough of your blood this night. “Forever yours, I will remain.”

As you drift away into a blissful slumber, your paramour remains, claws perusing through your tresses, allowing such twisted obsession to eat him alive. You sate him in a way that no other has done before — whole, fulfilled.

By the time the first light of dawn creeps over the line of the Carpathian Mountains, he is gone — but the stains of his teeth are not.

With contentment, you know that dusk shall come again, and you will be sated once more.

[whorelaud]

OFF LIMITS – rafe cameron ¡ (04)

social media & irl AU !

pairing brother's best friend!rafe cameron x brat!reader summary you slide into a random boy's dms on instagram, anything but expecting him to end up being your brother's best friend, let alone the person you'll be spending your summer vacation with. while resisting Rafe and his lingering gazes was an option, you found yourself in the constant loop of crossing the line; said line being your brother. ch content suggestive !

NAVIGATION. series masterlist | 03 ¡ 04 ¡ 05

yourusername

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yourusername its our world and youre living in it

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jjmaybanks Why are you arching your back over that railing ↳ yourusername hop off my dick ↳ jjmaybanks Man I was just asking :(

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cleoanderson best girls ↳ yourusername you want me to kiss you sooo bad… ↳ sarahcameron im touching you ↳ cleoanderson Oh

user1 whys rafe all up in her comments ↳ yourusername he's a fan ↳ rafecameron That’s not true?

user2 THE PIC OF U N SARAH!! So adorable 🥹 ↳ ryanontop Creds to me ↳ rafecameron I took it but okay bozo ↳ yourusername mama took it??? why are you both lying 

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Rafe doesn’t know what he did wrong. 

One moment, you were laughing and having a blast together, then the next, you were ignoring him, feighing oblivion to the puzzled expression that spread across his face. He played it off, ignoring the emotions washing over him everytime you fixed your attention on him, suddenly feeling his chest swell with pride as you directly flashed him a smile. 

Then again, you were his best friend’s little sister, he shouldn’t be bothered by such things, after all, you had control over your own life. But he couldn’t help it, not with your change of tone over the past few weeks. 

The mixed signals you sent him were killing him alive, and you didn’t even know it. At one point, he’d excuse himself earlier than everyone else, needing a moment to think his feelings through, contemplate over the sudden rush of frustration every time you’d refer to him as ‘bro’, or introduced him as your brother to other people. 

He was sure that you, maybe, in the slightest bit, had interest in him, so what changed? What made you switch up in an instant, casually referring to him as your own brother when the dms you exchanged said otherwise. 

It was cool, though, it’s not like you were being serious, merely messing around to entertain your friends. Besides, it was casual, you were both cool, that was all that mattered, right?

Rafe was sprawled on the couch located in your room, mindlessly scrolling through his phone while Ryan and Sarah argued from beside him, with you falling into a fit of giggles everytime Sarah roasted your brother. 

The boy strived to remain calm, brushing off the glances he kept stealing in your direction, in an attempt to capture the sliver of skin peaking through everytime you lifted your arms. Hell, he wasn’t even ashamed, brazenly undressing you with his eyes, making you feel shy under his gaze, as it burned holes through your flesh.

“When will you be done?” Sarah suddenly started, dodging the pillow Ryan tossed in her direction. “Can you tell him to stop?!” 

“Stop bothering her, Ryan.” You glimpsed over your shoulder, chuckling when Ryan rolled his eyes, creating a barrier with the pillow separating them. “I’m almost done, I jus’ need to touch up my makeup, and get dressed.”

“Okay, I’ll get ready, then.” Sarah shot back, flashing you a smile, though you were facing the other way. “Have fun with these two!” 

“Don’t leave me with them!” You whined in protest, Sarah’s footsteps echoing through the distance. 

“Fuck you.” Ryan rolled his eyes, rising from his seat. “I need to get the car started, don’t take too long to get ready, it won’t change much.” 

You scoffed at his snarky comment, dismissing the boy with your arm, letting tension seep through now that you were alone with Rafe, who was mere inches away from you. The latter maintained the same position, manspreading while he relaxed against the sofa, too accompanied by his phone to pay attention to you, or the fact that the others were gone. 

However, you were well aware that wasn’t the case, not with the gazes he sneaked in your direction, lingering everytime your skin was exposed to the air. And if you did that on purpose, not a single person needed to know, not Rafe, that’s for sure. 

A smile tugged at your lips, finishing up your makeup with a few touches before you were ready to go. Mind you, Rafe was still there, and not only was he staring, but he fully put his phone by now, entirely directing his attention to you. 

Taking advantage of the situation, you pulled your shirt over your head, the gesture causing Rafe to halt in his spot, not expecting you to do such thing. His eyes instantly shifted down your back, throat running dry when you reached to unclip your bra, letting it fall loose around your arms. 

Rafe’s fingers clutched around his phone, nearly breaking it with how tight his hold was. He couldn’t comprehend it, the sight of you half naked, though he could only see your bare back, it still drove him crazy, well aware that you were doing it on purpose; for a mere reaction out of him. 

A knowing grin made its way across your lips, proud of the said reaction you received from the latter, now sat on your couch with his mouth desperately parting in a sigh, hinting the temptation seizing control of his body. 

With a swift movement, you grabbed your swimsuit from the counter, sliding it on with ease, holding onto the two strings you wrap around the neck. Now, you could easily do it yourself, but what was the fun in that? 

You wanted Rafe to suffer, regret each word he muttered regarding his feelings for you, even if it was for a brief moment. You’ve been sending the boy signals for the past few weeks, urging him to speak, break out of the shell he created around himself, but nothing was enough, though you did everything in your watch to prove him wrong. 

That was until today, of course. Your head shot in Rafe’s direction, flashing him an innocent smile as you held the spaghetti strings in your hands, feigning ignorance to the disbelief spread on his face. 

“Do you mind helping me?” You started, cocking your head to the side. “I can’t tie it properly.” 

“Hmm?” Rafe choked out, shuffling around as he adjusted his pants, standing up from the position he was in. “Sure, uh, what do you need me to do?” 

“You could just, you know,” your eyes flickered to Rafe, as his figure filled your sight, now hovering behind you. You offered him the strings in your hold, with the latter hesitating to reach out, contemplating whether this was a good idea. “You’ve done this before, right?” 

“Not really,” he admitted, focusing his attention on the back of your head, as it filled the majority of his view. His hand hastily landed around your hair, faltering as he collected it in a fist, leisurely tucking it to your side. “I don’t go around tying girls’ bikini tops.” 

“Is that so?” You mused, admiring as Rafe tied the knot into a bow, making sure it was firm around your neck. “Not your first time, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“Why’s that relevant right now?” He whispered, words like music to your ears. His gaze locked with yours through the reflection of the mirror, causing your breath to hitch, immediately pausing in your track. 

His breath fanned over your exposed back, the fraction causing shivers to run down your spine, Rafe too close for comfort. His hand burned where it laid, the tips of his fingers like feathers to your skin, tickling you as they deliberately trailed down your back, halting just above the string connected to your top. 

Rafe seeked your gaze through the reflection of the mirror, searching for any sort of discomfort, continuing as he pleased when you leaned into the touch, silently consenting to the touch. Rafe saw his chance, and took it, his chest pressing to your back when his hand slid down to the curve of your waist, tracing over the flesh with the tip of his fingers, almost as if he’d hurt you if he applied any pressure. 

“You could’ve easily done that by yourself.” Rafe’s voice tumbled into a whisper, tone dripping with desire, one he wasn’t aware he had within him. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You innocently shot back, satisfied with the squeeze Rafe gave to your hip in return. 

His lips ghosted over your ear, a ragged breath escaping his throat as he hushed out your name. It was subtle, and if he wasn’t so close, you would’ve totally missed it. However, you heard it, the way he said it doing things to you. 

“I’m surprised you know my name.” You replied, sarcasm visible through your tone. 

Rafe remained silent at your statement, letting his eyes squeeze shut as he took a whiff of your scent, your aroma intoxicating his senses. He doesn’t know what overcame him at the moment, his hands moving faster than his brain when his fingers pressed down to your side, the fraction earning an inaudible gasp out of you. 

A familiar voice echoed through your ears, causing both, you and Rafe to freeze, instantly scrambling to untangle yourself from his hold when Ryan’s shouts erupted through the walls, announcing that he’ll be waiting downstairs. 

You cleared your throat, gaze travelling to the ground as you hid the smile forming on your lips, ignoring the way your pulse quickened from Rafe’s touch. The latter hovered from behind you, debating what his next move should be, his arms awkwardly hanging to his side. 

“I need to change out of my pants,” you exclaimed, cutting through the silence, your sentence earning Rafe’s attention. “Are you gonna keep staring?” 

“What?” He choked out through a breath, lips slightly parting. 

“I’m asking if you could leave,” you further explained, chuckling at the way his cheeks flushed, tinted with faint redness. “Unless you want to stay–”

“I’ll leave.” He hurried to respond, “You continue getting ready, I’ll buy you some time.” 

An appreciative smile tugged at the corner of your lips, observing as Rafe took off, leaving you a flustered mess while you contemplated over what just happened. 

Was it not a dream? Because, no way in hell did that happen, with Rafe; of all people. 

Quickly changing out of your bottoms, you threw on a shirt over your top, heading downstairs. You perked up at the sight of your best friend, accepting the hug she offered once you were in her presence.

Your families decided on eating out with, and in their words, the kids, suggesting they go to a fancy diner to blow off some steam, having been drained with work for the past few days. While staying in bed was tempting, you couldn’t deny your parents, kindly begging you to tag along. 

It was a nice little catch up with the elders, they informed you of all the business they’ve been discussing as of late, which in your opinion, was boring, merely smiling and nodding to everything they said. 

Rafe’s eyes didn’t leave you the whole night, taking the seat across from you, making it impossibly hard to avoid him. For a moment, you started regretting your choices, catching on the awkwardness seeping through the air, the atmosphere heavy with tension. 

The boy kept to himself for most of the time, his responses short every time Ryan would speak, interrupting the thoughts clouding his head. It was extremely difficult to brush off what went down between you two, the said moment switching a button inside him. 

He was aware of your beauty, finding you alluring from the moment that you dmed him, but right now, it was different. He admired you with such endearment, gaze flickering to your glossy lips, too busy chatting with Sarah to direct your attention to him. 

He shook off his thoughts, peeling his eyes off of you as guilt settled in his chest. He can’t let anything happen between you two, after all, he did promise Ryan that nothing would bloom out of this, and while a hint of disappointment filled his insides when Ryan drew a line, he did everything in his will not to question it. 

The ride back filled with chaos, you and Sarah claiming aux the moment you stepped in the car. Your parents snickered as you two sang along to the lyrics, creating your own karaoke throughout the drive back. 

“Do you guys want to watch a movie?” Sarah questioned once each of you took a corner on the couch. 

“Sure.” Ryan rose from his seat, surprisingly excited. “What should we watch?” 

“I’ll pass,” you huffed, standing to your feet. “I’m kind of tired, go ahead and watch without me.” 

Rafe’s eyebrows furrowed with confusion, puzzled by the excuse you used. His eyes shifted to Sarah as she tried to convince you to stay, merely for you to brush off her attempts with an apology, insisting they continue without you. 

He didn’t question you, yet, of course he was concerned, blaming your action back to what happened earlier. Sarah played the movie, and Rafe was on the edge of his seat the entire time, itching to check up on you, find the reason behind your discomfort. 

He could only handle so much, pulling out his phone when his curiosity was no longer bearable. 

You perked up at the knocks erupting through your ears, eyes widening with shock, yet slight anticipation. Scrambling out of bed, you moved to approach the sound, twisting the doorknob with interest, peaking your head through the crooked door. 

Your face flushed with heat at the sight of Rafe, concern washing over his face. He was slightly hovering over you, as you bent down, making him look extremely big compared to you. Rafe tilted his head, attempting to capture the rest of your face hidden behind the door. 

“Are you not inviting me inside?” He asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was in sight. 

“Why should I?” You scoffed, straightening your back. “Go back, they’ll be suspicious since you randomly disappeared.” 

“I excused myself to bed,” he explained, hand pressing to the door. “Now let me in, I won’t take long.” 

You suppressed the adrenaline rush filling up your insides, moving to the side for the purpose of welcoming Rafe in. The boy took the gesture for granted, entering and shutting the door behind him, his back pressing to the wood while his hand yet clutched to the doorknob. 

“Let’s talk.” 

“What’s there to talk about?” You rolled your eyes, arms crossing over your chest. “I said what needed to be said.”

“But I didn’t.” Rafe defensively shot back, darting his tongue out to wet his lips. “Now listen to me– I’ll be quick.” 

“Okay,” you nodded, skeptical with where this was going. “Go ahead.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier, hell, it was stupid.” His eyebrows furrowed with pent up frustration, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I jus’ got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

Your expression softened at the unexpected words, taken aback by his concern. Sure, you were expecting some sort of apology, but the way he spoke with such a sweet tone, indicating he was afraid he did something wrong, it didn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat, too caught up in your own head to respond. 

Gaping your mouth to speak, your action fell short when you heard a knock on the door, causing both you and Rafe to halt in your tracks. You hushed Rafe when he parted his lips to talk, pointing out the suspicious amount of noise seeping through the silence. 

“Do they know you're here?” You mouthed, making Rafe shake his head. 

“Bug!” Sarah’s voice erupted through your ears, eyes slightly widening when the girl knocked again, striving to grab your attention. “Open up, I know you’re awake.” 

“Hide,” you mouthed once again, grabbing Rafe by the wrist, and dragging him to your closet. “I’ll let you know when she leaves.” 

“Wait–” Rafe froze when you gestured towards the cramped space. “I’m not hiding in your closet.” 

“Do you wanna get us caught?” You warned, expression washing with disbelief. 

“You’re acting as if we did something,” he grumbled back, avoiding your gaze. “I’ll jus’ say I was speaking to you; it’s no big deal.” 

“You told them you were heading to bed,” you started, wincing when Sarah knocked again, implying she was still outside. “What will Ryan think when he finds out you were in my room, mind you, way past ten? Ryan’s crazy, he’ll kill both of us!”

“Okay,” Rafe huffed, “But I'm not hiding in your closet, I’ll wait in the bathroom until she leaves.” 

“What if she decides to use it?” You argued, considering the possibilities. “I’m not risking it, Rafe, hide until she leaves; I’ll come up with an excuse to get you out.” 

Without further questioning things, Rafe entered your closet, with you immediately shutting the door behind him. You mumbled a small ‘coming’ while aiming for the doorknob, coming to a halt when you twisted it open, anything but anticipating what was awaiting you outside. 

“Took you long enough!” Kiara’s voice echoed through your ears, a breath knocking out of your chest when she embraced you in a hug, soon followed with Cleo joining you, as well as Sarah, and the rest of the boys, who stood to the side and watched with amusement. 

“Why did no one tell me about this?” You gasped, tightening your hold around your friends. 

“It was a surprise!” Sarah muffled out. 

Yeah, Rafe was in for a night. 

a/n hii!! sorry these wasnt smau this chapter buttt i hope you enjoyed :) likes n reblogs are v much appreciated!!!

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