#sera's love letters <3

[writingjourney]

Friday Nights at the Vinothek | Vampire!Secondo x gn!Reader

Summary: When the local vintner who buys his cigarettes at the kiosk you work at offers you a job you can’t believe your luck. But after moving to the vineyard where the attraction between you only grows, you soon realize that he is not quite who you thought – and that working for a vampire comes with unexpected dangers.

Content: 26k words, gn!reader, smoking, alcohol consumption, blood donation/needles, fainting, vampirism (blood drinking, mind control to keep you asleep), werewolves, violence, hurt/comfort, smut (biting, blood kink, fingering, spit kink, praise, cuming in pants, cockwarming, p in hole sex, no protection), 18+, MDNI

I'm happy to finally share this story. Thank you @foxybouquet for your help with the nicknames ♡ This is a continuation to my fic Friday Nights at the Cinema Club with Primo. You don't have to read that one. However I recommend reading them in the correct order if you do! The Ao3 version is split into 3 chapters for easier reading.

Masterlist – Ao3 link – Part 1 | Primo's Story

“You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and still come with me, and hating me through death and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.”

― Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

May

It takes all of two minutes of regular walking until he finds himself at his destination. Kiosk the sign reads in chipped away block letters, the color faded from decades of exposure to the sun. 

Secondo steps inside. The neon lights flicker unrhythmically, uncomfortable to his sensitive eyes but the small corner store is the only business in a radius of forty kilometers that’s open after eight pm. Two tall newspaper racks greet him by the door, another long shelf that sells all sorts of cheap booze, a random assortment of groceries and drug store products, a bunch of dead flowers slowly rotting in their sad plastic prisons. His brothers would hate it here. Hell, sometimes even he hates it here but as the lovely face behind the register comes into view these feelings quickly change. He wonders why on earth you would choose to spend the limited years of your life working late night shifts in this dingy, outdated shop. Weekend nights, at that.

“Buona sera,” he says, then points to the Marlboro reds behind you.

The selection is abysmal here. You hand him the cigarettes, the picture of a rotting lung barely catching his eyes from the packaging. It means nothing to him, would have meant nothing to him even if he wasn’t beyond mortal diseases. Meanwhile your own curious eyes roam his form like they always do. Not very subtle but he does the very same thing with no hint of shame, your hair and skin tone flat and ashen in the horrible lighting, a wide, deformed black polo-shirt with your name tag on it hiding most of your body.

“Grazie,” he says, handing you a twenty. “Keep the change.”

At first, you fought him over the money. By now you accept it without question, the whole interaction usually playing out in exactly the same way as it does tonight. All this morality, all the politeness. You’re wasted here, wasted in this joyless life.

“Do you want to smoke with me? You close in a few minutes, no?” he hears himself asking, not sure where it is coming from. The clock above your head tells him it’s almost ten. 

“I’ve never smoked before,” you say. Such a soft voice. He wonders how it would sound in a scream.

“That is not a no.”

You smile. “No, it’s not.”

What does it say about him, that he wants to corrupt this young, innocent human? Maybe that he has seen too much, the way they tend to throw away the few years of life that they have to work and work some more, energy wasted for corporations, for family drama and horrible vacations just to feel a short sense of adventure every once in a while. Then they die full of resentment and regret and once they’re gone their offspring fight over the little money and the few possessions that they leave.

Not that his own family is much better.

You meet him outside of the kiosk a few minutes later. Wordlessly he hands you a cigarette, followed by his luxurious gold Dupont lighter, worth about a thousand euros, a little splurge he treated himself to in Paris a few years ago. When you open the lid, it gives its signature cling, a well-measured flame flickering to life as you spark the flint.

“This is a fancy lighter,” you comment, bringing the cigarette to your lips.

Secondo smiles. So you have an eye for these things, even if you lack the funds. Even more curious now he watches you light the Marlboro, promptly coughing in pained stutters. He doesn’t fight the amused smile that tugs at his lips as he carefully extracts the expensive lighter from your hands, slipping it back into the pocket of his tight black slacks. 

“What do you say?” he asks.

“It’s not bad,” you reply. “But I don’t think I’ll stick with it.”

He’s not surprised, though he is impressed you so easily gave in. “There are many more ways to sin, more ways to enjoy life, that might be more to your liking, little dove.”

“Like what?”

“Hmmm.” He examines you, lingering on the playful smirk on your face. “Wine of course, riding a motorcycle, expensive clothes, parties, good food… sex.”

An unmistakable heat reaches your face. He can hear the blood pumping faster through your veins, smell the first few hints of arousal oozing from your pores. It satisfies him, your reaction.

“So what, are you the devil trying to corrupt me?” you ask, covering the tremor in your voice with a chuckle.

He takes a drag from his own cigarette, exhaling a long veil of smoke. “Something like that.”

You get more restless beside him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “If ugh… if you’re asking me for other favors, I’m really not–”

“No,” he interrupts. “I am not. I am not in the habit of finding my lovers in old shops or dark alleyways of small towns.”

“Where do you find them then?”

You pose the question quite genuinely, a flirty undertone to your words that he’s not sure you’re even aware of. He eyes you curiously. “I thought you weren’t interested?”

He can sense more heat rising to your face, radiating off into the cool night air. “I never said that.”

Ah. He averts his gaze, resisting the temptation. Secondo does not take human lovers. Not anymore. After centuries of losing people, of swimming around aimlessly with no one to anchor him, a ship lost in the endless expanse of sea that is an eternal life, he has set himself firm boundaries. Humans are a source of food, at best a companion for a few minutes of conversation, but they are never permanent. Allowing them into your bed leads to lies and wrong expectations. Falling for them, loving them even – it is hopeless, it’s a non-exhaustive well of pain and grief and misery. And attempting to make them last, turning them? He won’t make the same mistake that his younger brother made, inevitably breaking promises and dooming an innocent human to the same restless fate until they despise him for it.

He watches you stub out the cigarette on the metal lid of the nearby trashcan before throwing it away, turning back to him with a glimmer of excited anticipation in your eyes. He’s not sure what you see in him – a sophisticated older man looking for a young lover? A lonely customer in search of a few minutes of company? The local vintner out for a smoke after a long day? 

“Maybe next time we will try something else,” he says.

You don’t reply as he stubs out his own cigarette, heading back home without looking back.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 02/05

Werewolf Presumed Dead After Fight In Central European Woods

A fight between a vampire and a werewolf during last Friday’s full moon supposedly ended in the death of the lycanthrope. Multiple anonymous sources claim that the victim was a middle-aged outcast who resided close to the scene of the conflict in a small Central European town. A source close to the family suggests that the vampire, who remained unharmed, is Primo Emeritus. Known as a former Papa and eldest son of the current head of the Church of Emeritus, the vampire moved to the town no more than twelve moons ago. The source states that it was an act of self-defense and that the Emeritus ghouls took care of the body. No remains could be found within the castle walls of his now abandoned home, according to a representative of the werewolf community. A team of impartial investigators has been hired by the authorities to look into the case. Upon editorial request, Primo Emeritus was not willing to comment on the accusations at this time.

Instances of fights between vampires and werewolves have become rare over the past two centuries. This is the first instance of a killing between the two groups in almost a decade. Further consequences remain to be observed. Experts expect the respective authorities to be able to smooth the waters fairly quickly considering the high social standing of the Emeritus clan.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo nearly spits out his evening coffee, Terzo next to him breaks out in manic laughter. For a few minutes after reading the paper they both sit around the large dining table in pure, unadulterated wonder.

“He killed a fucking werewolf?” Terzo finally speaks into the silence.

“It would appear so.”

More laughter. Terzo is holding his belly underneath his pristine white blouse, his chest heaving with the intensity of his fit. Secondo knows his brother is not breaking out in amusement but sheer disbelief and yet, it is a rare, almost heart-warming experience to hear him actually laughing for once. If only the circumstances weren’t as dire.

“I’m not surprised no one informed us,” Secondo muses. “Father must know.”

“He must, yes, but he doesn’t give a shit.” Another bout of laughter as Terzo’s elbows crash down on the majestic wooden table, his head landing on his hands in a gesture of wild incredulity. “He killed a werewolf. Primo.”

“Will you stop laughing? This could have serious consequences, outcast or not. We have to keep an eye on this.”

“Do you think they’ll be after us?”

A shrug. “That would be foolish but it is a possibility.”

Terzo rests his head on his upper arm now, elegantly draped over the table with his raven hair falling into his face as he turns to his brother. “Why do you think he killed him?”

“Perhaps it was self defense. Some werewolves still hold a deep hatred for vampires. Though it is very stupid to attack Primo. He must have known who he is.”

Terzo pauses, drumming his fingers against his head. He was never able to keep still for long, a little fidget with a tendency for clumsiness, drawing attention to himself if he wanted to or not. “I wish we knew what he is up to. I hate this separation. Can’t you invite him over for that big fancy new wine tasting?”

“He clearly stated that he wanted to be alone for a while to build a quiet new life.”

“Yes but by now a while is four decades.” 

Secondo breathes out a sigh. “I can invite him, I am not sure he will come.”

“Let him know I’m here.”

“I don’t know if that is an incentive or a sure way to get him to never call again.” 

His voice is deadpan, yet Terzo breaks out in more laughter. “You can be so funny, fratello. If only you wouldn’t hide it behind that scary scowl of yours.”

“Aren’t you supposed to help the ghouls clear out the west wing today? We need to renovate the rooms.”

“I don’t know why you assume I am the new bellhop in your hotel business.”

Secondo waits until Terzo meets his eyes, narrowing them for extra emphasis. “Don’t think I do not know why you suddenly felt the need to visit me over the summer. Surely it was not because you missed me so.”

“I don’t know what you mean, fratello.”

“What makes you think they will be here?”

Terzo holds his gaze, similar white and green eyes meeting, only breaking away when the door to the dining room flies open and a black-hooded ghoul steps inside. “They will be, I know it.”

June 

Time feels especially gooey on weekend nights. Customers are a rare sight, not even Mr Emeritus, the attractive older and suspiciously well-dressed man who occasionally buys cigarettes from you, shows up tonight. The tinny music from the old radio behind the counter is somehow worse, every shift a ten hour train ride without stops. Usually, you sit on your little stool reading your book or scrolling on your phone. Today, it’s so boring that you open the daily newspaper to scan the job listings, just in case something pops up.

As expected, it is hopeless. Another dead town center of a remote village with no qualified job offers, your salary a joke but your boss never fails to stress that you at least get the employee discount and free Wrigley’s Spearmint bubble gum. Even with your meager savings you can’t afford the move to a bigger city right now, the prospect of being alone in an even larger just as hollow space with too many strange faces around you not at all enticing. At least here people know you, even if all of your friends have long since moved away in search of jobs and a place to settle.

You turn the page, a rustling sound that feels too loud in the quiet vacuum of the kiosk.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Nordsteiner Abendblatt

– Ad –

Wine is not the only juice of life that makes it worth living. Donate your blood to help the local hospitals this weekend at the Emeritus Vineyard.

Date: June 25th, 4-10pm

Reward: 50€

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Fifty euros? You pause. Have they always offered money for this? It’s not a pay rise, it won’t get you very far either, but for a bit of blood it’s certainly tempting. There haven’t been any blood donation campaigns here in quite some time, not since they closed the local medical center after pretty much all of the doctors retired, their offices long since abandoned. 

You mull it over until you close the shop half an hour later after another sluggish Friday night without customers. You walk past the Vinothek, peeking inside like you always do on your way home. For a shop slash bar that sells wine in an almost abandoned old town it is incredibly fancy, antique looking wooden interiors, deep green velvet wallpapers with a subtle pattern of tendrils of vine that seem to be crawling up to the ceiling, dipped into the soft shadows of dimmed wall lamps. Everything is centered around a bar that is too well-stocked and professional for a town like this, expensive liquors, a wine fridge that must have cost more than your tiny old car. Two men are nursing their drinks – only one of them is peering over the rim of an actual wine glass, black hair falling into an aging face, the other one tipping the remainder of a beer into his mouth.

The only explanation you have is that this is Mr Emeritus’s little playground while the actual money comes from the export of the wine they produce in the vineyard at the edge of town. You’ve been to the old Mansion before, tugged away in the rolling hills framing the area. They offer guided tours with subsequent wine tastings, hikes, really, that are especially beautiful in early fall when the grapevines are filled with deep purple fruit and the leaves of the surrounding trees are slowly turning yellow. Even though you don’t drink all that often and are by no means an expert you have to admit that you’ve never tasted wine quite as smooth, quite as delicate as Mr Emeritus’s.

That day a few years ago you didn’t get to see the owner himself, you’re not sure if you’ve ever actually seen him in broad daylight, but now you do spot him standing in the doorway at the far end of the bar. He looks dashing, wearing tight-fitting black slacks, a matching black button down shirt with expensive-looking leather gloves and the sunglasses you never see him without. He’s Italian, that much you know, polite yet reserved when he’s not coaxing you into smoking. Even a few weeks later you’re not quite sure what got into him that night, talking to you about enjoying life and sinning, about alcohol and sex and then just… leaving. Not even mentioning it again when he picked up new Marlboros the week after.

Lost in thought, you almost miss that his gaze shifts towards the window. Under his glasses it’s hard to tell if he is actually looking at you but you decide to leave anyway before he gets the idea of inviting you inside. Somehow you must have got stuck for a moment, frozen in time, because before you’ve even passed the bar he suddenly pops up right in front of you. Confused, you glance from the entrance back to him, the door only slowly swinging shut. How–

“Buona sera,” he says, lighting a cigarette with the fancy gold lighter he let you use last time. For a man who seems to indulge in luxuries, he seems so very down to earth, minimalist in a way, no word, no detail that feels out of place. 

“Hello,” you reply.

For a moment you stand there like you’re waiting for the bus to pick you up, unsure if you should just leave or if he is trying to start a conversation. Maybe he’s just out for smoke, maybe he didn’t even notice you from inside. The tip of his cigarette burns up brightly when he takes the first drag, a bright orange fleck of light in the darkness surrounding him. His mere aura beside you seems to command the night, wholly different from how you perceive him in the kiosk. This is his private kingdom, this is where he feels at home.

“Did you finish your shift?” he asks then, puffing out smoke.

“Yeah. It was a calm night.”

“I see.” He takes another drag, then he holds the cigarette out for you, secured between his gloved fingers. “Hm?”

You instinctively shake your head and his pencil mustache twitches. He does not pull away, a dare, maybe. “Okay,” you decide. “Sure.”

A rare smile. He takes a step closer which sends you into a nervous spiral, your heart pumping faster and faster. A slight tremor runs through his hand as he places the filter at your lips, the very part that was trapped in his own mouth mere seconds ago. At this thought, your hands start to sweat, warmth spreading out in your lower belly. His eyes are fixated on your mouth as you close your lips around the cigarette, taking a brave inhale that burns in your lungs. This time you don’t cough or stutter. Your face starts to burn all the same.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks. “On the house.”

“I don’t usually…” You catch yourself before you finish the sentence, shaking your head to dismiss your own hesitation as you remember his words. “Yes, thank you.”

If he notices how flustered you are, he does not let on as he holds the door open for you to invite you in. The man who finished his beer earlier is slipping past you by the entrance and you notice that whoever had the wine is not inside the bar anymore. At the prospect of being alone in here with Mr Emeritus, your stomach does a somersault.

He disappears behind the bar and you set your bag down on one of the stools before you shift into a comfortable position right next to it. The seats are soft and plush, inviting you to stay for more than one glass. Observing the happenings behind the bar from here is a lot more exciting than from the outside. Mr Emeritus is in his element, that much is certain, whipping out glasses and corkscrews with expert movements.

“You do not drink often,” he states. “I think I have something that you would like.”

You nod your consent and watch him pick out a bottle from the fridge. It looks expensive, a white label with gold-foiled lettering. Papastrello, it says. The rest of the words are too small.

“What are you reading?” he asks as he opens the bottle. His eyes have found your bag, the spine of a worn old paperback peeking out of the open zipper

“Carmilla,” you say. 

“Ah, vampires.” The cork pops, a deep, satisfying sound. A rich, slightly sweet scent escapes the now open bottle. “Do you enjoy the old tales?”

“I prefer them over the newer adaptations, yes.”

“So do I,” he says, expertly filling a glass with the red liquid. “I am surprised a young person such as yourself is so fond of the classics.”

You chuckle. “I think many people are. Or they would not be classics.”

He hums, setting the glass down in front of you. “Not blood but a red that is just as beautiful and rich,” he remarks. “One of my fratellino’s favorites.”

“I don’t uhm…” You carefully take the delicate stem of the thick-bellied glass. “I don’t really know how to–”

“Smell it for a moment, grappolino,” he says. “Do not worry about drinking.”

You bring the glass to your nose. The scent is so strong to your unused senses that you barely have to sniff. Even so, you’re not sure what you’re smelling. It reminds you of different fruits, cherry maybe, almost sweet but with a hint of acid.

“There are different categories of aromas,” he says. “Primary, secondary, tertiary. Many factors influence the smell, the type of grape, the fermentation process, the aging in the barrel.”

He explains it calmly, knowledgeable, not like he wants to brag or taunt you for your lack of expertise. You have to admire how soft-spoken he is for someone with such harsh features, such a domineering aura. Seldom have you met a man of his standing who was so pleasant to talk to, who drew you in like this.

“Now try,” he instructs. “A small sip, hold it in your mouth for a moment, breathe in and see how it makes you feel.”

You do as he says, taking some of the red liquid in your mouth and swirling it around your tongue, breathing in as you let it sit. Somehow the aroma is still there, different from the taste, more intense, but together they fill your senses in a most pleasant way. The wine feels smooth in your mouth just like you remember, even as you swallow, not at all like the cheap supermarket wine you know from when you were younger and drinking with friends.

“No blood, you were right,” you say with a smile. “But it is good. I like it a lot.”

He nods, content with your reply, and fills your glass up a little more. Somehow you feel good about satisfying him, about following his instructions and earning his approval. You wouldn’t mind following him in other areas of your life.

“Speaking of blood,” you say to distract yourself from these thoughts. “I saw your ad in the paper earlier. The one for the blood donation.”

“Are you looking to donate?” he asks, perking up. With his interest so focused on you, you suddenly feel almost shy about it.

“I am thinking about it,” you say. “I used to go years ago.”

“We are happy about everyone who donates. It is for a good cause, we are going to do it every few months now.”

“I didn’t know that you get money for it or I would have looked into it sooner.”

“The kiosk does not pay well?” he concludes.

You huff out a pained laugh. “No. It’s a struggle. But there aren’t many jobs available around here.”

He regards you curiously, at least from what you can gather without seeing his actual eyes. You wish you could. His mustache is a dark brown color, even without hair on his head you assume his eyes must be dark just like that. Or perhaps green, maybe even hazel. Without seeing them your own gaze quickly falls, dancing along his sharp cheekbones and down his prominent nose, the lines on his face leading you to his mouth, pencil mustache, full lips over a strong chin. You’ve been eyeing him for months now, every time he visits the kiosk, but somehow the change in lighting, the change in atmosphere, gives him a magnetic, almost preternatural aura.

A smile tugs at his lips then and you panic for a moment that he might have read your thoughts, that you must have been staring. You quickly avert your gaze, downing way too much of the wine to keep up a graceful appearance.

“Can I offer you some food? Some cheese, perhaps?” he asks.

“Actually, I should um… I should head home,” you say, already feeling a little lightheaded. “It’s late and I have a shift tomorrow.”

“Take the bottle,” he says.

“What? No– That’s–”

“Grappolino, I want you to have it. Don’t insult me by refusing a gift.”

You’re not sure what the name means, something with grapes, probably, but you’re too flustered now to pay much attention. When he hands you the bottle you blindly take it, uttering a few words of thanks. He remains steady, unbothered, which you assume is a good thing. He’s not truly offended. You wonder if anything could shake him enough to break his measured temper.

“I will see you at the donation?” he asks when you slip from your stool.

“Yes. I will see you there,” you promise. “I can’t wait to give you my blood.”

He chuckles, a foreign sound coming from the depths of his throat. Without looking back up, you grab your bag and almost rush out of the bar. The cool night air slaps you in the face like a whip, clearing your head and senses from the effects of the wine and its producer in mere seconds. You take a few deep breaths, pressing the cold bottle against your burning chest. If he is flirting with you then it is certainly working, if not then his mere presence affects you in ways you feel almost ashamed of. Either way, you can’t deny that the money has suddenly become a secondary motivation to visit the vineyard next week. No, there is something way more thrilling waiting for you.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Specks of dust dance in the sunlight like a thousand tiny feathers, sinking to the ground almost weightlessly. The two empty sitting rooms on the ground floor should be enough to meet the demand that Secondo expects for today. Everyone who donates their blood gets a voucher for the Vinothek and fifty euros cash on hand. The incentives promise a high yield, enough to fill every pre-order as well as the glasses of his special guests once the blood “wine” is ready to be served.

To his chagrin, all the ghouls are busy renovating the guest rooms, and so Terzo is the one helping him prepare the localities. The partnering hospital has sent a truck with enough donation chairs to line the walls opposite of the south-facing windows of the two rooms, granting a nice view over the vineyard. Come sundown, the ghouls will handle the donations. With their monk-like appearance Secondo hopes the people will be trusting. All the bureaucratic hassle, all the licenses and administrative obstacles better be worth it.

“So, how many times do we have to do this?” Terzo asks, rolling another chair into the room.

“This will be the first harvest, another one in September,” Secondo says. “We will keep sixty percent of donations, the rest goes to the local hospitals. It should give us enough to last over the winter if the demand is stable. Then we continue in spring.”

“Mhm and you’re looking forward to tasting the blood of someone special?”

Secondo’s gaze snaps up in a withering look. “Are you eavesdropping on me?”

“It was hard to avoid, fratello. After I finished my wine I had to use the bathroom and it is so close to the bar, no?” He shrugs, smiling to himself. “Now, what happened to Mr. I-don’t-fuck-humans?”

“Who said anything about sexual intercourse?”

“Sexual intercourse?” Terzo repeats. “That’s not a very romantic word. Not very sexy either.”

“I am not looking to fuck, I am looking for a food source.”

“So you want to sample their blood today?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think it’s good? Why are they special?”

Secondo has no answer to this. Instead he pushes his sunglasses up his nose, adjusts his gloves, biding time. When he finally meets Terzo’s curious gaze again, he shrugs. “I have a feeling.”

“Where exactly is this feeling located? Just below your belt?”

He heaves an annoyed sigh. He won’t grace with him a reply to this, maybe even because he knows that there is a certain truth to his brother’s words that he would rather ignore. There is just something about your smell, about your presence, your positive aura, the warmth in your eyes, that wakes a certain hunger in him. Sexual or not, Secondo knows that he needs to taste your blood.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

The mansion is just as impressive as you remember from your last visit years ago, throning over steep hills with neat rows of lush grapevines. The sight takes your breath away as you carry your already tired body towards the open entrance gates of the estate. A grand, majestic building sits partly hidden behind two tall beech trees with their voluminous crowns, U-shaped, well-kept and exuding the impressive historic atmosphere of centuries past. Ivy and vine tendrils crawl up the high walls on either side, hiding some of the rich ornamentations of the façade that are partly embellished in gold.

You leave the winding trail through the landscape, your muscles burning from the steady uphill climb, and enter a spacious, stone-flagged courtyard. An almost Mediterranean ambience welcomes you – old wine barrels have been stacked in one corner, beautifully planted with lush flowers and shrubs like a small magical garden. A small outdoor sitting area dominates another corner, shielded from the sun by a pergola that’s overgrown with more vine tendrils. Terracotta planters scattered around the open space house even more greenery and the whole area smells richly of herbs and pollen.

You soon spot a sign with a red arrow, the words blood donation written underneath, leading into one of the side entrances. An old chair secures a wooden door that opens into a cool but gloomy hallway, flagged with old stone tiles that remind you more of a castle than a stately home. You’re met with voices chattering in the rooms on either side – it seems busy. Glancing into one, you spot a small reception area and decide that this is where you must be registering for your donation. One wall of the room is lined in medical chairs, almost all of them occupied by donors with black-robed men that remind you of monks tending to them.

You are greeted by one of them, only not with words but a gentle nod as he guides you through another door. Inside is a small office where a pale but kind-looking doctor receives you. After a short talk he clears you for donation and you’re assigned one of the chairs near the entrance. One of the black-hooded men approaches. He really must be a monk, you decide, doing charitable work. Perhaps Mr Emeritus has connections to the church – it would make sense if he is veering into the philanthropic lane now. So many religious orders have their own humanitarian organizations who offer volunteers in the field of medical care, maybe he even has his own. You don’t question the process as everyone else in the room seems comfortable.

The monk does not speak to you when he prepares your arm but he is certainly skilled as he slides the sharp needle through your skin and into your vein. You hardly feel any pressure and as the tube fills with your blood, you start to relax in your seat. He hands you a black rubber stress ball, mimicking how you’re supposed to squeeze it to your palm to increase the blood flow. For the next ten minutes you stay exactly like that, your arm outstretched and your fingers wrapped around the squishy toy. Time passes fast, an older lady begins to chat with you before she is done and leaves you to yourself. Once your bag is filled, the monk removes the needle and expertly wraps up your arm. You don’t see where he carries the bag as he leaves through another door.

With your donation complete, you first sit and then stand up, cautiously stretching out your limbs as to not overwhelm your circulation, following the lady’s advice to take it easy. Another sign in the hallways indicates that there is a sort of break room with snacks and drinks, so you decide to head there and wait until your body has recovered. The sudden change of light and temperature as you leave the sunny and warm sitting room does you no favor. Suddenly your head begins to swim, an icy cold wrapping around your body like a blanket of snow. Your fingertips tingle, cold sweat spreading over your back and then you’re sinking, falling–

“Careful,” a steady voice says and instead of the cool stone floor you hit a soft, strong body. Your vision is blurry but you clearly see the outline of black sunglasses over a strong nose and then those soft, full lips. The man cradles you against him, sitting you down with his knee supporting your back. “I need you to lie down, grappolino. Do I have permission to carry you?”

You nod, not quite sure what is going on as your brain struggles to cling to the world around you. 

“It’s you,” you whisper when he gathers you in his arms like you weigh nothing at all. 

He carries you down the hallway, the sudden movement only making you dizzier until you feel like you have to throw up. “It is me,” he says at length. “Do not worry, little dove, I will take care of you. I will take care of you forever.”

You close your eyes at the sound of his soothing words, spoken in such a deep but somehow soft voice that caresses your ears like the gentle touch of a lover. Comforted, you rest your head on his shoulders, breathing out a tired sigh, and drift off.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

“This is the right bag?” he asks, even though he can smell it through the plastic and antiseptic layers surrounding it. The same scent he detected from your arm when he carried you upstairs, a scent that already has his nerves on edge with an appetite that he can hardly contain.

The ghoul nods and Secondo shudders as he cradles your blood in his hands. What a beautiful red, richer than any wine he ever made. He takes off his sunglasses to admire how it moves when he flexes his gloved fingers, the texture so smooth, almost silken. Saliva gathers in his mouth and for a moment he forgets the presence of the ghoul.

Impatient now, he looks up to dismiss him. “Grazie.”

He’s already in the kitchen when the door closes, ripping open cabinets in search of a glass. But his body is on fire, burning, longing, craving. He feels like a starving man, like an addict in search of a fix, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s abandoned his search. With both hands he takes the bag and sinks his fangs into the plastic, penetrating the material until he can finally taste you. A deep, rumbling moan breaks from his chest as the first drop of blood meets his tongue. It’s not enough. He bites harder until more of the liquid spills out. Secondo drinks like he has never drunk before. Any attempt at savoring it is in vain. He can’t remember the last time he lost control like this, gulping it down with a greed that would make Lucifer proud, an unquenchable thirst. Your blood is infernal, drinking it an unholy sacrament, the closest he has felt to his faith in decades since leaving the Church. More and more he sucks into his mouth until it dribbles down his chin and onto his sleek white shirt, the one he ironed before knowing that he would meet you today. He rips it from his chest as soon as the bag is empty and the taste starts to fade. Impatiently he sucks at the stains until the aroma finally escapes even his hyper sensitive taste buds.

He’s a wreck. The smell lingers in his nose long after he’s licked the last remnants from his gloves. He sinks to the floor, shamefully gathering the last few drops of blood he spilled and bringing them to his searing, ruined tongue. A pathetic, shameful whimper escapes him and he has to sit in quiet solitude for several minutes until he manages to gather his wits. This is embarrassing, he decides. He has to get cleaned up and dressed.

Secondo enters his bedroom where he brought you to rest a mere ten minutes ago. The sight of your innocent form sleeping in his bed nearly sends him into another frenzy, your neck exposed over the collar of your shirt and practically begging for his mouth. He stands and looks at your weak body, watching your eyes twitching behind their lids, even if they stay closed. For now he is sated enough to stay in control, pushing any animalistic thoughts to the side. You’re beautiful, such a lovely young human, sleeping in the bed of a bloodthirsty monster. The thought makes him chuckle. Perhaps human prejudice against vampires is not that unfounded, even if he usually thinks of himself as a rather sophisticated specimen.

He allows himself another moment of silent reprieve, his eyes roaming your peaceful form without his glasses now. Eventually he brings himself to take a quick shower in the en-suite, freshening up, more cologne, less blood to spook you. He decides on a simple dark green polo shirt, showing off his arms. As he splashes his face with water, he can’t help but wonder what is happening to him. 

Your taste is unlike any he has ever experienced before. If he sold it in bottles, even watered down, everyone would flock to his business. But just the thought of sharing you with any other vampire makes him recoil in disgust, the hair on his arms standing up in defiance. It is an entirely new sensation, entirely unwelcome, and yet he can’t shake it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about these intrusive feelings, about his lack of control, the possessiveness that overcomes him in your presence. He’s not even sure if he can trust himself to be near you.

But even so he knows that he cannot let you leave. Not anymore.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

You dream of him. 

The outlines are blurry, a room that feels dark, the lights blended out and only coming in through cracks that won’t allow your eyes to focus. Then his handsome face comes into view. Your vision clears for just a moment. Blood covers his face. Not his face. His mouth. His eyes are weird, one is a dark red and one is incredibly pale, the strong brows above drawn tightly together. His gaze is intense, a hunger, a craving reflected in his glowing irises. You’re scared for just a moment but then his expression changes, a sudden tenderness glossing over the harshness of his features and the red eye turns to an emerald green. He looks quite beautiful like this, even with the blood covering his mouth. Especially with the blood covering his mouth.

When you break free from the tight grasp of your hazy dream and open your eyes, his face is right there. You startle, your slow heartbeat suddenly jumping into a sprint, but there is no blood, no discolored eyes, just his sunglasses as he pushes them up his nose.

“Don’t be scared, grappolino,” he says from the edge of the bed. “It is just me.”

You nod, blinking yourself awake. Your head hurts, a low thrum that penetrates your skull like a fly repeatedly hitting a window.

“Do you remember what happened?”

You sit up slightly, propping the pillow up behind you and the way it hurts, the pressure and numbness in the crook of your arm, brings back your memories. “I donated blood.”

“You did. And you fainted,” he explains. “This is my own private bedroom.” 

“Do… do all the patients get this treatment?”

A chuckle. “No.”

Heat rises to your chest and you avert your eyes. They are immediately drawn to his bare arms, to the dark hair covering them before his gloved hands appear in your peripheral vision. The polo shirt suits him, a dark green color, the cut accentuating the solid shape of his shoulders. A tuft of dark chest hair peeks out of his open collar and you can see his nipples through the fabric. It is cold in here, you realize. Or perhaps your goosebumps have a different origin.

“I brought you something to drink,” he says, lifting a dark glass bottle he must have set down beside the bed. The distraction is imminent. You eye it curiously, a frown settling on your face. 

He can’t possibly be offering you wine right now? 

“Grape juice,” he states.

“Oh.”

You feel silly now, maybe your brain is still not fully awake. He opens the screw and fills a glass that was previously set down on the bedside table. When he hands it to you, the tight bandage on your arm hinders you yet again from moving freely and you have to hold out your other hand instead. Mr Emeritus is patient, waiting until you’ve taken the first few sips before he stands from the bed.

“I will bring you some food, little dove. We need to increase your blood sugar, give you some energy. In the meantime you will be good for me and drink your juice, yes?”

His words make you choke on your spit and you cough uncomfortably into the burn. “I ugh… I will. Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but it’s enough to have you flustered. You take small sips of the juice that, just like his wine, feels smooth on your tongue and has a rich, intense flavor. It warms your belly, brings life back into your limbs and other parts of your body. You’d be good for him in so many different ways if he let you.

That thought makes you abruptly realize that you’re in his actual bed. You use the chance to properly look at the spacious room surrounding you. It is furnished rather simply, heavy dark curtains cover most of the windows but even with most of the light locked out you can’t see anything beyond the huge canopy you’re resting on. You’re draped between dark green cotton sheets that must have an incredibly high thread count with how soft they feel underneath your fingertips. The dark wooden bed frame is kept upright by four artfully carved posts, solid and dominating the room, the drapes tied to them with rope. You spot two doorways – one is closed, the other slightly ajar. The wall next to the open door is home to a huge painting, the edge of the gold frame shimmering in an odd ray of light that breaks through a gap in the curtains. You don’t know the artwork, it seems to be a dark one, mostly covered in shadows now, but you think it must be a religious subject because you can make out monk-like figures, a goat, a building that resembles an old abbey.

“You walked here?” 

Mr Emeritus reenters the room, carrying a tray as he pushes the door open with his black leather brogues. 

“Ugh, yes. Is that bad?”

“You cannot walk back,” he decides. “No one is available right now to drive you and I cannot leave before we are done with donations. I suggest you stay and rest.”

“As in… stay the night?”

“One of our guest rooms should be finished by now. You can stay there.” A pause as he settles back beside you and places his cargo in your lap. On the tray you find a basket with a few slices of bread, ciabatta from the looks of it, a plate with a small piece of butter, two different wedges of cheese, a bunch of grapes and other fruit. It looks delicious. “I hope this is to your liking.”

“It looks wonderful, thank you.“ You look from the tray to him. “You’re not from the area originally, are you?”

“No, I am not from the area. Does that matter to you, grappolino?”

“No, you just… you don’t look like you belong here,” you finally say, popping a grape into your mouth. “You should be in… I don’t know, Rome, Paris. Or Tuscany, maybe. Why did you bring your business here? Just because of the vineyard?”

“The mansion has been in possession of my family for a long time,” he says. “I always had an interest in wine making, so I took over when the previous tenant expressed his wish to retire.”

“So you actually chose to live in the middle of nowhere?”

“I enjoy the quiet and solitude.” He cocks his head to the side. “And besides, so do you.”

“Hm, touché.”

You eat as much as you feel comfortable with. He watches you throughout your little meal and while it unsettles you you’re more than willing to accept his hospitality. You promised to be good for him after all and you don’t intend to break that promise. Once you’re done he relieves you of the tray and sets it down on the floor. He gives no indication that he wants to leave.

“Do you feel better?” he asks instead. “Let me feel your pulse.”

You don’t object when his gloved hand reaches for yours. The leather feels thick, sturdy, which makes his hand look huge when it surrounds yours. But then he seems to make a last minute decision to remove the gloves, revealing pale but strong hands, dark hair trailing from his knuckles down to his arm. His fingers are cooler than you expect even though there is a warm glow pulsating underneath his fingertips. Your heart immediately begins to hammer in your chest, rapidly beating against its cage of bone and skin. This will not be a useful measuring, at least not if he’s trying to anticipate your health.

Perhaps his train of thought is similar, for his eyes search yours the moment he feels the increase. The corner of his mouth pulls up slightly and his thumb gently strokes over your wrist. You’re quite incapable of looking away, even through the sunglasses there seems to be a sort of shine in his gaze. If only you could properly see them, not just their shadowy outlines. Sparks fly just below your skin, sending shivers through your whole body.

“You seem livelier to me,” he concludes. “Perhaps some more sleep will do, hm? I will have your rooms arranged, you can stay here for the time being.”

“I have a question,” you pipe up before he can leave, a hint of embarrassment laced into your words that you can’t quite hide. “Am I still getting the money?”

“The money?”

“The fifty euros.”

You’re acutely aware of his thumb still stroking your wrist, so softly that it tickles. “You will, grappolino. But there is… something I want to talk to you about. I was going to wait but perhaps now is a good time, no? Before you are too tired again.” 

“What is it?” you ask.

“I want to offer you a job.”

Your eyes widen, the words so unexpected. “A job?”

“I need an employee for the Vinothek. Wine tastings take place on Friday nights every few weeks and I need someone to take over the regular business as I take care of them. The rest of the time you can help out in the vineyard. We have a few important events soon where we introduce new varieties, some international guests will come to visit and there is a lot to do until then.”

“Are you sure this is… not just a pity job offering?”

“No,” he states so matter-of-factly that all your questions vanish. “I can use two extra hands and a sharp brain. I will double your current salary and you can move into your own quarters here for no extra cost. I will make sure your rooms are to your liking.”

You let the thought sit for a moment. Double your salary? Living in an actual mansion in the midst of beautiful wine hills? You wonder what the catch is, if he’s just going to fire you once fall is over or if he’s going to give you all the most horrible tasks he can think of. Even so, for that much money you wouldn’t mind cleaning toilets, sweeping the floors or brewing his morning coffee. It’s not that different from what you’re doing right now anyway.

“Of course there will be no eh… bad blood if you say no.”

“That seems exceptionally dumb,” you say, cringing a bit at your words. “What I mean is, that’s a… a tempting offer. It’s one that sounds too good to be true, actually. It’s just… I don’t know much about wine.”

“I can teach you all that you need to know, grappolino, non preoccuparti,” he says, his voice deeper and almost sultry. His thumb presses into your pulse then, drawing a line along the vein in your forearm until he stops just below the crook of your arm. Then he seems to snap out of whatever thought occupied his mind and pulls away. “Think about it. I do not expect a reply right away.”

You nod, missing his fingers on you already. When he finally leaves the room, you sink back into the soft mattress and imagine what a life here would be like. The offer is too good to refuse and your undeniable crush on Mr Emeritus urges you to agree even more, no matter how foolish it would be to pine after your employer. Subconsciously you bring your thumb to the wrist he just held, mimicking his touch. You think you might die if you don’t feel his hands on your body again. Perhaps he was right, perhaps you would like to explore all the different ways of sinning that he mentioned to you, and perhaps you would very much like him to take part as well.

July

Even though you’re still not quite sure what to make of the masked and hooded monks living in his home who never seem to speak, you accompany them to pack up your belongings. They follow all of your requests and directions without question, treat your things with utmost care and make sure nothing gets lost. What is even more astounding is how they carry even the heaviest of boxes filled with books without any visible strain. Most of the furniture you won’t need anymore is quickly sold or gifted to people on eBay and in the span of one afternoon, all you need is neatly packed into boxes that are now stacked in your new quarters.

You’re not quite sure how he did it but Mr Emeritus handled your job transition quite seamlessly. Your old boss agreed immediately, at least that’s what he told you, and a day later you signed all the necessary paperwork. It gives you a whole day off to familiarize yourself with your new living situation. All morning you unpack boxes, sort books into shelves, clothes into drawers. Your quarters are bigger than anticipated. A decently sized sitting room with beautiful antique-looking green sofas leads into a wide, canopied bedroom that has an en-suite bathroom as well as a walk-in closet.

You are free to use the impressive kitchen downstairs and really, you still haven’t found the catch in the whole arrangement. In search of a cup of afternoon tea, you make your way exactly there, hoping that the pantry is stocked since you’re pretty sure Mr Emeritus has his own private kitchen somewhere else in the mansion. This morning, when you picked up a cup of coffee, he was nowhere to be seen and no dishes or any other evidence betrayed that he was down here. 

When you enter the room now, you spot someone else – a raven-haired head stuck in the fridge. The man looks like he just woke up, wearing grey sweatpants and a purple dressing gown. When he turns around, you notice that his upper body is naked and for a moment you’re not sure where to look. The sweatpants barely conceal the outline of his cock and his bare chest and the soft pouch of his belly are covered in thick black hair. A few small tattoos litter his pale skin, an upside down cross underneath his ribs, two more symbols you don’t recognize just above the dip of his hips. His face seems familiar, broad and handsome, beautifully aged with lines that bring out his strong features, bushy dark eyebrows over eyes that… You halt for a moment. One of his irises is green and the other is white, just like the ones you saw in your dream. Heterochromia is nothing new to you, but for an eye to be this pale?

“Oh, buon pomeriggo,” he says with an openly flirty smile. “We have not met yet, I believe?”

“Uhm... no. I don’t think so.”

“You can call me Terzo.”

You give him your name as well, introducing yourself as a new employee. Before the man can say anything else, steps resound behind you and Mr Emeritus appears in the doorway, eyeing him with barely concealed disdain. “Am I interrupting, fratello?”

“Oh, we just met,” you explain. “I wasn’t aware there was anyone else living here.”

“This is just my brother,” he states. “Don’t mind him, he is ugh… hanging around.”

Terzo scoffs dismissively. “I am actually also working here–”

“I thought you were not my new bellhop, fratellino?”

“I help with the guest room renovations. Really, I am the eh… interior designer, you could say.” He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips with a smirk. “Anyway, it is a pleasure to meet you, tesoro. How lovely to have a youthful presence in this old house.”

“Likewise. I actually wasn’t aware this was a hotel also.”

“It is not,” Mr Emeritus explains, taking a few steps into the room now. He looks incredibly handsome today, wearing his usual black slacks as well as a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled up and the collar open just enough to reveal some of his chest. “We are going to host some of the guests who submit to long travels in order to attend the wine tastings. Now, I was looking for you. I think you need a tour of this place, grappolino, no?”

Terzo dismisses you with a gentle smile, waving after his brother when you both leave the kitchen. Mr Emeritus briskly walks ahead, leading you down a long hallway.

“Were you going to eat?” he asks. “I interrupted.”

“No, I wanted a cup of tea. But I can just have that later.”

He hums, then leads you up a staircase to show you where the guest rooms are going to be located. You see some of the monks again, carrying furniture, painting walls, cleaning rugs. They don’t acknowledge your presence, only step aside when you pass.

“Mr Emeritus–” you start.

“You can call me Secondo,” he interrupts. “Since you are already calling my brother by his first name.”

You’re not sure if you’re imagining the hint of jealousy tainting his voice. He certainly did not look too pleased when he entered the scene earlier. “Secondo and Terzo,” you say. “Like the numbers?”

“My father was not very creative when he procreated like a dog in heat. He argues that he followed an old Italian tradition which is just convenient, no?”

You make a mental note that his father is not a good subject to broach just as he leads you back into the main staircase. “Can I ask you something else?”

“I understand you must have many questions. Feel free to pose them whenever you wish.”

“Well, the biggest one I have is… uhm…” You pause but he does not seem bothered at all. “Who are the hooded men? They look like monks but also not like any real monks I’ve ever seen before.”

“They are something similar.”

“Like a cult? Is that why they don’t talk?”

“No, grappolino, not a cult. We call them the Nameless Ghouls.” His voice is even and patient considering the amount of questions you’re shooting at him. As you walk down the stairs you notice that he is not even remotely out of breath while you’re already struggling to keep up. “They are bound to certain rules of their community such as to not speak to outsiders. They work for me because they were summoned to do so for which I am very grateful. I have arranged one of the former guest houses on the property where they live amongst themselves.”

You furrow your brow, a little confused as to how much of a red flag that should be for you. Ghouls, the religious painting, the upside down cross on his brother’s chest… it does seem suspiciously like a cult. His pace is so fast that you almost stumble down the stairs now. “Do I… do I also have to join them?”

“Oh, no, non preoccuparti. They have nothing to do with you.”

“So they just… help out here?”

“Sì. They make all of this possible.”

“I mean, if they want to live like that, I guess that’s okay.”

He stops in the middle of the staircase. You almost stumble into his strong back, catching yourself on the railing just in time. “I assure you it is all consensual, grappolino. They are free to leave and do as they please. Just like you. Nothing here happens without great enthusiasm.”

You look at him, toying with the hem of your shit nervously now that his gaze is back on your body. Enthusiasm does not sound like he is talking about work but at least it also doesn’t sound like a cult. “This word, is it a good thing?”

He chuckles. “It is a… how do you say? Pet name?” Suddenly he takes the step that separates you, inching closer until his face is right in front of yours. “Do you want me to stop?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, no. No, I like it. I was just wondering… is it a common name?”

“No, it is not common.”

You stare through his glasses, trying to make out the expression in his eyes. Is he flirting with you? Is he making fun of you? The tension is unbearable but you cannot be sure if he feels it as well with half of his face hidden from your sight. You have half a mind to take the glasses from his face.

“If you follow these stairs all the way down,” he finally says, stopping you from any foolishness, “you will reach the wine cellar. It is the door at the bottom, right next to the main entrance.”

“That’s… that’s where all the treasures are kept?”

His mouth curls into a rare smile. “Not all the treasures.”

“Can I ask another question?”

“Certo.”

“Do you have the same eyes as your brother?”

He cocks his head to the side, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “You will have to find out, grappolino.”

You swallow, about to take a foolish step closer to him when he suddenly backs away. His face is out of reach before you can even attempt to rid him of the sunglasses and he’s halfway down the next flight of stairs when you finally catch yourself.

“Now let me get you some tea and some food also,” he calls, not even making sure whether you’re following. “You have to eat a lot of iron and vitamins to increase blood production. We don’t want you to get anemic, hm?”

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 02/07

A group of rogue werewolves attacked two unsuspecting vampires in the Styrian mountains last Monday. The perpetrators fled the scene after they did not manage to kill their victims and attracted the attention of a nearby group of vampires. Both victims fully recovered in the span of two days while further circumstances of the incident still escape the authorities. Unnamed sources claim that one of the vampires is an old acquaintance of Primo Emeritus. Since last Wednesday, speculations on Social Media suggest that the incident could be connected to the death of a lycanthrope in May in which the former Papa was supposedly involved. Neither the authorities nor the Emeritus family were willing to give statements to confirm or deny these rumors.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo is not proud of slipping into your room that first night. He’s not proud when he sees you sleeping so peacefully, trusting that you are safe in his care. You look lovely, young, the picture of innocence and trust. A human so lively, so curious and quick-witted. There is an intelligence in you that is way beyond your years and maybe it is the very reason why you so foolishly trust him – you’re not superstitious.

Before he drinks from you, he inspects your quarters. Sheer curiosity, he tells himself, he always liked to learn. Your bookshelves are filled with all sorts of genres – classics, romantic novels, thrillers, horror, historical fiction, non-fiction. What is most telling however are the books on your bedside table. He finds the same copy of Carmilla you carried in your bag, a book about wine making you must have recently ordered and another book that looks suspiciously like a cheap erotic novel. Maybe not so innocent, he thinks, wondering how he would find you if he came in here a few hours earlier, just before your bedtime.

Secondo is not proud when he slips into your room again a few days later. He’s not proud when he does it again and again and again until one day he notices the first signs of anemia in you and gives you a week of reprieve that has him shaking like an addict. At least he found the strength to be careful now, exerting the control he lacked when he tried that first bag of blood, barely puncturing your neck with one of his fangs and drinking as slowly as your blood flow dictates. He does not want to hurt even a hair on your head, does not want you to wake up the next morning with a wound like an animal attacked you and get suspicious. No, he needs you to stay here and stay well, a source of food, a source of joy.

Still, the moment he drapes himself over your sleeping body and your blood hits his tongue it takes all of his strength to stay calm, to suppress the moans spilling from his lips, to stop himself from growing hard against your sleeping body and humping you like a horny teenager. Just a late night drink, nothing else, a meal to sustain him throughout the night. The restraint he displays is impressive even to him. It goes against all of his predatory instincts that tell him to simply drain you, to consume you until you have nothing left. 

No, Secondo is not proud of any of it. And he slowly starts to realize that it is not stealing your blood that affects him in such a way that he struggles to keep his eldritch powers measured, to ensure that you stay asleep when he feeds. The kiss of a vampire can be impactful even for the vampire himself, at least when other feelings are involved. So no, it is not your blood that breaks his resolve, that makes it so hard to treat you like any other food source.

It’s the feeling of your skin against his lips.

August

Every day in the vineyard feels like a dream. 

You never realized how much your job at the kiosk and living in your tiny flat with nothing but the bare essentials had drained you of the joy of living, how it had put you into a sluggish rhythm of loneliness and unfulfilling work – not until you started to see a different life for yourself, that is. Perhaps Secondo was right when he told you to try out different ways to enjoy yourself all these months ago, perhaps he saw how stuck you were before you got here. Your growing crush on him certainly helps to envision a happier future for yourself in this place.

Your favorite thing are the quiet afternoons with him. Usually, you never see Secondo or his brother before two o’clock. It seems like they are night owls – it is not a rare occurrence that you spot light underneath his office door well into the late hours when you head to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea. In the mornings, you get most of your work done, usually helping out with wine orders that the Nameless Ghouls pack and a post truck picks up around noon. In the evenings, you help out at the Vinothek, taking care of the shop or waiting on people while Secondo tends the bar. But the afternoons? The afternoons are priceless.

Secondo and you usually get comfortable underneath the pergola in the mansion’s courtyard. While he prefers to sit in the shade you have opted for a sunny spot. First you share a break with some afternoon coffee for which his brother usually joins you, then, once Terzo leaves, he starts to teach you everything he knows about wine and wine making. As expected, he is a most patient teacher who takes great delight from your genuine interest in the subject. Today, he is talking to you about different grape varieties and their differences in taste.

“Sangiovese is a red variety,” he explains. “Very common and the base for many wines that I have shown you, grappolino. Chianti, for example.” 

“Like in the Silence of the Lambs.”

“Sì, like that one.”

“Have you ever had it with liver?”

“You see, my dove, Chianti is actually not a good wine to have with liver. Amarone would be much better suited, or some lesser known ones. Dr Lecter would have known that, in the book he did.”

You have to smile at that. Of course he would take note of such things while watching a movie or reading a book. While he continues on his lecture on Sangiovese, you breathe in the rich scents that waft over the courtyard, carried by a gentle summer breeze. For a moment you turn your face into the sun, letting the warm rays caress your features. Mild summer days are your favorites, being outside in a simple shirt without freezing or sweating too much. When you turn back, you notice Secondo watching you. When you smile at him he cocks his head to the side, still observing you without shame. As though he only notices now, he suddenly turns away and reaches into his pocket. When his hand comes back into view it holds a silver flask and he makes a face when he takes his first sip.

“Not good?” you ask, chuckling.

He shrugs, giving a dismissive hum. “I am… used to drinking better things these days.”

“What’s in it?”

“A new drink I have been working on. I try to sample it throughout the day.”

“Can I try?”

“No, grappolino, it is not ready for that yet.”

“You will tell me when it is, though?”

He smiles, a genuine, almost soft smile that you see on him more often now when you’re just among yourselves. “I will, little dove. You are always so eager to learn and try new things.”

The compliments he gives you, if rare, are always meaningful. They manage to fluster you every single time and you subconsciously start to scratch at your neck again. This has been going on for some time now – a few mosquito bites that never stop tingling and as soon as you touch them they start to torment you.

Secondo eyes you, brow furrowed, as if to ask why you’re fidgeting so much. The itch won’t leave, however. At this point it’s hard not to just give in and scratch until it’s bleeding and hope that it will just heal off.

“Mosquito bite,” you explain. “I’ve had them since I got here. Somehow they love to drink from my neck.”

“It is a very tender spot, no? Well supplied with blood.”

“Hm, I think so.”

You scratch until it hurts, then you force yourself to stop. Meanwhile, a distant noise becomes louder and louder until a truck enters the courtyard. Its loud beeping as the driver turns around and goes into reverse hurts your ears to the point where you cover them.

“Oh, I quite forgot about that,” Secondo says and stands up. 

You watch from the pergola how a few of the Nameless Ghouls appear and carry boxes as well as barrels of wine outside loading the truck. Secondo further rolls up the sleeves of his button down shirt to help, carrying boxes until there is not much space left. The Ghouls bring three more barrels and you watch in utter fascination when Secondo picks one of them up like it weighs nothing more than a feather, placing it inside the cargo area. A minute later the truck takes off to his destination and the Ghouls disappear.

“This… was this a full barrel?” you ask, still in shock, the moment Secondo joins you again.

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“Why would you deliver an empty one?”

He eyes you, sitting down, not even out of breath. How is he so fit? You never see him working out. “Always so many questions, grappolino. So curious.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” you say with a shrug.

“Some people buy them,” he says at last. “For eh… decoration purposes.”

You eye him skeptically. Even carrying an empty barrel would take a lot of strength. At the same time, you assume, he has been carrying boxes and barrels and heavy pieces of furniture for years now. When he reclines against his chair, you again take notice of how pale he is.

“You should wear sunscreen,” you say. “You look like the pale type that burns easily.”

“I am Italian, my dove. I am not the pale type.”

“Still, sunlight is the main cause of skin aging and skin cancer.”

“Are you telling me I look old, grappolino?”

“After you just carried all these things old is the last word on my mind that I would use to describe you, no.”

A smirk tugs at his lips but when you take out your sunscreen, waving it in front of his face, he still allows you to apply some to his cheeks, chin and forehead. You think that any excuse to touch him is worth it, even if it means acting like a mother hen to a significantly older man. Despite your inner desire, you don’t let your hands linger on his face. Touching him feels vaguely forbidden, even with his consent and over the greasy layer of sunscreen. Your shaky hands certainly betray the nervous flutter in your body and when you sit back down on your chair, your stomach is in uproar.

Yes, these afternoons are your highlights because with every day you feel like you take a precious step closer to him. And if you’re really lucky and he’s not too busy he takes you back to his private kitchen afterwards to give you your own little tastings, introducing you to flavors your tongue has never met before. One month in now, you can honestly say that the decision to come here was the best one you ever made in your life.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 04/08

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Don’t miss when the new special varieties of the world famous Papastrello wine are introduced. Now with a hint of blood and many more flavors.

What? Food, Wine, Socializing

Where? Emeritus Vineyard

When? September 29th

⛧ ✦ ⛧

It is a subtle art to manipulate the taste of blood. You have to feed your prey the right flavors of food and pour the perfect drinks down their throats to influence the aroma in just the right ways. Too much alcohol and the blood is ruined, too much sugar and it tastes like cheap supermarket wine. Secondo has refined his approach over the past centuries to match his personal preferences.

“Grappa,” he says, pushing the thin-stemmed glass in front of you. “A young one.”

You sway the glass underneath your nose, inhaling the sharp scent. There is not much you could deduce from the smell, not with your human senses, but he appreciates how you always try to use them regardless of how futile the results.

“It is distilled from the pomace after the winemaking,” he explains as he watches you nip. “Nothing goes to waste.”

You smile. “That is a very progressive view.”

“I think it is a very conservative view. Traditional, if you will.” He raises his brows, waiting for your reaction. “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice, it burns in all the good ways.”

“It used to be the drink of farmers,” he explains, filling your glass again. “Until technology progressed in the last century. The taste improved a lot, now it is very popular. I learned how to make it in Northern Italy not too long ago.”

“Were you always a winemaker?”

“No.” He does not elaborate, though his brow furrows as the ghost of distant memories tries to haunt him. The flicker is gone as fast as it came. “Come here, grappolino.”

You do, walking over to where he is sitting and stopping right in front of his chair. He grabs your hand with his gloved one, the back facing upwards before he takes some of the grappa and spreads it on your skin.

“Go on,” he says. “Take in the aroma.”

The scent that hits your nose is pleasant, much more pleasant than the taste. When you are done, looking back at him, he reaches out for your hand and brings it to his own nose, holding your gaze. His lips graze your skin when he sniffs and you think you’re about to combust, your whole body tingling nervously at the unexpected touch.

“Impurities show in the smell,” Secondo explains, remaining unfazed. “Of course, this one does not have any. It is perfect.”

“Of course,” you repeat and when he looks at you with his intense discolored eyes, you’re not sure if he meant the grappa. “So… is that true for people as well?”

His brows rise, a smile tugging at his lips as he nuzzles your hand. “Hm, I don’t smell any impurities in you.” A pause in which you stare at each other, unmoving, unblinking. “Unless they are…” His hand slides up your arm, agonizingly slow. Fingers sprawl out on your cheek, cradling your face before he taps his index finger against your temple. “In here.”

“I can’t say my thoughts are very pure when I’m around you, no.”

Your admission, so readily given, hits him like a gut punch. His cock jumps in his pants, swelling until his slacks are uncomfortably tight. It’s not like hasn’t daydreamed about making you come in a hundred different ways, about having you sprawled out underneath him in the very bed you first opened your eyes to him, to have you begging for him, showing him just how obedient and good you can be when it really counts. Right now, he wants to bend you over one of the wine barrels and have his way with you until you’re crying out his name, until every bit of boldness leaves your body and you’re at his mercy in more ways than one. He wants to teach you the sin of lust until you’re fluent in its very language.

“You’re the first human in a long time that’s tempted me,” he admits with a sigh, pulling his hand from your face. “But the sinner knows temptation when he sees it. I won’t fall, little dove.”

You chuckle, leaning further back against the edge of the table. “The first human? That sounds ominous.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “You should thank Satan for the gift of ignorance. I know you like to ask questions but sometimes it is better not to know.”

“Secondo,” you whisper and then you’re closer, your leg touching his knee. It is evident by the way your blood rushes to your face that you can see the predicament in his pants. He makes no attempt to conceal it. “I don’t know what it is that you think you need to protect me from. But I just wish… I just wish…” You visibly swallow. Then your tongue darts out to wet your lips, slowly, sensually. “If you’re a sinner, then why not sin?”

It is foolish of him to allow you to slide into his lap. Even more foolish to place his hands on your hips and pull you closer, to feel your soft flesh against his thighs. Your hands land on his shoulders, delicate, curious fingers that feel him without shame. They stay there until you sit so comfortably that you don’t need the support anymore at which point they start to travel – over his chest, down to his belly, back up over his bare forearms. The skin contact is more intoxicating than the grappa. You’re always so warm.

It is only when they reach his face that he flinches. You stop immediately, trying to meet his gaze through his glasses. He takes a deep breath. You’ve seen Terzo’s eyes, there is no reason why you would be spooked by his now. And yet–

“Please?” you whisper.

He knows that meeting your gaze with no barrier is going to bring him to his limits. It is a last safety measure, a shield to prevent you from seeing into his soul and to stop him from falling into yours. Curious, beautiful eyes who have seen way more of him than he ever wanted to bare. Still, it seems like you have softened the hard edges of his resolve. More and more of him trickles from the cracks and he can’t quite figure out how to mend the leaks. 

His cautious nod is all it takes for you to take the frame of his glasses and carefully pull them off his face. You hold his gaze so bravely, even as you set them down on the table. The quiet that follows is agonizing even to him. His muscles tense and even though he tries not to blink, he’s the first one to do so.

“You do have the same eyes,” you finally whisper.

“Runs in the family.”

“Ah.”

Those soft fingertips dance along his jaw now, tracing the lines on his skin as though you’re drawing a map. He allows you to get to know his face, even allows your palm to cup his cheek when you gain more courage. The warmth spreads inside of him like a flame, kindling his deepest, most carnal desires that used to be latent for so long. 

It terrifies him and yet he craves nothing more than to give into the pull of their current.

“Secondo,” you whisper, his name laced with all of your needs, and then you’re leaning in.

He already feels your hot breath against his lips, your thumb swiping along his sharp cheekbone, and he can’t help but admire your boldness. It would be so easy to give in and accept his fate, accept that he is not as immune as he thought. But to do so would be to admit to his feelings and the consequences, the pain this would cause you both, is not worth a fleeting moment of passion.

He turns away at the last second, your nose brushing against his, even as your lips miss. You pull back, looking at him with your heavy-lidded, lust-filled eyes. It takes everything in him not to grab you. Confusion ices over your features then and he uses the moment to gently push you off his lap until you land on your feet again.

“Go to bed, grappolino,” he says and to his own shame he can’t meet your eyes as the words leave his mouth.

Even so he catches the hurt of rejection that flickers over your face. He can already smell the salty tears gathering in your eyes, even as he fully turns away and starts to clean the table. Your footsteps retreat with no argument, no witty comeback, not even an insult or a sound of annoyance. He almost wishes that you would have slapped him.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

When he sneaks into your room that night dried tears stain your velvety cheeks. They present him with a feeling he has not dealt with in centuries – guilt.

He falters, thinking that he should not feed from you tonight, not after refusing your intimacy earlier when you offered it to him so willingly. And yet, perhaps even more now, he wants to feel your skin against his as if to offer you the comfort he cannot give by day. Against his better judgment he settles in bed next to you, facing you this time instead of just taking your neck from behind. You’re sleeping on your side, one cheek squished to the pillow, the other one available to him. Secondo pulls at his gloves and gently strokes along your cheekbone, gathering what little wetness remains. You’re warm. So warm.

With some effort he leans over you, finding the spot on your neck and reopening the wound with his fangs. As he begins to drink, his arm wraps around you, pulling you into a more comfortable position. It is the closest thing to a hug.

The contrast between you and him hits him with full force in that moment. He’s not sure why you’re not afraid of him. Most humans sense the presence of a vampire. Unaware as to what the threat is, they still usually feel unease or a vague air of danger. Perhaps you have no sense of self-preservation or perhaps you truly just don’t fear him. Perhaps you’re one of the few people who are unaffected, too curious for your own good.

Or perhaps you were simply made for him. Perhaps Lucifer made your paths cross for a reason.

The thought of having you, of leaning into what has been building between the two of you is terrifying but thrilling at the same time. With your blood in his mouth it is easy to imagine claiming you, revealing himself to you, bringing you into his world and showing you its magic.

He’s not sure how you sense his line of thinking but in that moment you start to shift, moving against him like you’re trying to get closer. He slips, losing grasp on his powers for just a moment but it is enough to make you rouse. You don’t fully wake but your sleep lightens and with a tired sigh you cuddle up to him, tilting your head so he has even better access. An arm wraps around his middle, fingers playing with the hem of his black shirt until they graze his bare midriff. 

“Secondo,” you whimper. 

It awakens something inside of him he has not felt before, not a sexual feeling but a thrum somewhere close to his heart. Need is dripping from your voice, the smell of your arousal hits his sensitive nose, and he’s sure you must be dreaming about him now. Before he knows it he has sunk both of his fangs into your neck and is sucking the blood oozing from the wound. His senses explode, the feeling of your skin on his fingertips, your taste, the way you sigh and seek out his embrace. Lust he can handle, hunger he can handle, but these feelings run deeper, digging below the surface and clawing their way into his very core.

Suddenly it’s all too much. He pulls away from your abused neck, already discolored and swollen, and the sight of what he’s done is enough to propel his overwhelm and guilt into new heights. Secondo slips from the bed and before he knows what he’s doing he finds himself back in his own bedroom. He throws his gloves to the side and stares at his shaking hands. Hands that held you not five seconds ago. Hands that are already yearning to hold you again. His body is buzzing with the need to be close to you, trying to chase the feeling he had when you clung to him, and he hasn’t felt this alive in centuries.

He slides to the ground, leaning against his bed and staring through the window at a growing, nearly full late August moon. What he should be focussing on is the Vinothek, the preparations for the event not even a full month in the future, the growing tensions with the werewolf community and the upcoming wine harvest, not playing around with his little human. 

Secondo licks along his teeth, grazing his fangs, but the taste of your blood won’t fade from his mouth, no matter how many times he swallows and swallows and swallows. It remains there, a phantom of you to remind him of his folly. He knows he won’t find any peace tonight.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

When you dream of him this time, it sets your body on fire. Your imagination, in comfort or torture, brings him into your bed where he wraps himself around your body and kisses your neck with reckless abandon. It seems to last all night but at the same time you feel like you’ve only slept for an hour. Waking up is like being ripped from paradise and cast back into the raging horrors on earth. At first you think you still feel his lips on your neck but the sensation turns into a dull pain, not that of a love bite but that of a hammer repeatedly hitting your skin. You remember his rejection from last night and promptly feel like throwing up.

With your mind still stuck in the fragments of the dream, you enter your bathroom to splash your face with some cold water. The pain on your neck has reached into your whole shoulder area by now and you pause when you spot your reflection. A huge purple bruise has spread over the area around the bite. How–

It would not be the first time your body has let his frustrations out on yourself in sleep. Maybe you scratched the mosquito bite too hard, maybe that’s why you dreamed about him kissing your neck in the first place. At any rate, what you really need right now is a cup of coffee and some painkillers.

Without as much as changing you quickly head downstairs. The house is eerily quiet as usual, the morning has just begun after all and the sun is creeping up over the horizon. Every window you pass reveals a spectacular view of the vineyard with its rows and rows of wine dipped into the soft orange light of a late summer sunrise.

The sight helps improve your mood somewhat. Though that is quickly reversed when you reach the kitchen. You’re already halfway to the coffee maker when you jump after spotting Secondo sitting at the large kitchen table. His own cup of coffee sits in front of him as he reads the paper and you’re wondering if he never went to bed in the first place. 

Of course he has already detected you, eying you curiously. He’s not wearing the glasses, you note, only his gloves, a simple black polo shirt that draws your attention back to his forearms. Quickly, you avert your gaze and focus on the machine in front of you, your face hot in shame for your silly attempt to kiss him as well as your dream.

“Buon giorno, grappolino,” Secondo says, closing the newspaper he’s spread out in front of him and folding it neatly. You can’t read his expression, not even with his eyes revealed to you. 

“Good morning,” you say. “You are up early.”

“Sì. We get some important deliveries today.”

The noise of the espresso machine drowns out your hum of acknowledgment and briefly ends the conversation. However, Secondo’s gaze lingers on your neck and you realize that you’re still only in your loose sleeping shirt and pajama bottoms, the bruise in plain sight.

“It’s… it’s not a hickey.” You’re not sure why you’re saying it. It’s not like you could have got one in the span of the few hours that you’ve been separated. “I don’t know how I got it, probably scratched too hard in my sleep.”

He doesn’t reply, not with words, but there is something in his expression that is wholly foreign to you. His brow is furrowed, his lips slightly parted, and without his glasses you can see a range of emotions reflected in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better you’d think it’s a mixture of shame and guilt. He doesn’t stay long enough to let you see more.

September

Harvesting wine is a brutal job. That is what you’ve been told, anyway.

Hand-picking the grapes instead of using machinery protects the soil, Secondo told you, which is why the Nameless Ghouls head out every morning and every evening to gather them manually while the sun sits low on the horizon.

“The grapes have to stay cool,” he told you when you asked him why they left at four in the morning each day. “It reduces the risk of bacterial infections.”

You watch the bustle from your window, how they start at the bottom of the hillside and make their way up, row after row with buckets and containers on their backs. Once their shift is over, they bring the yield back into the courtyard where they prepare it for further processing. 

It seems like they never get tired.

Most days, Secondo and Terzo either help them pick or they take care of pressing the grapes. Things stay a little awkward, at least for you. Secondo does not really acknowledge that anything happened at all and since the whole vineyard is busy with the harvest while you’re stuck in the office or in the shop, restocking shelves, checking inventory, taking care of shipments, you hardly even see him. On one hand, his rejection still hurts, but on the other hand you’re relieved that he has not fired you or had any other negative reactions to your advances. It would not be the first time you meet an emotionally repressed man who pushes you away. Not the first time you calm your anxiety by nurturing your foolish hopes that maybe one day he will find it in him to like you back.

You learn that the harvest has to go over quickly before the grapes are overly ripe. It’s no surprise when they’re done after no more than three weeks. The cold storages are filled with grape juice just like the wooden barrels in the wine cellar where it now rests, fermenting slowly over the next few months until it turns into wine.

With the harvest done, focus shifts to the upcoming tasting event. When you don’t see Secondo chasing the ghouls through the guest wing for some last minute changes to the interior, you usually know he’s busy in the wine cellar, entrenching himself in one of the back rooms which he told you are not for nosy little doves. You’re sure he’s working on his new wines, perfecting the secret recipes. He prefers to work undisturbed in silence, so whenever he is busy down there he has you stock the mini bars in the guest rooms, make floral arrangements to decorate the sitting rooms or prepare small self-made gifts for the visitors. Anything to keep you occupied elsewhere.

You’re not sure if he really wants to work in solitude or if he’s just avoiding you.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo never took himself for a coward. 

He is a smart, calculated man who has a few centuries of experience under his belt that help him go through life mostly unscathed. He tries to anticipate risks and act accordingly and he might come across as cold or dismissive at times because of his measured choices. He hides, he protects, he does what he has to do. But he is not a coward. 

He is not a coward but since that night, he has not drunk from you.

It bears the question if avoidance and cowardice are two sides of the same coin. If he can’t win either way. The impulse to ignore an issue is not exactly familiar to him but with the event coming up, with the harvest and goings-on at the vineyard it is easy to slip into a mode of focus that pushes you away by keeping busy.

If it weren’t for that hunger.

He’s drinking enough blood from his supply to sustain him but somehow it will not sate him in the way that your blood does. Even as he works with Terzo now, preparing the rooms for the guests that are arriving today and tomorrow, all he can think about is you. It certainly does not help that your smell lingers in every single room.

“Fratello,” Terzo pipes up behind him. “Did Primo say he would bring someone?”

“Hm?”

“He’s…” His brother snorts, pressing his greasy palms against the freshly cleaned window. “I swear to Satan, he’s with a human.”

“Di che parli?”

Secondo can’t help but join him, glancing out of the window like that one annoying neighbor everyone hates, scanning the courtyard in search of his older brother. Primo’s old Bentley has been parked at the far side beneath the beech trees. His long blond hair dances in the breeze behind him as he rounds the car and opens the door to the passenger seat. Someone else steps out, not a ghoul nor anyone else Secondo has ever seen before. The person holds his gloved hand and he immediately pulls them into his arms, wrapping his deep red cloak around them. He leans down to kiss them on the mouth, tenderly, taking his sweet time as he cradles them in his arms like they’re the most precious thing in the world.

“Ma che cazzo…” Terzo whispers. “The old man found someone before I did.”

“He’s with a human,” Secondo states.

“No shit, Sherlock, eh? Not all of us are anthropophobic.”

“I am not–”

“Satana, are they going to stop making out? That’s disgusting.”

“Stop spying, stronzino.”

He practically pulls Terzo from the window and forces him to welcome their brother in the entrance hall downstairs, as respect demands. They have to wait another five minutes until Primo appears, carrying two large suitcases, the human he brought with him entering alongside. They’re young. Very young in fact. Probably around your age, he can’t help but note.

“Fratello!” Terzo greets him exuberantly, opening his arms to him. Primo barely has enough time to set down the suitcases before Terzo’s lips press to his cheeks in two loud kisses. “You look well! And you brought someone, che sorpresa!”

“I am well,” Primo says as Terzo quickly moves on to the human, taking their hand delicately in his and bringing it to his lips. Meanwhile Primo faces Secondo who is still rooted to his spot behind the reception desk. “Grazie per l’invito.”

“Grazie per essere venuto,” he replies diplomatically. “It is good to see you, fratello.”

“To be honest, we need a place to stay for a while.” He turns to his companion who has since been freed from Terzo grasp, wrapping a possessive arm around their waist with a sort of love-sick expression that Secondo has never seen on him before. “This is my little flower, my greatest treasure. I want you all to meet.”

Terzo and Secondo exchange a quick look but before they can say anything the human speaks up. “It’s nice to meet you both. Primo told me a lot about you.”

“Only good things I hope, eh?” Terzo asks.

“They know,” Primo says then. “You don’t have to hide.”

“You told them?” Secondo asks, the shock evidently woven into his voice. 

“Fratello, what is going on?” Terzo’s reaction is quite similar. “Werewolves, a human?”

In that moment Secondo’s senses detect you coming down the stairs. He shushes his brothers, nudging Terzo towards the suitcases in hopes of giving the appearance of a normal check-in. The last thing he needs right now is another human finding out.

“I told you I am not your bellhop,” Terzo complains.

You round the corner, then, and they finally pay enough attention to notice you as well. Secondo can’t help but take you in when you descend to their level. His eyes find your neck, the bruise mostly faded but even so the memory of that night is clear in his mind. That appetite inside of him stirs, the urge to have his lips on your skin again to taste not just your blood but all of you.

“Oh, hello,” you say, effectively bringing his attention back to the situation at hand. “I thought I heard voices. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, grappolino.” He has to force himself to stop staring at you. “The first guests have arrived. This is our brother, Primo, and his… partner.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“And who is this?” Primo asks, shooting Secondo a knowing look before he greets you with a gentle smile. “How lovely to see a new face in these old halls.”

Secondo introduces you, not without a hint of barely concealed shame. He can feel Primo’s eyes boring into him throughout, the accusation of hypocrisy very evident in his narrowed mismatched eyes. Of course Primo would see right through him. His older brother’s senses are even stronger than any of theirs. He would not be surprised if he still smelled him on you.

“Can you find a Ghoul to carry their luggage?” Secondo asks. “I would like to have a moment with just my brothers.”

“I won’t leave my flower,” Primo says, vehemently shaking his head.

“It’s okay,” they interject, running a soft hand along his arm. “I will just start unpacking.”

It is only with a great deal of reluctance that Primo follows him and Terzo into the kitchen and leaves his little flower to you. The eldest immediately finds the kettle and brings some water to boil. Old habits die hard, Secondo supposes. Serious conversations are only to be held over a calming cup of herbal tea.

“Cos’è successo?” Secondo ask once they all sit over their mugs. “With the wolf?”

“It was not done on purpose,” Primo says. “I was protecting someone I love. That is all you need to know.”

“The human?” The word comes out with much more venom than he anticipated.

“Ah and you are here to pass judgment?” Primo asks, giving him a withering look. “You?”

Secondo presses his lips together. “Not judgment. I am trying to understand why.”

“Is it so hard for you to imagine caring about someone? To love them so much that you would kill for them?”

”No, I–“

“I am not here to be questioned,” Primo interrupts. “You invited me to an event, no? That is what we are here for. If you allow us, we would like to stay a few more days until we can move into our new home. But apart from that, I do not wish any commentary on my life.”

“You are moving?” Secondo asks. “With the human?”

“Oh, don’t mind him, fratello,” Terzo chimes in. “He is just grumpy because he fell in love with a human as well but unlike you he already messed it up. We are very happy for you and your little flower.”

“I will not have this childish conversation,” Secondo says. “There are werewolves running amok because of this, attacking our kind.”

“And they will calm down,” Terzo says. “There are a few rogues, it is not the whole community.”

“Secondo, I know you are worried.” Primo’s voice lost the defensive tone, instead it sounds much more like the caring, diplomatic voice his brother is used to. “But I don’t need your protection. If any werewolf is foolish enough to attack us, they will face harsh consequences. I will defend what is mine and I urge you to do the same.”

Secondo lets those words sit for a moment. He has never felt protective of anyone outside of the family before but now the first person that comes to his mind is you. Would he have done the same, killing a werewolf to save you? Potentially rekindling a centuries-old conflict between two communities? 

The answer comes surprisingly easy.

“Did you invite Copia?” Primo asks then. “He is not here?”

“Oh, he is busy playing Dracula somewhere in the Slovakian mountains,” Terzo replies. “He said not to expect him but to send him a few bottles.”

“He is not doing well.” Primo takes a long sip of tea. “It has been half a century.”

“Until father steps down this will not change,” Secondo says. “Copia has the rightful claim to the title.”

“Well, we had this argument before and it caused a family feud that made us vulnerable in the first place,” Terzo snaps. “The old stronzo doesn’t give a shit.”

“Let’s not get into this now,” Primo says. “We are here to celebrate that your business is doing well, Secondo. It will give the community something else to talk about for a while.”

This is as long as they manage to keep Primo from going to look after his flower, leaving them to stew over their own tea mugs they won’t be emptying. Secondo struggles to grasp what he learned today. Primo – the experienced, the wisest and most reasonable of them – is in love with a human. A young, kind, lovely human. And he is happier than ever before.

But perhaps that is not what is so hard to understand. Perhaps it is the fact that Secondo wishes he had the very same thing. Primo’s words still ring inside of his head. Is it so hard for you to imagine caring about someone?

The answer is no. He knows exactly what it feels like.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

The next twenty-four hours are the busiest since you came to the vineyard. Guest after guest arrives and Secondo puts you in charge of welcoming them. You’re behind the reception desk most of the night because apparently most of them traveled through the evening hours. By twelve pm on the very day that the event takes place the last guest arrives. He is a middle aged man with dark hair and kind brown eyes, looking far more average than the rest of the guests with their fancy clothes, aristocratic features and expensive cars. He reveals his name to you and you scan the reservation, finding him at the bottom as one of the last ones to book a room. There aren’t any left, so he must have got lucky. 

“That would be the blue room, sir,” you offer, handing him the key.

He eyes your neck, then, and you’re not sure what he is looking at, if he can still somehow see the faint remnants of your bruise in the dim lighting inside. Before you can apologize for your appearance, he glances away again, smiling. “Thank you, little one. The blue room sounds lovely.”

“Let me ask someone to carry your luggage, sir.” 

You’re ready to ring the bell and call for a Ghoul. However, the man stops you with a wave of his hand. “Oh, not necessary. I shall carry it myself. A little workout never hurt anyone.”

“Oh, okay.” 

He’s already up the stairs when you’re distracted from the encounter. Secondo strolls into the entrance hall. He does not appear nervous, despite only having eight hours left until the event begins. Right now he’s dressed in a simple polo shirt, slacks, his usual gloves and sunglasses. You love it when he looks somewhat casual, at least to his standards. Still, you can’t quite revel in his handsome appearance. Since the tasting is so close now, your anxiety has risen to an uncomfortable level. He said he needed an extra pair of hands but he never specified for how long.

“Has everyone arrived?” he asks when he reaches the desk.

“Yes, the last guest just went to his room.” You eye him as he scans the list in front of you, not even taking notice of the state you’re in. “Actually, do you have a moment?”

He looks up, then, and you freeze. Even through the glasses meeting his eyes has the heavy impact of a gut punch. You’re surprised by how gentle his voice is. “Of course, my dove. What is it?”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” you ramble before you can think twice about it. “I know, we were just being a little flirty with each other and that this is very different from actually attempting to kiss you. I feel very stupid now that I… that I misread the situation and I want to apologize. I love working here and I don’t want to lose it when the event is over. I enjoy being here, spending time with you and I don’t want to leave.”

“Grappolino, who said anything about leaving?”

You’re almost crying, tears pricking your eyes like a thousand needles. “You’re avoiding me. I just assumed that when you don’t need me anymore…”

He stops you by reaching for your hand, pressing his thumb into your palm. “You do not have to worry about this right now.”

“How can I not? You’ve been acting all sorts of weird with me.”

Secondo sighs deeply and you regret bringing it up now when he’s already stressed. But then he perks up as though something caught his attention. He pulls you into the door to the wine cellar by the stairs just when you hear voices and footsteps approaching. Blindly you stumble after him, shivering when you reach the cold stone masonry downstairs where he turns on an old, dim ceiling light. Down here it smells of fermentation, wine and vaguely of must. You lean against an old table, listening to the gurgling sounds of the carbon dioxide leaving the barrels.

“You won’t go, grappolino,” Secondo says, running his gloved hand over his face until he reaches his sunglasses and takes them off. “In fact it is I who should apologize for how I’ve been treating you. For things you don’t even know about.”

You stare into his odd eyes, the white iris almost glowing in the gloomy old cellar. He takes two steps until he’s right in front of you and you feel a cold shiver of anticipation running along your spine. You haven’t been this close since the grappa incident and the smell of his cologne makes you dizzy with need.

“My dove, you did not misread the situation. I very much wanted to kiss you.” He cages you in, resting both of his hands on the table at your sides. “And I very much want to do so right now.”

“Please,” is all you can say. “Please, Secondo.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smug grin at your begging tone, the lines on his hollow cheeks deepening. He leans in until your breaths mingle, until you can feel his exhales tickling your lips. “We shouldn’t,” he whispers into the tight space. “It is foolish.”

And yet he does not pull away. His hooked nose nuzzles yours as if to savor the moment for just a bit longer. You dare to reach out and wrap your hands around his strong neck, playing with the collar of his shirt. He hums when your fingertips brush the tender skin at his nape and his own hand moves to cup your cheek, looking for more contact. The leather feels soft, hiding how his firm grip keeps your head in place. His eyes are stuck on your lips and you decide to close yours, mentally tracing the line of butterflies that flutter from your belly all the way up to your throat. Another hum leaves him when you part your lips in a sigh and then his thumb pushes your jaw up, tilting your head just right before his lips capture yours.

His mouth is cooler than expected, softer too. Secondo takes charge of the kiss in a way that makes you weak in the knees. Gentle but firm at the same time he moves his lips against yours, slowly increasing the pressure. You moan softly, clinging to him as your body sinks and sinks against him. His hands move to your hips to catch you and he easily sets you down on the table, stepping between your legs until you can feel his whole front against yours. He’s already half-hard and his outline is only growing against your stomach.

You snake a hand between your bodies, cupping his length through the tightness of his slacks. Secondo groans into your mouth, pushing his tongue between your lips with urgency. You kiss back with the same hunger, swollen mouths and eager tongues exploring each other to the last crevice. When you break away, saliva drips from the corner of your mouth to your chin and he licks it off, kissing from your cupid’s bow down to your jaw.

Before you can properly recover your breathing, Secondo’s hand toys at your lips and he slides two of his fingers inside your mouth. You receive them, allowing him to press down on your tongue.

“Get them wet for me, hm?” he murmurs into your skin. “My perfect little dove. So eager, so filthy, just waiting for me to fill you.”

You suck at the digits spurred on by his praise, swirling your tongue around their length while his lips firmly attach to your neck in a bruising kiss, just like in your dream. You struggle to keep your grasp on reality, lust and pleasure overwhelming all of your senses. When he finally pulls his hand from your lips you feel horribly empty. He gives you no time before he pushes his hand into your pants, not even playing with you before he immediately slides it in deeper. He finds your opening, fingers probing and widening before he slips one inside. You keen, grasping his shoulders for support and he adds a second one shortly after. The stretch is beautiful, thick, gloved fingers that he crooks expertly to hit that sweet sensitive spot inside. You think he moans louder than you at the contact, sinking against your body for a moment as the sensation hits him.

“You…” He shudders, groans deeply into your ear. “You’re so… warm.”

He gasps when you impatiently rut against his hand, rolling your hips in sync with the movements of his fingers inside of you. He helps you along, pumping his fingers in and out of you while still kissing your neck with his insistent mouth. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, closer, until his hard cock rubs against your front at every thrust of his hand. Secondo grunts like a wild animal and then his teeth sink into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. A stinging pain shoots through you and you cry out in surprise. The feeling is not unpleasant, on the contrary – the pain mixing with your pleasure makes you wonderfully dizzy. He must have broken the skin because there is more wetness now than just his spit trickling down your throat. Secondo startles when he feels it, breaking away from your neck, and you can see blood staining his teeth and lips. “I’m sorry– I–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “It’s okay, I like it rough. Don’t stop.”

His lips press to yours urgently. You moan, tasting your warm blood in his cold mouth, and you push your tongue inside even deeper for more. Secondo’s movements speed up. His fingers fuck you roughly until you can’t help but clench around them. It only takes a few more flicks of his tongue against yours, a few more strokes of his fingers until you’re tumbling over the edge. The moan that breaks from your throat echoes loudly in the old stone halls and you whimper pathetically at every thrust with which he carries you through your pleasure.

You notice that his hips still hump your front in sync with the last few pumps of his hand, chasing the friction of your body. He’s grunting, his open lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before they slide down to your neck. His tongue darts out to lick the remaining blood from your collarbone, eager strokes of his tongue that leave a wet trail over your skin before his lips close tightly around the wound. Suddenly he stills, releasing a drawn-out moan stifled by your wet skin and you feel his cock jumping inside of his pants when he cums. For a moment he holds you against him, removing his fingers to wrap both of his arms tightly around you.

“Perdonami, per favore,” he whispers, pressing a thousand soft kisses along your neck. “I hurt you. I hurt my little dove.”

“Don’t apologize,” you stress. “I like it rough, I would have told you if I didn’t.”

“That’s not…” He sighs. “No, I cannot hurt you. It has to stop.”

“Secondo.” He falters at the sound of his name, frowning at you. “I liked it. Please, don’t worry.”

He takes a shuddering breath, shaking his head vehemently. “Grappolino, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You smooth out the deep line between his eyes, caressing his features with all the tenderness you feel towards him. He slowly relaxes, resting his forehead against yours. For a while you stay like that, embracing each other, breathing each other in. Your heart beats strongly against your ribs, longing to reach him. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been this happy before.

“Secondo,” you whisper, nuzzling his nose with yours. “I think I’m in love with you.”

He freezes against you, his limbs going rigid. After a moment he pulls away to meet your eyes and there is such visible confusion etched into his features. His mouth opens slightly, revealing the edges of two sharp fangs, still dipped in your blood. His eye turns from a deep red to its usual green.

Suddenly, it all begins to fall into place. Perhaps you breathed in too many alcoholic fumes down here, perhaps you’ve finally lost your mind. But the way he lapped at your blood, the way he avoids the light, the bruising around your neck, the sunglasses and late nights, how you dreamed about him with blood staining his mouth, his eye glowing red–

“Secondo!” a voice calls down the stairs. “Sbrigati!”

His head whips around and he tries to break away. You attempt to keep him there, holding onto his shoulders, urging him to stay. “Secondo, are you… are you a–”

“We have to talk later,” he says, tearing himself away from you with ease. “We have to head to the Vinothek and get ready for the guests. I will wait for you in the courtyard.”

”But–“

He won’t hear you out. Before you can say another word he’s already upstairs.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Somehow you manage to get dressed. Your legs hardly carry you upstairs, weak from the force of what just happened as well as the sudden stress added on top. With your evening outfit already neatly laid out on your bed it doesn’t take you too long to get ready but you also can’t find any calm moment to gather your thoughts. Your suspicion spreads in your mind, carrying a hint of fear but also curiosity. You’re sure you’re slowly losing grasp on your sanity. It’s impossible. You’re not superstitious, on the contrary, you’ve always relied on your thirst for knowledge, on the fact that you learn fast, that you see through things and quickly understand them. But if your notion turns out to be true, you ran into the trap of a predator with open arms and a bared neck.

Even so, your suspicion doesn’t stop your cheeks from burning when you meet everyone in the courtyard, Secondo and his brothers already waiting for you in the shade of the pergola. When his eyes meet yours you feel a pull, a need unlike any you have felt before. You can’t help but wonder if you’re being manipulated, if this is all a mirage and he’s been toying with you all this time.

Real or not, their looks for the night take your breath away. What strikes you the most is how all three of them are wearing face paints that shape their features like skulls. They’re all slightly different but Secondo’s looks the most menacing, stressing the sharp edges of his jaw and cheeks. In contrast to that of his brothers his eyeshadow is glittery, sparkling in the light that meets his face.

Suddenly you’re wondering how the thought of them being vampires has never occurred to you before. Secondo looks quite like Count Dracula himself in his white button down shirt, a green brocade vest under a perfectly cut suit jacket, an emerald green bowtie, black slacks and leather brogues that match his gloves – the same gloves that were inside of you not even half an hour ago. Terzo’s outfit is quite similar only that his shirt has ruffles, the vest is a deep purple and he’s fixed a silver brooch on his collar that bears the upside down crucifix you’ve seen tattooed on his body. Primo is wearing a crimson brocade tailcoat, his long blonde hair curled at the edges while his partner’s outfit was carefully chosen to match his. They look like they jumped straight out of a classic horror movie – elegantly menacing, aristocratic and weirdly out of time.

During your ride to the Vinothek, you’re closely pressed to Secondo’s side on the backseat of a short limousine with darkened windows, driven by one of the Nameless Ghouls. Even dressed up you feel quite out of place. His strong thigh is pressed against yours, distracting you enough that the five minutes pass quickly. You stare at his hands resting in his lap, toying with the hem of his gloves, and you wonder if he wore the same pair on purpose.

At the venue, more Nameless Ghouls arrange tables and chairs in one of the side rooms that are usually empty. You feel pretty useless while the others discuss the tasting, so you refill the shelves in the store up front and distract yourself by preparing the bar for the evening. At some point Secondo approaches you behind the counter. “You can handle the hum-” He coughs. “The evening bustle while I lead the tasting?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you, grappolino.” He stops, almost reaching for your hand but pulling back just before your fingers touch. He looks like he wants to say more, you want him to say more, but his lips stay sealed. It is odd to look at his painted face, a man you thought you knew, thought you were in love with. Now it is hard to say if any of it was real.

Once the first guests arrive, you’re tasked to show them into the event location. You know the actual tasting is going to take two hours with the subsequent chance to socialize. Once the door closes you get somewhat comfortable behind the bar. Throughout the night you only have to tend to two guests, the rest of the time you spend googling everything that you can about vampires on your phone. No helpful sites pop up, only a few intense subreddits about suspected vampire sightings that only serve to confuse you even more. 

About two hours later, the door to the side room bursts open and Terzo storms past. He pulls at the door of one of the wine fridges, blindly reaching for one of the bottles. Secondo follows two seconds later, closing the door quietly behind him with a deep sigh. You step aside when Terzo reaches for a corkscrew, pulling the cork out like it’s nothing.

“You don’t know if it is true,” Secondo says, leaning in the doorway.

“Well, they’re not here,” Terzo says. “They didn’t come.”

“You should be glad they did not, fratello. It spares you the pain of another rejection.”

Terzo lifts the bottle and places it at his painted mouth, taking a long swig until the paint is smudged and his lips take on a deep crimson tone. He lets the taste sit for a minute, seemingly content before he starts to empty the bottle without pause.

“Fratello, you need to calm down,” Secondo warns him. “This is a wine tasting.”

“Yeah, so? Are you supposed to be boring at those?”

“They are a more… sophisticated sort of event. Come sai.”

“What I know, fratello, is that I’m here for a good time, just like everyone else. I want to have some actual damn wine and find someone to fuck later, sound sophisticated enough?”

“Terzo,” Secondo says. “You can’t fuck or drink the pain away.”

His brother frowns, grabbing another two bottles from the fridge. “Watch me try.”

You follow Terzo with your eyes as he pushes past his brother and disappears in the other room. Through the open door you can hear the bustle of people socializing, the clinking of glasses. “Will he be okay?”

Secondo closes the door and shrugs. “This is going to cost me a lot of wine. It is not easy to get him drunk.”

“So ugh… who didn’t come?” you dare to ask.

“His ex.” Secondo lifts his hand to rub at his eyes but thinks better just before they touch his make-up. “It is a long story. Someone told him they’re with someone else.”

“Secondo,” you try, now that you have him alone. “Actually, I’ve been wondering…”

“I need to look after him before he causes a scene. Can you do me a favor and get some of the orders sorted? The bottles are in the backroom. You can pack them in the usual boxes and bring them out back where one of the Ghouls will pick them up later.”

You want to argue with him, force him to listen to you, but he seems too tense to risk an attempt now. Instead you nod. “Where are they?”

“I will bring you the forms.”

With that he disappears into the side room as well. You’re curious, maybe too curious for your own good, but you just have to risk it and slip inside as well. The sight that meets you has you gasping. All of the guests have gathered around bar tables, wine glasses filled with a deep red liquid as they eagerly chat and drink. Even in the dimmed light you realize that this is not the same wine you’ve seen served at the bar, nor does the texture resemble any of the ones Secondo had you try. No, if it’s true and they’re– 

A sudden sense of terror overcomes you, even more so as you notice the first curious pairs of eyes on you that you swear are a glowing red. They don’t look real, they don’t look even remotely human, and most of all they look hungry.

“You are too curious for your own good.”

Secondo is by your side immediately, blocking your view before he ushers you out of the room. You let him carefully manhandle you until you’re outside of the door, still petrified from what you just saw, from the sudden horror fantasies your mind conjured up.

“The orders,” he says, pressing the documents into your hand before he gently cups your cheek.  You’re panicking, maybe. Or perhaps you’re not breathing at all. “My dove.”

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

You nod, telling yourself that this can’t be true. It simply can’t. You’re seeing ghosts, your brain has taken hold of an idea and ran wild with it. This is the real world, not one of the many novels you read. Secondo is right here, looking just like always, his iris green and not glowing at all.

“I’m sorry for busting in,” you say, realizing your silly mistake now. “I just… God, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m losing my mind.”

“Grappolino, I promise we will talk tomorrow. First we have to get this done, yes?” His thumb swipes over your cheek, so gently that you decide to believe him. “I will meet you once the guests leave and we will talk about what happened today.”

“Alright.” You nod, leaning into his touch. “I’ll… I’ll take care of the orders.”

He must know of your suspicion, he must know. His eyes tell you that he’s not going to let you leave, that he has an eye on you if you want to or not. For some reason you still feel safe knowing that he’s here, his touch nothing but comforting. His nod is barely noticeable but he does let go of your face eventually to go back inside. 

For a few minutes you have to hold onto the wall, slowly breathing in and out, trying to calm your racing heart. Perhaps it’s the lack of proper sleep. You spent most of last night checking in guests, only getting a few hours of rest in the early morning. 

This is ridiculous, you tell yourself, vampires aren’t real.

Once you’ve recovered, you start to pack the boxes, distracting yourself with the basic, monotonous work that is packing order and updating inventory. You’ve already carried a couple of boxes outside into the alley behind the Vinothek when your sneaking suspicion grows stronger again. There is an easy way to find out whether they were really drinking blood. One way to prove to yourself that you’re overreacting.

Without thinking you rip one of the boxes back open. The bottles look like any other wine bottles. Papastrello, the label says in gold-foiled lettering that is all too familiar by now. The only difference is the upside down cross that is stamped into the paper. The bottles are about the same weight, the dark glass no different from the other wine bottles you’ve seen. The only way to know for sure is to open it, to look at the wine itself.

In that moment you’re too scared to head back inside, too scared that someone is going to sense your suspicion and either laugh about your paranoia or possibly harm you for finding out what no one should know. You feel quite unhinged when you grab the bottle and smash it on the concrete of the sidewalk. What splashes out and mixes with the shards of glass is a red liquid that might be wine or might be blood, you can’t quite tell. The pale light of a full autumn moon reflects in the color, making it much paler than it looked inside. You know that you have to try it to know for certain whether it is wine or not.

It takes you a long moment of persuasion, silently debating with your inner voices until you reach out and wet your finger. On your skin, the liquid feels wrong, thicker, creamier, but also not quite like blood. You swallow your fear and bring it to your lips.

The moment your finger hits your tongue a deafening growl echoes in the street behind you. The sound is predatory, animalistic, ringing inside your ears long after it stopped. The hairs on your arms stand in alert as you turn around, expecting an aggressive dog or perhaps even a wolf straying from the woods. But what meets your eye is anything but. The creature is huge, filling the width of the whole alley with its broad shoulders and even as it cowers, resting on his two huge clawed hands, it’s almost as tall as the cars lining the main road. 

The metallic taste on your tongue is forgotten the moment you spot it. Another growl and the beast jumps into action, galloping along the alley just as you scramble to your feet. Flight is hopeless, you barely take two steps in an attempt to sprint before its heavy steps are right behind you. Still you run and suddenly it seems like you’re making headway, the sounds gaining distance. You dare to turn around when you finally reach the end of the alley. What you see feels surreal, like a nightmare brought to life.

Secondo is standing between you and the monster who seems to have stopped, assessing the situation. Against all instinct you take a few steps back in their direction, watching the furry creature with its deformed but still somehow human body. Suddenly you recognize him, dark hair, the same brown eyes. It has to be the man who checked in this morning.

“You attacked the wrong human,” Secondo says. “This is not who you’re looking for.”

The creature does not seem in control of itself as it paces the road, sniffing audibly, baring its fangs to you in an attempt to intimidate and scare. Secondo stays in front of you, the image of a predator himself, but compared to the werewolf he looks small, almost fragile. Fear buries its way deep into your body. Suddenly you’re not worried for yourself anymore but for him. Your heart is hammering so fast that it echoes inside of your skull, your whole body sweating and shaking. 

When the beast finally pounces, you shriek. Secondo grabs its massive arms to keep it at a distance but the werewolf tears at his clothing, ripping until its claws sink into his torso. His voice stretches into a pained scream that penetrates your whole body, deeper and deeper until you can feel it all the way into your marrow, rattling at your very core. The wolf is going to rip him to pieces in the blink of an eye. It’s going to kill him the moment he breaks his powerful hold.

You would never forgive yourself if he died because of you, if he got hurt trying to protect you. And maybe it is foolish, maybe you should let him handle the fight by himself, but you close the gap anyway until you can duck and reach into his pocket. Before you can think any of it through you’ve already sparked the flint and shoved the flame of his stupidly expensive lighter into the wolf’s fur. At first you think it is too dense to burn but then the beast starts yowling. The softer underfur has caught on fire, a disgusting sulphuric smell spreading around you. For a moment the wolf recoils in pain, letting go of Secondo who stumbles backwards. You’re trying to reach him but then the wolf deals one final blow, throwing his massive arms around his body. At the last moment, his paw smacks into your flank and pushes you down.

You land on the concrete, all breath brutally ripped from your lungs, and the intense pain of the impact explodes in your whole body. Secondo falls to the floor next to you with a heavy thud, dark non-human blood oozing from the cuts in his body. You hear more sounds as your vision slowly fades. Terzo is storming out of the back door, more people blurring into one big mass of faces behind him – and then you’re gone.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Vampire Gazette 04/09

Last night’s wine tasting at the Emeritus Vinothek ended in a brutal fight between the owner Secondo Emeritus and an unknown lycanthrope. The werewolf attacked a human employee outside of the establishment but could be stopped when the vampire intervened. He fled the scene while the other attendees took care of the victims. Both vampire and human escaped the fight slightly injured but are going to recover with no permanent damage, according to a spokesperson of the family. This is the tenth incident of violent conflict between vampires and werewolves in the past four months, following a surge of cases after the killing of a lycanthrope in May.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

“Here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and head was next placed on a pile of wood, and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire. ”

You wake up to Secondo’s voice as he reads you the last few pages of Carmilla. Slowly noticing the world around you, you realize that you are in his bed in the mansion, the same soft white sheets surrounding your tired body that you found yourself in that first day. You keep your eyes closed, listening until the story is over.

“They always kill the vampire,” he says. “Perhaps they are right to do so.” A pause in which you hear the rustling of pages as he closes the book. “I know you are awake, grappolino.”

You turn around, opening your eyes to see him lying in bed next to you. The memories of what happened flood your brain, the way he protected you from the attack, saved you by risking his own life. You remember falling, the impact of the hit you took, and you’re surprised that you’re well, that you feel no pain other than the heaviness of your tired limbs.

“You slept almost a whole day,” he says. “I thought you might be angry with me. But I needed to watch over you.”

You take the book from his hand, running your palm over the smooth cover. Secondo looks tired, paler than usual and without the sunglasses you can see the extent of his exhaustion in his eyes. He’s wearing a dark green robe over black sweatpants, an altogether unfamiliar sight compared to his usual put together looks. No matter what happened, no matter what you now know, an intense surge of love for him floods your whole body and you can hardly shake it or push it down.

He saved you and you saved him. Everything else seems almost insignificant in that moment.

You shift so you can get closer and he watches you like a hawk, tracing all your movements.  “My dove you shouldn’t move around.”

You don’t listen, you can’t, even as the soreness in your muscles makes it harder. Eventually you settle with your head on his belly, closing your eyes until the wave of emotion has crashed over you. He only seems half as frightening from here, in fact he looks incredibly soft as he gazes down at you.

“What do you think would happen,” you whisper, “if instead of killing we started loving them?”

He exhales – a pained, heavy sound that carries a distinct sadness. His expression shifts and he shakes his head, watching you with glossy eyes. “How can you say this when you know what I am? When you see what my world can do to you?”

“Because I feel it,” you say with no pause. “Because my heart screams that it does. I’m not scared.”

“Of course you are not. You never were.” His hand reaches out but he stops himself. “Per favore, may I touch you?” You press your face into the soft fabric of his robe, giving him a firm nod, and he gently strokes your hair, running his fingertips over your scalp, more to soothe himself than you. “I will never forgive myself for being late. That I missed the wolf in sheep skin because I was too distracted. When it hit you…” His hand stills and his lips press together tightly. After a moment he cradles your cheek, caressing your skin with his thumb. “I will protect you. I will never let any harm come to you, my dove. I swear it.”

You turn your face, leaning into his touch. “Why did he attack? To get to you?”

“I drank from you,” he says. “Imprinting myself on you. He must have thought you were Primo’s partner. Or perhaps he was just looking to hurt any one of us and went after the smell. There has been an ongoing conflict.”

“Vampire werewolf politics?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Yes.”

“I’m so confused, Secondo. I have so many questions.”

“I know, my dove. I will answer them in time but you need to rest.” He sees your disappointed expression, running his hand along your lips now. “One question.”

“Your business…” you start. “Does this mean vampires don’t harm people? It’s not like they show us in all those movies? They drink from bottles and you get it from blood donations?”

He cringes slightly at your question, a painful twist, perhaps at the prospect of disappointing you. “Many vampires still… hunt. Some are more predatory, some are more subtle, some prefer to not hurt anyone. There are a million ways to feed, amore, and we have no laws to regulate this.”

“But why would they still hunt?” There is irritation, confusion in your tone. “If there are easier ways?”

“Some vampires enjoy the taste of fear in the blood,” he says. “A lot of adrenaline, stress hormones, it flows faster after biting too. Even here sometimes people are scared of needles and you can taste it later after taking their blood. But it is not as intense as it is when you… hunt.”

“Do you… do you like this taste?”

“No.” He falters, cocking his head to the side. “Not anymore.”

“But you have?”

There is a hint of accusation in your tone but he does not seem disturbed by it, on the contrary. “I will not lie to you. I have in the past, grappolino. Many young vampires do, a bit like teenagers who drink alcohol for the first time. But taste changes with time, as it does for humans, and I have left those wild, young days long behind me. In fact, since I tasted you…” He trails off, running his finger down your jaw until he strokes the faint remains of the bite on your neck. “I have no desire to hunt for a better taste.”

His words send a shiver through your body. His thumb presses back against your neck, then underneath your jaw, following the line of your pulse. Even knowing what he is and what he did – your body longs for his touch and you don’t know what to do other than give in. You press your cheek into the softness of his belly, the fabric of his robe smooth against your skin, trying to hide how easily affected you are. “So you were my mosquito? The bites were yours?”

“That is the second question.”

You furrow your brow, trying to pull away but he won’t let you. “Secondo–”

“You take me for a monster now,” he states. “And maybe I am, maybe I am cruel for wanting you for myself in ways that made me keep the truth, in fear that you could not accept me. But my feelings for you are real, they are consuming me more than any thirst for blood ever has. I am…” He swallows, his voice firm as he continues. “I am devoted to you forever.”

For a moment you let those words sink in. This is as close to a confession of his love that you got until now and you realize that it must take him everything to be so open with you. He seems to mistake your silence for rejection.

“I understand if you want to leave,” he says. “I will not stop you.”

You shake your head, finally managing to sit up and properly look at him. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t ever want to leave you.” He looks pained at your admission, like he has almost been hoping for a rejection. “Why are you so hesitant? Is it that unheard of to be with a human? Your brother is with one as well.”

“Every time I have opened myself to someone it ended in pain and it will end in pain with you, grappolino. Unbearable pain, loss, grief, loneliness.” He stops himself, his eyes red and glistening. “With you I have let the sun back into my life. And I cannot… I cannot bear to have the world take it from me again. Non credo che lo potrò sopravvivere questa volta.” (I don’t think I can survive it this time)

“It doesn’t have to, Secondo,” you assure him. “There are ways… there are ways to make it last, right?”

“There are ways. But this… it is not something to take lightly, amore.”

“Secondo, I want you to know that… that if it ever happens, if I ever die, I want you to turn me,” you say. “I don’t want to leave you, ever.”

He pauses, shaking his head at the conviction in your tone. “We will discuss this later. You need time to think about it, to learn more.”

“You saw how fast it can happen. I feel like–”

“Amore,” he interrupts. “Not now. The next time I think about your death it will not be in this bed.”

You sigh reluctantly, trying not to mope as you settle against his chest. If he has a heartbeat it is too slow and quiet for you to hear it. But his body underneath yours feels nice, soft and welcoming. You notice that he doesn’t seem to be in pain either.

“Why am I not hurt more?” you ask. “I know that’s another question.”

“We have healers in our midst. They have some influence on your circulatory system.” His hand moves to rest on your waist, playing with the hem of the loose white shirt someone put you in. “You will feel sore for a bit, I think. As will I after my body healed my wounds.”

“Would it… would it help if you drank from me?” you ask.

“You’re too weak, my dove, but I appreciate the offer.”

You sigh, bringing your hand up so you can run your fingers over the sliver of chest that peeks out of the robe. Slowly you open it more and more, toying with his dark chest hair and feeling the smooth skin underneath.

“What do you think you are doing, hm?”

You just smile up at him, pushing the robe all the way open. He doesn’t stop you from exploring more of his body, following the line of hair down to his belly, supple and slightly raised. His own hands start to grab more of your body then, squeezing the flesh on your hips, grabbing at your ass. Before you know it he takes hold and pulls you fully on top of him. Your core meets the outline of his hardening cock, barely concealed by the sweatpants. You gasp at the contact, slowly rolling your hips for a bit of friction.

“You feel good enough to tease me,” he says. “Then you feel good enough for a kiss?”

A smile breaks out on your face and you lean in, resting your upper body against his. Before your mouths can touch he has already grabbed you and sits you both upright. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer and trapping you in his lap until you can feel all of him. Only then does he allow you to close the gap. The kiss has a bruising force, lips pressing in hard, teeth clashing until you adjust and find a heavy but more controlled rhythm. His tongue licks into your mouth hungrily, flicking against yours and you moan, vibrating against it. Your whole body shudders, looking for more, anything to quench the need pooling into your core. Secondo groans at every roll of your hips, sucking on your tongue, biting your lower lip like he wants to consume all of you within seconds. You kiss back with just as much hunger, tying to keep pace. Your whole body is burning with need for him, carrying you higher and higher. After a while he slows, hitting an invisible break, and you follow, pulling away to look at him.

Secondo heaves an exhausted sigh, not letting go of you but creating a small gap between your faces to breathe. “I am not quite in shape yet, amore. I don’t think I can keep up tonight.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to drink?”

Maybe it is the way your voice is practically begging him to do so, maybe it is the hunger in your eyes or maybe he truly needs the energy that your blood provides because he finally relents. You pull at your shirt, baring your upper body to him and for a moment he hungrily takes you in, running his hand over every curve, thumbs teasing your nipples until you arch into him.

“So responsive,” he murmurs as he kisses along your jaw. “So good for me.”

His words make you squirm in his lap, the hard friction of his cock adding to the pleasure that runs through you at every touch. “Please. Please, Secondo.”

“Already begging for my cock?” He huffs out a chuckle, hooking his fingers underneath the elastic of your underwear. He rips the fabric apart with ease, running a bare finger over your arousal. “And already so eager. Always so, so eager.”

“I need you,” you whisper. “Please, all I want is to feel you.”

“Hmm, that is all I want too, grappolino. Perhaps you can use the time while I feed...” His fangs scrape over your skin, not breaking it but leaving a burning trail along your throat. “… to keep me nice and warm, hm?”

“Yes,” you immediately squeeze out. “I will do anything.”

“But there is a catch.” He pulls at his sweatpants, freeing his cock until it slaps against your abdomen, trapped in the tightness of your bodies. “You have to be so very good for me. You cannot make a single move. Can you do that?”

“Yes. Yes, I can.”

“Good.” 

He lifts you up carefully, keeping you on your knees above him. You leak onto him, drops of your arousal landing on his cock, and he hisses, his fingers digging into your flesh. With one finger, he wipes it off and smears it over your entrance until he can slip it inside, quickly adding a second. A deep moan leaves you at the intensity of the stretch but you quickly adjust and find pleasure in the stimulation. He pumps a few times, spreading his fingers to widen you even more. When he seems satisfied he pulls them out and grabs both of your hips to pull you down into his lap. The tip of his hard cock slides into your entrance. Before he is even fully inside you already clench around what he offers, making you both moan at the sudden intensity. Slowly you sink down further, his mouth hot on your neck while you run your hand over his shoulders. Once he is fully sheathed, he gives a full body shudder.

“Satana, you are so warm,” he whispers, his voice as delicate as if he is saying a prayer. “So, so warm.”

You don’t speak, allowing him his moment of silent reverence. However, patience is not on your side today and you can’t help but squirm after a second, trying to find the smallest amount of friction. His cock is big, girthy, stretching you open like nothing else you’ve felt before.

“No moving,” he finally says. “I need to be precise.”

With that his lips search for the spot on your neck. He stops eventually, opening his mouth and wetting the spot with his tongue. You expect the pain and yet the sting draws a whimper from you. Secondo stops at once, waiting for your reaction. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

His fangs pull out and you can feel the blood oozing from your vein. Hungrily he laps at it, not quite sucking but firmly holding his mouth over the wound, tongue swiping at the hole in your neck with every swallow. It’s slower than you expected, even as your heart rate goes up in arousal an anticipation. His cock jumps inside of you and you clench around him, earning you a moan from somewhere deep inside of his chest. For a few minutes you hold out, desire building inside of you with every drop of blood that leaves your body.

Eventually, Secondo breaks away. You notice that his skin feels slightly warmer underneath your fingertips, that his eyes look more alive when they finally meet yours again. The green one has turned red just like in your dream and a drop of blood runs down his jaw. You lean in to kiss it away, the metallic taste on your tongue an intense reminder of who you are with. Secondo reciprocates the kiss with renewed energy, licking the blood from your lips and tongue. You taste more of it in his mouth and you can’t help but moan.

“Your taste,” he says, breaking from your lips. “It is the most exquisite thing, my dove.”

“Do you feel better?” you ask breathlessly.

A nod. You squirm again, his cock shifting inside of you as you try to find a comfortable spot. Secondo huffs out a deep breath, the same strain visible in his eyes that has you whimpering with every little movement. “This is not how I want you,” he says. “I told you I would show you how to sin, no?”

With that he grabs your hips, a sudden invigorated strength that seems effortless as he easily manhandles you onto your back while he stays buried deep inside of you. The impact reopens the wound on your neck and you feel drops of the warm liquid running along your skin.

“White sheets…” you whisper as more blood dribbles onto the fabric. “Bold choice for a vampire.”

He chuckles, licking along your shoulder to catch the few remaining drops. He hums, his tongue almost rough when he cleans every drop you have left to give.

“Your blood sugar is low,” he whispers then. “When we’re done here I will feed you, amore. After a nap, perhaps.”

You giggle but it quickly turns into a gasp when he finally starts to move, slowly thrusting into you in a steady rhythm. He grabs your thighs then, pushing them deeper into the mattress until he has you folded in half. With him so deep inside of you your whole body is boiling. You can’t help but hold onto his shoulders, allowing him to move faster, fucking into you almost desperately now. Your arousal leaks all over your joined bodies, wet, squelching sounds soon filling the air around you as his hips piston into yours. You moan without shame ever time he hits that sweet spot inside of you, every time his skin rubs against the other sensitive areas on your body.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, keening and closing your eyes when he thrusts even deeper, slower now.

“You look at me, amore,” he warns. “You look at me when I make you cum.”

Your eyes snap back open, meeting the liquid fire reflected in his red iris. Secondo’s grip on you is tight and his own grunts echo in tandem with the sounds of your skin meeting, with all the desperate noises that leave your lips. You dance along the precipice for a moment, trying to last, trying to stretch out time for a little longer. But when he begins to stutter, his own eyelids fluttering in pleasure at every slow, deep stroke in an attempt to keep them open, you finally fall. The climax that hits you is stronger than any you have felt before and you’re a mess, mewling and whimpering, breathing in jolts as the heat spreads in your body like fire.

Your muscles clenching around him soon has Secondo following. His cock jumps, pumping you full with his seed while he breathes a low moan into your ear. You feel every raw shudder, every  little twitch, until it starts to leak out of you and he finally loosens his grasp. Your legs sink back to the mattress and he settles on top of you. Skin against skin, his cool while yours is hot and burning. For a long time you both calm down. Even if he doesn’t seem out of breath, it is clear that he needs the quiet moment of reprieve just as much as you do.

“Ti amo,” he whispers, first almost too low for you to hear but then louder. “Ti amo per sempre. Not even death can part our union.”

You press a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. “I love you, too.”

He huffs out a breath, turning you both to your sides where he holds you close against him, his lips tickling your temple as he presses more and more soft kisses to your skin. You start to relax, his sweet touches lulling you into a state of half-sleep. Your mind finds back to what really occupies it, all the questions and insecurities. A thousand thoughts are swimming in your head, some of them have to do with the sticky mess between your legs, some of them leave the four walls of this bedroom altogether.

“I can hear your mind working,” Secondo grumbles. “I thought I had distracted you well enough.”

“It’s just… are the Nameless Ghouls real ghouls then?” you ask. “And is the special wine all blood or is it some sort of amalgamation? The healer you mentioned, was it the doctor from the donation?”

“Grappolino,” Secondo warns. “All in due time.”

He shifts onto his back, pulling you on top of his chest. You have to bite your tongue to stop interviewing him because he is right – you’ve had enough exertions for the day, and you’d rather spend your remaining energy on more of this. 

“Should we have a smoke?” he finally asks.

“In your bedroom?”

“In our bedroom,” he corrects and reaches for the bedside table.

He grabs a pack of Marlboros, retrieving one to trap between his still swollen lips. The gold Dupont lighter opens with a cling and you have to smile. When he hands you the cigarette this time you don’t hesitate. You take a deep drag, pressing your mouth to his before you exhale. Secondo holds it inside, then releases the smoke into the air above you. When his arms close around your body in a firm embrace, you rest your eyes – and listen to the quiet sizzling of the cigarette as it slowly burns out.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed vampire Secondo. If you want to be tagged in any future Friday Nights stories pls let me know! Terzo and Copia will get their own stories, as you might have guessed from the hints in the plot ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3

[kittenfangirl20]

Queen Adam Morningstar Au Part 3

It's six months after Adam had baby Jake when they get an invite in the mail from Sera.

It's an official invitation letter for the King and Queen of Hell, Lucifer and Adam Morningstar.

Adam: Luci look, Heaven has invited us to a celebration for our peace treaty.

Lucifer: Oh? *Reads the invitation* That sounds lovely actually. Let Sera know we will be there.

Adam: Who will watch the kids?

Lucifer: Cain and Charlie are here. I'm sure they won't mind lending a hand.

Adam: You're right, I'll call Sera and let her know we'll be there.

Adam: Good idea, they love their older siblings.

*the pair packed and Cain took the siblings to the hotel so they could watch them there, Adam and Lucifer made their wait to the Embassy to Heaven and waited for the portal to open and they stepped through, waiting at the golden gates was Peter who started singing Welcome to Heaven*

Adam: No one fucking likes your song or your moaning.

*Peter looked offended but opened the golden gates, Adam looked around, it had been so long since he had been to Heaven not counting Michael dragging him back there*

Sera: Starlight, I am so happy to see you here.

*Adam flew to Sera and hugged her, he was so happy to always see her, but watching from a distance was Michael, the warrior archangel was convinced that Adam was bewitched by Lucifer and he vowed to save him this time*

(We can use this post and ignore the one I sent)

[daitranscripts]

Cole Conversations

Companion Comments

Cole Masterpost

Dialogue options:

Cassandra [1]

Blackwall [2]

Iron Bull [3]

Dorian [4]

Solas [5]

Vivienne [6]

Varric [7]

Sera [8]

Leliana [9]

Josephine [10]

Cullen [11]

1 - Cassandra

Romanced Cole: Petals fall open as lips shape words that rhyme. Candlelight softens the edges.

Cassandra’s personal quest incomplete Cole: Stomach full of mantras, she burns like a beacon, Faith a flame to bring succor for a Seeker.

Cassandra’s personal quest complete Cole: Faith seeks a friend in Compassion, cautious, careful, too much grey but growing.

2 - Blackwall

Romanced He feels naked without the name on the armor, but now he knows you want him naked.

Blackwall’s personal quest incomplete An old name burns inside armor that shouldn't fit, lit by faces of the children he couldn't save.

Blackwall’s personal quest complete The name breaks free, pulls the pain with it. A black wall to shield the self when the sky is rainier.

3 - Iron Bull

Romanced Tied, but tenderly, loving in the letters of a word that would stop it, knots in satin scarves.

Personal quest active “The,” a joke. He laughs to himself, imagining herds of cattle in fields of iron, but now he worries it fits.

Personal quest complete, made Tal-Vashoth Salt-spray smell of Seheron. Lost in smoke from a burning ship. Guilt at not feeling guiltier.

Personal quest complete, sacrificed the Chargers Copper on the lips. Dalish lies dead-eyed beside me. He'll come, he'll call, he won't leave us. Horns pointing up.

4 - Dorian

Romanced Glittering to gloss a hidden hurt. Unlearning not to hope for more. Stumbling steps where the wall used to be.

Giselle gave letter, have not met Dorian’s father Bright, like the fish that kill you if you eat them. Can't hate you for hiding if you burn so brilliantly.

After meeting Dorian’s father He tried to melt a snowflake because he liked waterfalls. Swallowing bile and pride as he sees his son defend himself.

5 - Solas

Cole’s personal quest complete Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.

High approval, other conditions unknown Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change.

Personal quest completed Wisdom knows enduring is pain. He hurts for her, another of many he couldn't save. He carries necessary deaths.

6 - Vivienne

Personal quest not started A breath-caught smile from the Enchanter as the candle lights. The walls are safe; she will never be hungry again.

Personal quest completed A cold flame blazes in a robe worth more than children. Protect her, and she consumes you, burning because she can.

7 - Varric

Cole’s personal quest complete Kid, says the stone. Kid, kidding. It would keep me kept with a name, but the cairn can't catch me.

Hawke lives, other conditions unknown He writes words that aren't real, but they are for him, in a quiet place whose stone shape shakes the ground.

Hawke left in the Fade The stone is cracked, split, jagged. The hawk would have been safe if it had stayed, but that isn't what hawks do.

8 - Sera

Romanced Fleet-footed and free, the arrow that caught the miller's sack, but no longer shot alone, aquiver in a quiver.

Cole more human Shite. He's wrong. Dead-eyed crazy, shite. I called him a 'him'. Is he alive, is everything alive, shite. I hate raisins.

Cole more spirit She hurts, but helping hurts more. She sees the strings that pull me, eyes like raisins in a stale cookie.

9 - Leliana

Leliana’s personal quest not started The Left Hand remembers a knife slipped to her in the darkness, and wonders why the flower blooms.

Leliana hardened The Left Hand is harder, faith fallen in folly. It makes the dreams worse, but sends them away faster.

Leliana softened The Left Hand blooms on the bush, remembering the light that shone in her darkness. She knows how to sing again.

10 - Josephine

Romanced Steel flashes, like at the top of the stairs, but this time she knows her voice and it ends with a kiss.

Josephine’s personal quest started She spins, plucking strings, matching wits and words, an admiral who will never send ships of her own.

Josephine’s personal quest complete Ships launch on changing winds. Dizzy sometimes, like the top of the stairs, but sometimes like dancing.

11 - Cullen

Romanced Safe and solid, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him.

Personal quest incomplete, talked about lyrium He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains.

Continued lyrium He sounds right again with the chains in place, but the music makes him sad.

Quit lyrium He sounds new, echoes of laughter on an empty riverbed. Not for sailing, but safer.

[merr1nelly113]

ALL ABOUT ME!

Hope yall read my pinned post here! I don't have to force you to follow my blog or whatever and it's depending on your taste. :D

DNI: Pedophile & zoophil3

CAPITAL LETTERS IS MY SIGNATURE 🍷

My interest in multifandom list! - BLAZBLUE, HELLSING, POSTAL, BUBOSERIES, LURKING FOR LOVE, POKEMON, AND MORE

I'm quite big fan of antagonist and some are not antagonist! -

HELLSING : WALTER C DORNEZ, ENRICO MAXWELL, ANDERSON, ALUCARD, SERAS, INTREGA, HANS & THE DOCTOR!

BLAZBLUE: VALKENHAYN, HAKUMAN, TSUBAKI & RELIUS CLOVER

BUBOSERIES: EVERYONE!

LURKING FOR LOVE: OF COURSE, IT'S JACOB.

POKEMON: EVERY TEAM LEADERS AND COMMENDERS VILAINY! LUCIAN, GRIMSLEY, OLIVIA (QUEEN!!), SCOLIPEDE, AEGISHLASH!

RESIDENT EVIL: KARL HEISENBERG, MR X, WESKER

BLOOD: CALEM (HE HAS CHAOTIC QUOTES)

POSTAL: DUDE (HE'S COOL YOU KNOW?)

FACT ABOUT ME: I'm a fanart and oc artist. I wish I have a time to draw fanart due to the personal issues and sometimes I feel unmotivated and tired. Everyone need rest. I might be so silly.

If I create new ocs or my sona and I'll add here in the pinned post and I'm not really good at character writing!

MY CARRD!! (I'M CURRENTLY ACTIVE ON TWITTER)

My OC information 🍷

His name is Caster Blake, 27 (not 28), 5'7 feet tall and he likes cat ofc, however he can control his addiction (smoker, like 3 times a week and I hope he will stop smoking addiction ❤)

Fun fact: His best friend is Hasdius! Even tho he look a bit unprofessional and diligent but he respect others.

His name is Hadius, nickname Hasdy, 28 yrs old, 5'7 feet tall same height as Caster Blake. He also likes cat and he's a waiter at the cafeteria. (I think I should draw my ocs😭)

i feel orange :>

Update: Here's come my new oc!

His name is Lennart Ignis. He likes to read and collecting rare item for his inspiration or reference and he kinda an engineer or researcher. I'm not sure what kind of his occupation is... :p

oh yeah, since when he have a cane? Maybe because he likes to collecting stuff and bring it into his home or personal studio.

Also, the machine character design sheet. Well, I was working on it!

[greypetrel]

WIP Wednesd-FRIDAY

Tagged by @shivunin, thank you very much, friend! :D

As every week before Christmas, I had clients waking up from their slumber, and stuff I can't show to finish. So, it's a little doodle I did today. Moby Dick!Aisling taking a nap on the armchair. Also! Some writing under the cut, same AU. :3

Tagging: @whimsyswastry @melisusthewee @morgandarcyarts @theluckywizard whom I didn't bother today and YOU who are reading and have something to show!

🐳🐳🐳🐳

Everything was all but fine.

She flopped on the gunnel, staring at the letter held between her fingers and reading the elegant cursive again.

And again.

Everything was all but fine, and all she wanted to do was going right back home, slip under the covers and cry.

But if what the letter said was true, she couldn’t allow herself to. She couldn’t afford to skip a day.

Right now, it was of the utmost importance that she got right back on her feet, allow Isabela to move on, and do her job, do it quickly, do it better. But her hands won’t stop trembling and her vision blurred.

“Do you need a moment?”

It was Cassandra to reach her, placing her hand on her shoulder and squeezing, tight enough for her to feel under all the layers she had on. Nantucket was that much colder than her home, and today she missed the heat of the Mediterranean. She blinked tears away, and took a deep breath. She did need a moment, and she did need Cassandra’s determination, seeing a problem and solving it.

She shook her head and forced her legs to stand, smiling at the crew around her every woman looking at her with different shades of worry she had learnt to read as such in the months they’ve been working together.

Cassandra’s worry looked like her acting and taking command to solve the problem. Isabela’s looked like her being attentive and careful to the person she was worried about, with a joke to cheer them up or an ear to listen. Merrill’s was in compassion and encouragement, Hawke’s in an easy joke and in her doing your job for you. Sera was in sticking up close and helping you before you realised you needed help, and Dagna would ask her if she wanted to speak. She loved them, and she was grateful that they were there with her.

But it wasn’t the moment to lean on them. Not when they all leant on her instead and she was about to let them all down.

She smiled and nodded, crunching the letter in her hands.

“Sorry, I was just tired. We can go, I’m ready.”

Nobody was convinced, but she insisted, and finally Isabela ordered for moors to be unleashed, and for the little sloop they had to be brought to sea.

That was easy. She just needed to do her job.

Easy.

When the best they spotted that day was a group of pilot whales that kept their distances and didn’t let them approach, it wasn’t that much easy.

She didn’t even take one dive, that day, and it weighted on her shoulders more and more, as the hours passed and the ocean remained empty. She pushed them all to stay extra hours. She loved them all because everyone understood, and the worst complaint she got was worry and people asking her if everything was all right, they could talk. She felt even worse, and just shook her head and pushed through, looking through her spyglass with more effort. Just one sighting. Just one.

Cullen would have gotten back home by himself. He would have understood, no doubt.

[dareactions]

This might be convoluted but please stay with me. Imagine: Warden is the Inquisitior. Don't ask me how, but they contact the Arishok (Sten from Origins), and he shows up at Skyhold. He still calls them Kadan. People's reactions to that. Especially Bull.

djwklae Sten calling me Kadan gave ME LIFE. my husband, love of my life. he holds my hand when i kill things w my blood magic <3 this is now canon to my warden!inquisitor, thanks

Iron Bull: There are moments in everyone's life when they see all the choices they've made laid out before them. To Bull, this is when the Arishok walks in and looks at the Inquisitor with fondness in his eyes, and the words 'kadan' leaves his lips. He isn't sure how to feel whatsoever, how the hell is he expected to feel? He just stands there with his mouth agape like a fucking idiot for ten minutes straight until he get spoken to. He needs alcohol, stat.

Cassandra: She is considering handing in her resignation, a little bit. There are only so many things she can handle and this is for sure not entirely one of them. What is she supposed to do beyond act polite? If the Inquisitor catches her glaring at them, that's her business.

Blackwall: I would love to write some really in-depth thing here but I think he literally just emotionally clocks out and calls it a day.

Dorian: Dorian is laughing his fucking ass off behind closed doors. He pats them on the shoulder and goes 'good job', because not everyone can score an Arishok- as a friend or lover for that matter. He keeps almost laughing every time he looks at Bull and he feels dreadful for it but it's so funny.

Sera: She feels a bit weird about it? Like the Qunari have always been a mixed back and apparently, the Inquisitor is like- in a relationship with one, right? That's what that means? She thinks, at least. The guy also looks intimidating enough that Sera knows better than to make any comments so she just stands there before deciding its very much not her problem.

Varric: He thought Hawke had questionable taste and now he has to write apology letters to them.

Vivienne: She doesn't even want to think about the political implications of this.Vivienne just keeps her mouth shut unless asked in which she still keeps her mouth shut. The Arishok is a frightening man and not someone she even wants to dare to comment on the relationship of if he is in the same building.

Cole: I honestly don't think the lil man cares. He is just happy they're happy!

Solas: Honestly, any thoughts he has is overshadowed by the amusement he feels when everyone freaks out a bit. Sure, it's not what he expected but- fair enough? It does make him question how the hell he is going to go forward with his other plans but he'll figure it out.

[androgynousblackbox]

The Horror of our Love. 3 [Radioapple, Appleradio]

Rosie

"Well, that was a lot. Probably a lot more than I ever wanted to know about, but it did answer a few questions at least.

The thing that killed everyone at the castle was this Lucifer monster. Professor Magne found a way to make it so they could leave the school, but before that felt like having a little massacre because why the hell not. I guess he just felt bored or wanted to commemorate the occasion. With that guy, it could have been either.

I always suspected that he was one fucked up man. Any wizard who is so dedicated to teaching Defense Against Dark Arts is not well in the head, I don't care what anyone says. Always way too comfortable telling us about the absolute worst that could happen if we weren't careful enough, if we didn't listen to him, with as much details as he could cram in. As if he was just waiting for the chance for us to fail only so he could laugh about it. Everyone always told me I was just paranoid because I didn't like the class, that I was too harsh for no reason, that Professor Magne had never harmed a fly. When he got that little naga he always kept in a cage next to his desk, people would even say that it was cute because he obviously took good care of that thing. Never believed that act, not for one second.

And yet, somehow, I never saw this one coming. The murdering people already while he was a student did take me by surprise, but not as much as the obsession with a cursed wizard whose only purpose was to kill people from the girl's bathroom. How does that even happen? We never heard about anything like it while we were there. You would think something like would trickle down, even if it's just a legend, but there was nothing like it.

Anyway, that is not important. First things first, we had to corroborate each of those deaths.

A janitor had disappeared around the same time when Professor Magne was in the year the journal told us about. One day he just wasn't there anymore. The theory back then is that he got drunk and drowned in the lake, where the sirens devoured his body. Apparently he just never liked the merfolk so he was happy to yell insults at them and... pee on the lake. I guess because they couldn't get out the water that made him feel strong or something. Fuck if I know. They only found one of his feet floating on the water. There were clear teeth marks on them so, case was closed. It's not like everyone was going to lose sleep wondering what happened to the guy. Definitely not family or friends that could demand a more thorough investigation. One less lone bastard in the world is hardly worth more than one article in a newspaper.

The professor that mishandled the creatures under his care was only slightly different. Official story is that he disappeared on an excursion to try to get some eggs of some creature whose name I can't even pronounce. He left a note behind and everything. That makes no sense, doesn't it? If that guy brought him down promising something else, at what moment did he write that note? One that conveniently was giving him an alibi? Unless someone could forge his same lettering and make that up to cover his absence, that is. No body was ever found. Nobody cried too much for him in the newspapers, his search wasn't a huge priority. Headmaster Sera had some words of comfort about how dedicated that asshole was to his job and that was it. She couldn't pretend to care more than that. Not that I blame her either. Fuck that guy, he sounded like a piece of work. Case closed.

The journal confirmed for us both their names. He didn't thought they were relevant for his story because, and I quote, "takes away some of the mystery away" with a fucking smiley face in the end. As if we need the fucking help of the messed up soul of a teenager for that one.

Speaking of the journal, Anthony is back to messing with it. He... he keeps asking the same kind of fucking questions and never getting satisfied with the response. At first the journal was more or less direct, but I think it caught on what Anthony wanted and just goes in completely different tangents that are irrelevant to the question. I guess it recognizes our ways of writing by now. With me is still pretty straight forward, but Anthony is only messing around. He could be inquiring about what was Professor Magne's favorite part at school and the thing is going to wax poetic about how gorgeous the scales of Luci were under the fire, to keep edging him on.

No, I am not going to repeat what Anthony wants to know. I don't know why he wants to know that of all things and, in my opinion, I can go happily to my grave without ever having that cleared for me. I am already aware that this guy is a violent murderer and a total nutjob, that he is a danger for anyone who stays around him for long. I don't need to add anything else to the list, especially not something as gross as if he fucked the snake or not.

I would rather Avada Kedavra myself before hearing a single thing about the sex life of this man. Did you hear that, Anthony? Pout all you want, this is too much even for you, and I am not helping you with that bullshit. How is that supposed to help us here?

He is grabbing the journal again. Literally why. Don't blame me when that thing keeps fucking with you.

Anyway, where was I?

Yes, speaking about what we learned because of that long ass story he told us. Finding out the name of that little girl he had was a piece of cake.

Rosie, or Rosetta, Clara Barkin. The professor we had for Care of Magical Creatures. Anthony says that she was always cool to talk to. The girls and some of the boys especially adored her because she sometimes invited students to tea parties in her cabin near the school. Giving them advice for their little dramas and romantic endeavors. Apparently nobody had a single bad thing to say about her while she was there. I don't know what to tell you, so take his word for it. I only ever dated two people while I was a student, one of them is still here with me, and did it completely on my own, so I guess I never really needed those off school meetings from her. I only saw her during our classes. She was good at explaining things, I suppose? That is the most I could tell you about my experience with her. I had way shittier professors I could talk more about.

Although... If she knew all this was what was happening underneath the school or helped that piece of shit in any way, I might be inclined to think otherwise. She definitely knew about the giant snake. She knew about the murder of that professor, even encouraged it. The only saving grace she has is that she never actually did a killing herself. That we know of, for now. We are talking about 20 years of difference since that journal was created until now. A woman that is that gleeful about feeding the fingers of a dead man to her cat could do a lot of things in that time, and I can't imagine that all of them are going to be good.

Anthony told me that she was always kinda creepy, so he is not exactly surprised either. Creepy but nice is what he said.

She was close to Professor Magne, that I remember clearly. Always sitting next to each other on the table for every meal, always gossiping between each other as they laughed. No doubt talking shit about everyone else. She was the only professor I ever saw him giving a hug to as well as receiving it without glaring at them. The one I know of was not only allowed to enter his office whenever she wanted, whether he was there or not, but also to hold the baby naga he had outside of her cage. One time the school nurse asked him to and professor Magne just flat out said no before telling the man to go. Smiling as usual on that freaky I am done with you way that he had every time his patience was running thin. The fact that professor Barking and him knew each other since they were children is the least surprising fun fact to come out of this.

She wasn't there the night of the massacre. She had quit her job right after the final day of class to go live on a reservation meant for the care of dragons. As far anyone at school knew, she was comfortably living in South America with her wife. Then, just three years back, she and her wife both died from exposure to venom that wasn't treated fast enough. That is what the newspaper's obituary said. I think I had to use a translator. I barely know a few Italian words because of Anthony and I am pretty sure most of them are insults.

Naturally, our next task was to see if she had actually died. Considering what we found out last time, I believe my doubt was more than warranted. She was a respected member of the community of dragon handlers in the area, so it didn't take much for us to find her and her wife's grave. One plaque, two different names. We were digging out two for the price of one this time. Great.

Luckily for us, they were on the burial site of professor Barkin's muggle side of the family. There were no special protections to go through. Setting up an illusion spell in order for the guard to not notice a thing was a piece of cake. The only piece of cake we were allowed to have. You try to take out two heavy caskets from the same hole in the middle of the night. Even with magic, that was such a pain in the ass.

But it was worth it. You know why? Because there was fucking nothing inside of any of them. Just rocks. They didn't even bother putting on a fake body. No poor schmuck died for this. So, wherever professor Barkin and her wife are, I am running with the theory right now that they are with him or working with him. Doing who knows what.

I tried to investigate if there has been an uptake on mysterious deaths ever since professor Barkin was there, but I couldn't find shit. One handler that was accused of selling dragon eggs to the black market was found dead on his bed. He worked in the same location as her. They believe a heart attack during sleep. That was it. Unless her main victims were muggles, in which case I am even more limited than before. For muggles she was just the owner of a butcher shop that people liked. There is not a single mention of her from that side beyond that. A business woman who wasn't around a lot, but when she was nobody had a fucking bad thing to say about her. Of course.

We returned everything to how it was and came back home. I don't rule out either that professor Barkin wasn't there the night of the massacre, we just didn't know about it. I didn't want to believe that woman could be just as fucked up as Magne, but something is fishy, no doubt about it.

Speaking of Magne... would you be surprised to know that wasn't his original last name? When I saw the name scratched out in the journal, I immediately thought that was the maiden name of his mom. His father sounded like a piece of shit for the looks of it. Mine wasn't a ray of sunshine either, so I can't say I don't understand the impulse of putting as much distance as you can to not be associated with them.

Thank goodness I actually went to check it out. Just to have all the facts straight, you know? Didn't expect much from it. That is how I found out that her mom's maiden name was Moraine. So where the fuck does Magne come from, right? It could have been just a better sounding name than Abbadon that he chose as a kid and stuck with the rest of his life. But it wasn't.

You see, that was the last thing we had to look into because I knew it was going to involve a lot of fucking reading. When you go so far back on any family tree, you have to ask permission from libraries and documents and ask questions and bla bla bla. Digging graves is not nice, but it's something that you can just do and be done with it. To start researching this kind of stuff I have to sit down and I just feel like doing homework again.

The fact that the snake told the professor that they were distant relatives immediately picked my interest. It took a little bit of work, but I finally found the connection. There was a Magne family tree line connected to the Abbadons. One that included a single lone branch with the name Lucifer. The seven kids on his same line were there with their own portraits, but he had been burned away, eliminated, as if every document was cursed to never contain his image. They probably were. Old families would have stupid bullshit like that whenever one of their members sneezed the wrong way. My dad told me that his great great grandpa was treated the same for knocking up some muggle girl and marrying her.

Unfortunately, the bad part about your family trying so hard to forget you exist is that they make it hard for outsiders to know why it happened. The thing with my great great grandpa was kept all under wraps, a family secret that would have been a scandal back then. Everyone else was told that he was studying abroad until they stopped talking about him altogether.

I found out that the Magnes used to live in a rural area close to a muggle's town and then they didn't because the muggles kicked them out. Not a single mention about Lucifer being the responsible for it or any mention about him at all. Literally just a name under a burn out image, while the rest of his brothers kept reproducing and continuing the family line. Sending their own children to become the little tyrants of their own uncle as a treat while they were at school. I am not even sure if they knew that. According to the journal, it took a considerable amount of time for the snake to ever say any of that to professor Magne. Maybe he was too ashamed of his punishment to say anything. Or he might have even tried to and they just didn't care, not as long he did what was told. I don't know which one is worse.

All of that is legitimately so fucked up. Don't get me wrong, fuck professor Magne all the way for thinking he can just hurt people because he wants to, but if that snake was truly Lucifer Magne and he had a wife and a kid on the way and his own family treated him like that... Well, I am not made of stone either. What can I say, I feel bad for the guy. It's one thing to choose to be a monster. Another one is when you are forced into it. Professor Magne always had an option, but Lucifer did not from everything I can see. Even now. If he is still with professor Magne, and that assumes he didn't just eat the guy already, then he is still just being controlled the same way in a different way.

If you spend that much time alone and abandoned by everyone you know, you learn to take whatever you can take even if you don't really want it. Including annoying kids with a fucking obssession over you. That is something, right? At least you are not forgotten anymore. I don't know how much blame to put on Lucifer here, as a person, I mean. The journal is adamant in saying that its creation was for him, to help Lucifer, but, and maybe this is my own reading, I don't really get the sense that Lucifer would have chosen a tiny psychopath as his savior if he could.

But at this point I might be just imagining things. We are talking about multiple generations back, many fucking years in the past. The man that legitimately only wanted to help people with his magic could have died a long time ago. Leaving behind only a beast that is tied down by a member of the same family that cursed him, doing his betting, still being used. Not the kind of ending I would wish for a lot of people. It's just sad to think about. I would have rather died than keep living that humiliation, if there was anything mine left inside.

That kid in the journal can talk about love all day and night. I think he just saw what he wanted to see, a killing machine that he could control to his every whim. With some weird kink in the middle that I am not going to get into because fuck that shit. A man like that I don't think knows shit what love is. He might like someone, but that is about it.

If he really wanted to help Lucifer, he could have told the faculty staff. He could have gathered other wizards to find some way to break the curse, instead of just keeping him as a secret. So many things could have gone differently here without ever needing to kill anyone.

As a little kid I get it, you don't think about those things. It's just fun to have something for yourself. Having a place that nobody else knows and a buddy that only gets to play with you. It makes you feel special. But then he became an adult, our professor, and still chose to keep him in the dark. Why? Because if he actually went to get help for Lucifer, real help, that would mean more eyes on him that wouldn't take so kindly to all the blood and eating dead bodies freshly killed. On top of giving the poor guy an option to actually leave and have a life of his own. That would cut professor Magne's fun. And we wouldn't want that, don't we? You need to eliminate the bodies you take some way, after all.

The more I learn about the guy, the less I like it.

In any case, it's too late to worry about that now. Maybe the snake already killed him. Maybe he killed the snake. Maybe they have some fucked up stockholm kind of dynamic where Lucifer doesn't have anything else, so might as well take this. Either way, not my problem for now.

What is my problem is the info that one of my sources passed to me. I received the letter a week ago while me and Anthony were away, looking into the family stuff. There is a lead that could take us somewhere.

You see, I don't believe that the journal was the only time that professor Magne did something like that. Divide his soul to put it somewhere else. If it was he would haven't have let it go so easily, right? A guy like that wouldn't commit such an obvious mistake, unless he had others to concern himself with. That way, someone can destroy the journal and it won't matter much for him.

I don't know how many others there are. Literally none of the research I have been doing tells me to what limit there could be on a soul to do something like that. Nobody ever needed to answer that particular question before, I imagine. But it's not an infinite resource either, so he must have just stopped doing it at some point. We could be talking about 10, 20 or even just 5. The journal just said that he was still thinking it over when he made the first one. As if killing and slowly cutting away one's humanity was just some experiment to carry on to see what happens. The more pieces we manage to collect, the closer we are to knowing what happened to him.

I had some people looking around in places where we could find another one. Old antique shops, second hand stores, cursed items, enchanted ones. It could be anything at all, but we know at least that is an object and, if we are lucky, he won't be paying any more attention to it than it did with the notebook. We have that as an advantage.

A few days ago there were reports of an old radio that was donated to some old ladie's store. The radio itself looked to be in pretty conditions for what it was, although heavier than other radios. It doesn't have a cable to connect to anything nor batteries inside, but the old lady thinks the thing is haunted because at night, just when she is about to close the store, she swears over her life that the radio turns on. Sometimes it is just a nice melody, other times it's something whistling the melody, but on some rare occasions there is a voice speaking.

The voice of a man that speaks longingly about someone called Luci.

All that is fine and good, if it weren't for the little detail that this woman was just a muggle lady that was getting scared out of her mind. She called an exorcist, for fuck's sake. Made quite a bit of noise in her neighborhood talking about the weird haunted radio that she was donated to like it was any other, without any previous warning of what it was. That is how my own sources came to hear about it. The Luci portion was something they could gather only after speaking with the priest that tried to clean the old radio. Apparently they dumped a bunch of holy water on top and the radio just laughed at them. Laughed for 5 entire minutes. They counted them.

Even if the name hasn't come out, I feel like that alone would have been a certain give away. He would find it very funny to be the cause of muggle's superstitious fears. I will go look for the thing and then we can see what it can tell us."

[rayondelun3]

J'ai froid. Il y avait ça par terre. J'ai bien travaillé aujourd'hui. J'hésite à ranger. Il faut que je me démaquille. Ça fait longtemps que je n'ai pas écrit en format journal ici, ou que j'ai reçu une lettre... Les deux me manquent. Il me semble que c'est depuis que mon chat est mort que je ne vous ai plus écrit. J'espère que vous allez bien. Je suis toujours en vie pour ma part - idk how honestly. J'ai étudié à la médiathèque et j'ai trouvé des bouquins incroyables.

J'ai juste emprunté Nakamura et Inoué au final. Je regrette un peu de ne pas avoir pris un Mishima... Mais il y en a là bas et les autres livres devraient m'attendre sagement aussi alors ne paniquons pas.

J'ai ri un petit peu aujourd'hui.

Il y avait devant T. et moi des personnes que je connaissais mais j'ai évité tout contact. Et puis j'ai évité tout contact avec absolument tout le monde. Je vis dans une bulle de solitude ; je ne me savais pas si solitaire. Je n'apprécie pas être seule, pas spécialement, mais je n'ai pas envie de voir les autres. Je me sens en décalage, j'en ai marre des efforts et des justifications... Tant pis. Ce sera pour quand le soleil reviendra.

J'ai enfin un pantalon de pyjama ! Et il y a un poisson dessus. <3

Et oui je suis gelée sur une pile de vêtements avec mon énorme ours en peluche contre moi ; oui oui j'ai bien eu 23 ans cet octobre. Oui oui je suis toujours déprimée et je m'auto trigger c'est super. Oui oui c'était sarcastique. Oh merde il me reste 20% de batterie. Fuck. Je vais chercher mon chargeur, me démaquiller et me brosser les dents, déplacer le tas de fringues... Je rangerai demain (promis).

Suis fatiguée et j'en ai marre. Suis aussi triste et me tape une migraine. Suis pas hyper satisfaite de mon poème Cadavre Exquis... Je vais peut-être le retravailler. Sinon je suis tombée sur une citation de Sylvia Plath (vous savez que je l'adore)... C'était dans le livre des symboles, un extrait d'Ariel à propos de la lune :

La Lune et le cyprès.

Sylvia t'es vraiment super forte. Love you even if you are dead. Might write you a letter one day. Also, I burned things from the past, I enjoyed it. Might do it again.

Gd8.

[elvhenprince]

15 Lines of Dialogue

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

I! nabbed this from @broodwolf221 >:3 even if I dont have a lot of fic out in the wild, I just enjoy thinking about character voicesss ♥

tagging, but no pressure!: @jazzmckay @streganicha and if you want to do this for another character! @broodwolf221 again >:3c

“No.” 

“I realised that it is imperative that you know me. For who I am, not what people wish me to be. Or delude themselves into thinking I am.”

“He taught that to me,” Sulevin said, attention returning to the murals. “But if you get more than tingling from the Anchor I may not be able to help.”

“I wear this* as a sign of my dedication to my people. That I am willing to endure in service to them.” *Vallaslin, down to the torso

“The Chargers are your people. Your ‘boys’. They will guide you from the madness you fear. You will do well with them at your side.”

“A craftsman of my people tailored my gown for Halamshiral.” (Confused) “Clothes have seasons?”

“I was taught by my Keeper not to get into arguments on topics I know nothing about. Evidently, this was missing from the Circle's curriculum.”

You already are a man, from the moment you said you were. (In a letter to Krem, about gender amongst Dalish)

“I’m not you.” (About why spirits look so different to him) 

(Angry) “If history might be lost then so be it! It is not worth damning your clan to sorrow to recover whatever piece of history you think there is to be found. We have had enough of martyrs. Return to your clan, before I drag you back myself!”

"I have a little sister." (As an explanation as to why he’s so tuned to Sera’s Shenanigans)

"Vemaya*. Stop drawing phalluses on my aravel." *The aforementioned little sister

"Setting aside preconceptions aids not only in the Beyond, but in this world as well. If I assumed Sera was a youth in need of elven guidance, I would find myself lacking breeches by the morrow."

"Genitalia isn't necessary." (Proceeds to not elaborate any further)

"I do not pray. I act. Even if there are gods that will listen, they cannot, or so the stories say. Only Fen'Harel is left, and he has not not made himself known to me."

…Sulevin is incredibly straightforward, he doesn't always elaborate unless pressed to explain kasjfiwoajsfkl i love him.

[sleepingfancies]

Prithee, tell me which one of your OCs haunts your mind most today?

AUAUHGHGHGHG i've been sucked back into dragon age hell and i've been thinking about my Rowena Trevelyan all day . major inquisition + trespasser dlc spoilers and an extremely long ramble under the cut im so so sorry beloved mutual </3

she was just a KID like.... Rowena was permitted to go to the conclave as a budding apprentice mage. as an OBSERVER she didn't even get a vote. she was wandering around during a break when she happened upon the ritual . it was like an academic field trip for her, a chance for her to see the politics behind the scene and nothing more. and within hours her mentor and everyone she knew was killed in the blast and she was the sole survivor. and then she became surrounded by people she didn't know and handed responsibility and divinity she never asked for and had no clue how to handle !!!!!!!!!!!!

and this is AFTER she was essentially abandoned by her Trevelyan family for being a mage in the first place. 5 generations of non-mages and her parents thought they were safe for sure and then they had Her. a recessive gene last seen a century ago resurfacing . they threw her in the circle at the first opportunity. she sent letters for the first few years - they never answered. her family became her mentor and her fellow mage children. she learned young that the Maker didn't want her, that her magic was a mistake. her family would've loved her just fine if she hadn't been a mage.

so she's just so ANGRY about it all deep down. everyone she knows is killed and these strangers have the NERVE to call HER - a mage, a mistake, an affront to the Maker - the Herald of Andraste. one cataclysmic event and suddenly everyone thinks she's not only special for her magic, but a gift from the Maker. and how dare they!!! how dare they respect her and beg for her help now after so many years of neglect and lies and abuse!!

the first thing Cassandra does is question whether she believes in the Maker. and what is she supposed to say? "He believes my existence is a mistake, so I believe He exists as a tyrant" is what comes to her mind. but she grew up around templars and learned not to speak her mind around people she couldn't 100% trust. so she holds her tongue and says she isn't sure what to believe anymore. it's not entirely a lie, and it placates Cassandra: the person who could most easily decide she was more of a liability than a blessing.

as time passes in Haven, Solas becomes her new mentor; a surprise to both of them, really. but he knows more about spirits and the Fade than she was ever taught - she doesn't even know how to use the mark on her hand. He teaches her how to close the rifts, how to navigate the Fade in her dreams, how to learn all that spirits have to offer. She looks up to him. between him and Dorian and Vivienne, she has finally found similar company. Dorian never questions her caution about believing in the Maker. Vivienne never judges her for not knowing much about the world outside the circle. Solas is helping her grow and learn.

the other companions help, too. she latches onto Blackwall - he's like the father she never had. Iron Bull and the Chargers take her in and give her social sanctuary. Sera agrees not to call her the Herald, and knows exactly how to make her laugh. Cole helps her process her former mentor's death and her separation from her friends at the wycome circle. Varric won't let her overwork herself, he knows she didn't want any of this. for awhile, things seem okay.

and then Corypheus comes. Haven is destroyed. she's lost in the wilderness with cracked ribs and a broken leg and she's freezing to death. she doesn't even remember how the advisors found her, or where. "we saw our hero fall, and rise again" Mother Giselle says. if people didn't believe Rowena was sent by the Maker before, they do now. she doesn't believe it herself. she hates it. she's angry at them all

then comes Skyhold. a throne, judgment over prisoners, occupying Crestwood, deals with Starkhaven and the Antivan Crows and Kal-Sharok, "Inquisitor," traversing the Fade physically, the Chantry asking after her companions as Divine candidates, all of it. Every decision that should be brokered between entire countries comes down to one barely-in-her-20s apprentice mage who didn't even know what Val Royeaux looked like 6 months ago.

the bubbly attitude she tried to keep up starts to crack. her parents write her a letter asking if she could set aside some of the Inquisition's coin to cover their legal fees after they had a property feud with the Selbach family. she never writes back. "get to the point," she tells Morrigan, something she never would have said before all of this. the judgments come down harsher. the executions get a little too easy to carry out. she closes the rifts more aggressively than before.

and then Corypheus is beaten. the Breach is sealed. for one brief moment, the thought crosses her mind: 'I can finally leave.' she can go back to the wycome circle and hug her old friends, tell them what happened. she can go see the world she never could before. the mark on her hand can stop making people bow to her even when she begs them not to. she did what the Inquisition set out to do. it's over. it's done.

and then they never let her go.

even as her new friends scatter to the wind, dusting their hands off, their moral obligation fulfilled, Rowena sits on the Inquisition throne and feels herself rotting. Solas abandoning her without so much as a goodbye after Corypheus fell stung, but a part of her expected it, too. she caught on quickly that he wasn't the type of person to linger once he felt his role was done. so that was fine. she made peace with that. but the others? Sera, Blackwall, Vivienne, all of them? one by one, they left with an urgency that felt like a dagger to the heart. only Dorian admitted he lingered for the sake of her friendship, but even he was called away eventually.

and then another glimmer of hope: Orlais and Ferelden disagree on the Inquisition's future. for the sake of her advisors, Rowena puts on her old bubbly attitude, claims the Inquisition isn't going anywhere. deep down she rattles the bars and begs Bann Teagan to demand the Inquisition be dissolved. she has one more chance to be free of this. to be someone - though she has no idea WHO anymore - outside of the Inquisitor.

and then the mark flares up. the Qunari have reached the end of their patience with the Inquisition. they dont realize how badly Rowena wants to agree with them. and then the breadcrumbs lead back to Solas. and Solas wants to end the world.

she can do nothing but break down. one more thing she'll be expected to stop. another ambiguous number of years she'll be expected to spend on it. another problem she's not qualified to solve. she's so angry and so sad and so sick of it all, and for the first time in her life she misses the stupid teenager she used to be in wycome whose most pressing issue was figuring out how to frame a templar for her petty thefts.

she doesn't remember having her arm amputated, or her advisors even coming to that decision. being without the mark feels odd, but not unpleasant. as if a nagging splinter has finally been removed from under her skin. Varric promises he'll find someone who can make her a prosthetic. she doesn't care one way or the other. at long last, what made her "special" is finally gone. the world has given her permission to close this chapter of her life for good.

Bann Teagan gets what he wants. Rowena dissolves the Inquisition. finally, at last, she can tell everyone involved to go home. she can figure out who she is. maybe she'll go to Rivain, Varric always said he heard it was lovely there. when the world collapses she'll be hundreds of miles away. maybe she'll be vaporized, maybe slow radiation-like sickness will claim her life, maybe a demon will finally best her. she doesn't really care.

and then her advisors won't let her leave. the Inquisition's dissolution was only a preventative measure, Josephine says. we can operate against Solas without risking his spies infiltrating our ranks, Cullen says. Rowena doesn't have it in her to argue anymore. she doesn't want this. she wants to be anywhere but here. she thought she was free. "okay," she says blankly instead. "that sounds like a good idea."

ten years tick by. Rowena is in her 30s now. she still has no idea what Rivain looks like. Dorian and Vivienne and Blackwall have kept in touch. the others, not so much. she hasn't heard from Cole or Iron Bull at all since they left. she doesn't try to put on that bubbly facade anymore. she's too angry and tired and bitter to bother. no one asks if she's alright anymore. they know she isn't. whatever soul searching she intended to do before won't happen now; this is who she is after all this time. a young woman with a stern brow and stress-induced grey hairs, a prosthetic arm, and no patience for small talk.

she doesn't think about that kid she was before the conclave exploded. that person might as well be a stranger. she can never go back, and there is no future where she isn't the Inquisitor. the only chapter of her life that ever really closed was the one where she thought escape was still possible.

Varric tells her he found someone called "Rook." he thinks they'll be perfect to fight back against Solas. Rowena believes him. she tells him to wish them the best of luck. but she knows she won't be able to stay out of the fray forever. and by now, she doesn't want to. her resentment has festered for a decade. Solas robbed her of her last chance to have a life as Rowena Trevelyan - not as the Inquisitor, not as the Herald, not as anything else. his plans aside, his abandonment of her aside, that robbery is the real betrayal that she could never let go of. and at this point, she never will.

[lupon]

Door symbolism

There’s a lot of closing and opening of doors in Stranger Things, which yeah, duh, but I think there’s something more going on. The use of doors in media often represents the characters relationships. Letting someone in is a sign of love and openness to them. Forcing oneself through a door is a sign of disrespect and anger with the person. A locked door means someone is either trying to force the other to stay close emotionally, or is being shut out, depending on which side of the door they’re on. On the contrary, being in an unlocked closed door indicates closeness and a deep relationship with the other person. Think of the inside of a door being a characters heart or soul, and it’s interesting to see how it’s applied in the show.

El and Hopper

When Hopper first took El in, we see them entering the door to his cabin, then he quickly hides Sera's box, symbolizing him letting El into his heart, while hiding away his pain of losing Sera. Fixing up the inside of the cabin together was them metaphorically forming a bond with one another and finding love within each other. They’re both growing and healing from their past (Hopper losing Sera and El having an abusive father) and creating something new. Hopper now had a new daughter just as El now had a new father, so they had a new home. 

He also uses a secret knock so he’s the only person she’d let him, he did this out of fear of her getting hurt or leaving him. This was also the point in the series when they were the most emotionally close we’ve seen them, regularly sharing breakfast, watching TV, playing games. He didn’t want her to see anyone else because he was scared of losing her, as he later says he needed her. He also expressed his fear of her growing up and changing in his letter. Hopper locking her in the cabin was him metaphorically keeping her close to him at all times, trying to stop her from growing up and possibly leaving him or getting hurt. 

When Hopper came back late on Halloween, El at first refused to let him in the door, keeping it locked. And when she finally did let him in, she had brought the TV into her room and closed the door. She was angry at him, hence all the closed doors. Even the next day for breakfast, she got mad at him for lying and went into her room and slammed the door shut. Then later that day she unlocked the front door, directly disobeying Hopper, in search of Mike. When she came back, he let her in then slammed the door behind them. This connects to when Hopper later says how he would get so angry because he’s scared of losing her, again trying to force her to stay close with him. He’s locking her in because he loves her and wants to keep her close and safe. She immediately tried to go into her bedroom and close the door, but he forced it open before she could. After he grounded her from TV and Eggos, she began breaking things and slammed her door shut and locked it, officially shutting him out. 

Even in the beginning of s3, she shut and locked her bedroom door when he saw her and Mike kissing. So then, what does the “3 inches” mean? Essentially, Hopper wants her to stay open with him. He wants to always have a place in her heart, which is why she kept it open all the time after she believed he died. She loved and missed him, always keeping him in her heart. When the reunited, he even walked in through the door she was keeping open 3 inches.

Mike and El

Door symbolism is first used in Mike and El’s relationship when El was going to use the bathroom and didn’t want Mike to close the door. Mike had been the first person to show genuine love and care for El, which was something she had never truly experienced before. Not wanting him to close the door was her not wanting him to shut her out, she wanted him to stay close, similar to Hopper. They later have a scene in the same bathroom, only with both of them inside and the door closed, indicating closeness and trust. This is when they had their almost-kiss. There’s also a moment where Mike locks El in the closet door to hide her from his mom. Queercoding aside, this is another Mike and Hopper parallel, hiding her and keeping her safe even if it upsets her. 

Then in s2, El was looking at Mike and Max through the opposite side of a door, indicating that they weren’t on the same page, and that she was angered by what she saw. She felt closed off from Mike, and in response she tripped Max and ran. When they finally did reunite, she unlocked and walked in through a door, contrast from her previously running from him. In the beginning of s3, they’re making out in her bedroom, and she closes the door with him inside, again indicating closeness. 

But then when Mike first lied to her over the phone, El walked into her room and closed the door when Hopper asked what was going on. She was hurt and confused, and that’s when she confided in Max. They went into her bedroom and closed the door, showing how El was listening closely to Max’s advice, and trusting what she was saying. El and Max spend a lot of the season being with each other behind closed doors, like when they were in El’s room having a sleepover, walking through the bus door together after El dumped Mike, or in the bathroom together cleaning up after the sauna test. This is showing how much Max means to El, and how they formed a very close bond with each other. The only other character El has spent more time with behind closed doors than Max is Hopper. Which makes the moment where he’s okay with Max and El being alone behind closed doors all the more impactful. Also worth noting is that Mike was on the opposite side of the door on during multiple of these instances. Mike walked in through and open door to talk to El at the pool, and she ended up leaving out of anger and disappointment. The door being open was a sign that although they were finally talking, they weren’t as emotionally close as they were before. 

This is why it’s very important that El was on the opposite side of a closed door when Mike first said he loved her. They weren’t on the same page. After she heard what Mike said, she walked out the door and started showing interest in him again. She knocked the candy down for him and by the end of the season, they were officially back together. It’s interesting that their goodbye happened in an open door as well, and again ending with them not coming to an understanding and Mike being confused. 

(Side note: Jancy’s goodbye being inside and open door was foreshadowing to their relationship becoming rocky in s4 due to Jonathan being afraid of leaving his family. Even in their conversation Nancy is coming up with fun ideas of how they could stay together, only for him to shoot them down to stay with his family)

Then there’s s4. The first time door symbolism is used is actually when Mike tried to look for El in the bathroom. The transition is what makes this so interesting, from Joyce leaving her house to get the money in order to get Hopper back, to Mike opening the bathroom door and calling El’s name. But El wasn’t in there, and he got kicked out by a bunch of other girls. This is symbolic of how Mike isn’t understanding El, or is looking in all the wrong places, connecting to when El later says Mike doesn’t understand what it’s like to be bullied like she has been. He doesn’t understand, not from lack of trying but because he just doesn’t get it. El had locked herself in the Rink O’ Mania storage closet, hiding from everyone, including Mike. This connects to her saying how she felt like everyone saw her as a monster, and that she didn’t belong anywhere. Even at dinner, she got up and left to go to her room after Mike made her angry, keeping the door open 3 inches for Hopper. 

The next day when Mike goes to talk to her about what happened, the door is kept open, again signifying a lack of understanding and closeness with one another. It’s also symbolic of El’s heart missing Hopper, and how she now trusts what he says, which as she mentioned in another conversation they had behind an open door; “What if Hoppers right? If I only see you, and I’m a different species than you, than I should be with my species more” This is similar to how El feels like Mike sees her as a monster. Keep in mind that the last time her and Hopper had been together, she was under the impression that he didn’t like her relationship with Mike, so keeping the door open for him during this conversation is an interesting detail. The last time we see doors used in their relationship is at the very end of the season, when she closes the door (leaving 3 inches) in the cabin. This was when we learn that El hasn’t been talking to Mike, and has pretty much closed herself off from most people, most likely due to her feeling hopeless and guilty because of Max.

Mike and Will

Obviously there isn’t much use of doors in Mike and Will’s relationship in s1, since you know, Will was gone practically the entire season. Although it is cute how the party busts through the hospital door, finally being together again. However in s2, there’s a fair amount of door symbolism being used. In the very beginning we see Will wander out through the arcade door, then Mike coming out to get him and they walk back inside together. They were also behind a closed door with each other during the “crazy together” scene, and well as when Will opened up to him about seeing now-memories. Moments before that, Mike was knocking on the Byers door, anxious about Will’s wellbeing due to the lack of contact, as he was closed off from what was going on. Another interesting detail was the door being closed during the shed scene where they told stories to get through to Will, with most of the group being on the other side in the house. Only people who were emotionally close to Will were inside with him, Mike being one of those people. 

Then in s3, Mike (and Lucas) ran out the door to buy El a gift, abandoning Will inside, showing how they’re both metaphorically and literally leaving him behind. The next day, Will started a D&D campaign that ended with him being humiliated. When he decided he’d had enough, he stormed out through the door, and Mike followed him, which is when they fight. Contrast from them previously being inside doors together when they were on the same page and understanding each other. Mike then chases Will and bangs on the Byers closed door, apologizing and pleading him to come out and talk with him. This moment parallels s2 when he felt like he was being closed off from Will. It can also be connected to s4 when Mike was looking for El in the wrong place, since Will also wasn’t where Mike was looking, the main difference being that Mike actually found Will. 

They also contrast from Mike and El’s relationship with the door being open when Mike and El fought, versus the door being closed when Mike and Will made up. When Mike talked with Will in his bedroom, it was the first time we’d seen them having a heart-to-heart and being together behind closed doors since s2. They were finally on the same page again and were no longer distrustful or distant with one another. The next time they’re completely along behind closed doors is at the end of s4, when El walks out and closes the door. This is when Will starts opening up to Mike about what’s going on with him, and is likely building up to them having more moments like this. 

So then, what’s the deal with all the exit signs around Mike? Doors tend to represent characters relationships with each other, but this particular detail is likely more about Mike’s relationship with himself. An exit sign is primarily there to signal an escape or a way out during an emergency. And what kind of emergency could Mike be having? Most likely, a sexuality crisis. He’s trying to escape from himself. This is also supported by the one way sign, another sign which shows the direction a person should go in order to stay safe, pointing into his open closet door. He’s trying to escape or run from his own feeling as a way to protect himself.

The Upside Down

The Upside Down was actually the reason I started looking into door symbolism in the first place. The doors opening by themselves during Will’s episodes more specifically. First at the arcade, then at his house. This is meant to show how the Upside Down was invading Will’s mind, entering without permission. His possession scene was especially interesting, since he exited the bathroom door out of his own volition, and we then see the Mind Flayer racing through the halls towards him. The Mind Flayer likely had to burst through one of the doors to enter the school, and we see Will run out through a pair of doors when trying to escape.

Another interesting detail about the Upside Down is how the tears in time and space that connect their two worlds are referred to as “gates”, or as Alexie put it, a “doorway between worlds”. Which means when the gate is closed, you can think of it as a closed door. The right side up world and the Upside Down are opposites to each other, so they always stay on opposite sides of the door. It’s been referenced as being “the other side” on multiple occasions, first from Mike, then the Hero’s song, the comic about Will in the Upside down is called The Other Side, and even Steve in s4 referred to their world as the other side. The right side up and the Upside down can never truly be one and the same, close the door and the connection will break. Even the naming of the Upside Down suggests this - the underside of the D&D board could never be the top side, they’ll always be on opposite sides. Despite the fact that the Upside Down is now leaking into Hawkins, once the gate is closed everything from the UD dies in their world. 

Noteworthy mentions

Max was holding her locker door open when Dustin and Lucas asked her to go trick or treating, showing that she was, in fact, interested and paying attention. However, she slammed it shut afterwards and walked away, since she originally wasn’t planning on going. She only decided to go after Billy nearly ran them over and felt bad since she actually did secretly want to go, and didn’t want them to believe she had any malicious intent towards them. 

When character's are getting Vecna’d, all the doors are blocked off. They’re essentially trapped in their own mind, much like how Brenner told El that her mind was a prison. This connects to the moment where El is trying to escape from her memories when she’s first put in NINA, constantly running through all the different doors, but they all lead to the rainbow room. This also connects to Funshine claiming that Kali “freed” them all, first pointing to his head, then to his heart. Being unaccepting of oneself often leads to them being trapped in their own head. 

Will has a NO TRESPASSING sign on his door, showing how he only lets in people he trusts. This is especially supported by the fact that the only characters we’ve seen on the other side of the sign has been Joyce, Jonathan, Hopper and Mike (other than the time the time the people from the lab were literally trespassing to take pictures of his drawings). Castle Byers is also password protected. This implies Will is selective with who he opens up to, which is supported by his claim that everyone treats him differently and by him implying to Mike how it’s scary for him to open up about how he really feels. 

During their fight, Jason told Lucas about how he “never should have let him in the door” to which Lucas responded with “and I never should have knocked”. They’re talking about how Lucas approached Jason and the basketball team, something he did because he didn’t want to be made fun of anymore. This is Lucas saying he regrets ever trying to change who he is just to be socially acceptable. Lucas realized just how truly terrible Jason was wondered why he ever wanted to be like him. “Letting him in the door” meant Jason gave him the opportunity to become popular like he was, and as we saw, Jason trusted him in the beginning. It’s also a neat detail that once they realized Lucas tricked them, he was running out the door, officially letting himself out and breaking free. 

When Nancy and Jonathan first got together, they were at first both behind separate closed doors. They both walked out at the same time and met in the middle, both trying to reassure themselves and each other that Murray was wrong and they didn’t have feelings for each other. They then went back into their decided rooms and closed the doors, showing how they were on the same page, but both were closing themselves off emotionally. Then, finally, they met in the middle again, only this time Jonathan kissed her. They shared a passionate kiss, then stepped back into Nancy’s room together and closed the door.

When Lucas told Max the truth about what happened, it was the first time they were alone behind closed doors together. She didn’t believe him, so she walked out the door, and Lucas followed. And once she did start to believe him, Billy showed up and she told him not to follow her out. This is symbolic of her being afraid of Billy knowing that her and Lucas are friends, and scared that he would hurt them. So she tells him to stay behind closed doors. where they’re safe to hang out together, hidden from Billy’s view. Lucas is on the inside of the door, aka the inside of her heart, because she cares about him and wants him safe and close. Of course, Lucas didn’t listen and ran out the doors as soon as they started driving away, foreshadowing to them openly being friends with each other by the end of the season, despite Billy. 

There’s also a lot of instances of doors being broken down, most of which involving the monsters. The Demogorgon would quite literally break through the barrier between worlds, such as the Byers ceiling as well at the school wall. It also broke down the door between the party and itself, as well as attempted to force the door between itself and Hopper open. Flayed Billy burst through the sauna door when they trapped him in there to discover whether or not he was possessed. One destroyed all the doors at the lab and killed the kids inside. El broke down the door to the NINA project to save her friends when Brenner tried to force her to stay. 

There are SO many other uses of door symbolism, but I think this has gone on long enough. And I’m sure there some moments I’m forgetting about so if you can think of any cool use of doors I’d love to hear it!

[arsenicflame]

hi i'm really interested in space lesbians! where are they, who are they? how can i see them? (shows, games, books?) also what are you most excited about in s2 of ofmd?

OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY

soooooo my space lesbian enthusiasm refers to 3 separate medias!! (it used to say gay space vikings bc that was an even more specific niche buuuut im way more into tihylttw these days s o) one day i am going to make a fuckin venn diagram of my girls because they all have so many similarities. (loki/sigyn and angela/sera are basically the same characters change my mind.)

this is about to get real long bc im unhinged about them <3 10/10 would talk about them all day if the communities were there

our first space lesbians are loki + sigyn from the bifrost incident! TBI is an album by the band the mechanisms which you can find wherever you listen to music (youtube here) its a norse mythology inspired rock/steampunk-esque album and it is SO GOOD- it takes place on a train in SPACE in the format of an incident investigation. its a story so you have to listen to the tracks in order :)

--

next up! this is how you lose the time war- our lesbians in this are called red + blue because we have deconstructed this trope to its most basic format at this point :') its a short book, and you may be familiar with it as it went viral from a trigun fan tweet a few months back. (my url (and sewing blog url) are actually references to a quote from this book!) you can get it wherever you get books and id recc the audiobook if youre into that i am also in possession of the pdf if you wantto try before you buy.

tihylttw is a story told through the exchange of letters between two agents on opposite sides of a war- it usually gets described as enemies to lovers but id personally use rivals as i think it describes them better. the book is known for being incredibly poetic and sometimes pretentious in its writing and i just think its the most beautiful thing ever. lesbians do it better

honestly theres nothing i could say for tihylttw better than it could say for itself, i just adore the universe theyve built and i want to KNOW MORE. i love you and i love you and i want to find out what that means together

--

saving the best for last is my girls angela + sera. the most of all time. nobody compares to them for me. they consume me

angela + sera are from marvel comics and you can find my complete reading list here, but if im talking about them positively, im usually talking about one of the titular Angela comics, and more often than not queen of hel.

honestly i love the angela comics so much that im making myself speechless trying to figure out where to start. Angela falls into the asgard side of marvel comics, though she is a lot more fluid in her affiliations, her whole thing being that she deals in deals- nothing for nothing everything has its price. she is at times described as emotionless and is generally quite a stoic character, especially around strangers. the major exception to this is her wife, sera. seras one of marvels few canon trans characters and i think she is just so wonderfully written. shes witty and cheeky and doesnt take shit from anyone, even when it gets her into trouble- and oh boy does sera find herself in some predicaments! the angela comics are often just as poetic as tihylttw for me, theyll drop an 'as long as you are with me, i am not afraid' and ill need to go smother myself in a pillow for a sec. in QOH they adopt a daughter who is Also a lesbian, shes an alternate version of leah of hel and i ALSO adore her.

im desperately trying to avoid plot points but god. the main arc is 21 issues of smooching Shakespearean space angels what more could you want?

(through sera & angela we get a lot of heven lore and honestly that could be its whole own thing for me im SO fascinated.)

my girls are currently in comic hell, i am praying they will get something good soon 🙏🙏

--

and what am i most excited about for season 2? can i just say izzy? can i just say anne + mary? dude im so ready for some lesbians you have no idea actually you probably have a very good idea if you made it this far down. im incredibly excited to be seeing izzy get a favourable arc this season, im really hoping to see him develop relationships with everyone else, see him grapple with feelings around ed (actually im really hoping he chooses not to forgive ed. for growth) im excited to see whats gonna go down with his leg, im excited to see wtf is going on w ed + stede because i have no idea what the continuity is at the moment, im just excited!!!!!! i honestly dont think theres anything im not excited about everything looks so good so far

[sad1nnit]

letters.

dear james,

if you are reading this then i am dead. i know, cliche. but, i need to write this so you know why i did what i did.

ma chérie, je t'aime.

je t'aime mon soleil, ma dernière pensée sera toi. je t'attendrai pour toujours.

i doubt you’ll be able to read that, but just know it means i love you. and i am so very sorry, i did not mean for this to happen.. i couldn’t say no to them james, they threatened sirius and you.

i gave in eventually. i let him put that thing, on me. it broke you when you saw it ma chérie i know, i want to peel it off.

i want you to hold me. i want to hold you forever.

i’ll tell the stars about you darling.

it’s you, it’s always been you, and it always will be you, forever.

i found something that may help you kill voldemort, something called a horcrux.

don’t look for it, stay with lily and harry.

trust remus, sirius, lily, marlene and mary. no one else.

i hope you live a long life my love,

i’ll be waiting with the stars.

- R.A.B

<3

translation:

my darling, i love you.

i love you my sun, my last thought will be you. i will wait for you forever.

[anneapocalypse]

Fanfic Author Self-Recs!

Tagged by @chocochipbiscuit to rec five of my own fics! Thank you for the tag!

This was surprisingly difficult, as I sort of wanted to go multi-fandom for this one, and I found myself looking at all the fandoms I've written for and having a hard time choosing which to focus on!

A Pot to Piss In. Dragon Age, Sera gen backstory fic, 41K, rated M. Definitely my favorite DA fic I've written so far. It was so, so much fun and it's a huge love letter to Sera's character and has a lot of side OCs I loved writing and I'm just so stinkin' happy with it.

No Woman Rules Alone. Dragon Age, Anora/F!Tabris, 34K, rated E. The longest exchange fic I've written to date and the one that I feel like really solidified my love of writing about politics (and femslash, and Tabrises) in this fandom. It was an incredibly fun project and I'm very fond of it.

The Drop Trilogy. Red vs. Blue, Maine/Carolina, 240K total, rated E. My RvB OTP fic, the longest project I've ever written for fandom and one that's still really close to my heart. It's about Maine, it's about the Meta, it's about Maine and Carolina, it's about isolation and loss and abuse and sorrow and hope and redemption.

Inroads series. Red vs. Blue, Carolina/Kimball, 74K total, various ratings up to E. Carolina's adventures in self-sabotage, and a relationship that might actually work out despite her best efforts! My main Kimbalina series, three one-shots and a longfic, taking place before and during season 13 (which made it an absolute nightmare to plot and I'm so proud I actually managed to make it work). I'm especially proud of the longfic, The Way We Win, but I'm still fond of the one-shots as well and it's probably best to read those first for context.

Cast Your Bread Upon the Water. Fallout, Dr. Madison Li/Star Paladin Cross, past Madison/Catherine/James, plus Madison & female Lone Wanderer, 26K, rated M. This is a fic I wrote for a Big Bang, and is illustrated by my good friend @ialpiriel. It's a story about Dr. Li in the late days of Fallout 3's story, after the Enclave takeover of Project Purity, as she confronts her past with James, the present life his actions have once again left in shambles, the complicated feelings stirred up by meeting his daughter, and a connection with an unlikely companion.

Tagging @ialpiriel, @farfromdaylight, @rosella-writes, @darethshirl, @rakshadow, and anyone else who'd like to play.

[fortunefool]

[ sumi ] ✉️🌿🥀

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀〆 drunk 3 am text .ᐟ

⠀ ⠀𖹭⠀ ⠀⠀incoming text⠀ ⠀ㅡ⠀ ⠀미미✰⠀ :⠀girl ⠀ ⠀𖹭⠀ ⠀⠀incoming text⠀ ⠀ㅡ⠀ ⠀미미✰⠀ :⠀think i gave the bad luck 2 the wrong guy ⠀ ⠀𖹭⠀ ⠀⠀incoming text⠀ ⠀ㅡ⠀ ⠀미미✰⠀ :⠀ummmmm?? whoops?? ⠀ ⠀𖹭⠀ ⠀⠀incoming text⠀ ⠀ㅡ⠀ ⠀미미✰⠀ :⠀u said wonhyuk? ⠀ ⠀𖹭⠀ ⠀⠀incoming text⠀ ⠀ㅡ⠀ ⠀미미✰⠀ :⠀oh shit u meant wonhyun mybad nvm ⠀ ⠀𖹭⠀ ⠀⠀incoming text⠀ ⠀ㅡ⠀ ⠀미미✰⠀ :⠀whttevvvvv, maybe he deserved it 🫶

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀〆 lil letter attached to xmas gift .ᐟ

sumiiiii, babygirllllll, merry christmas!!!!!

i attached this to your gift and i hope to god you found it and i'm not writing this for nothing. you better like our matching necklaces or else... no jinxing for you for 4 full weeks!

i still find it so weird to write you something, even if we've known each other for soooo so long now. i think i want to thank you for being in my life for so long, i genuinely think there's no boring moment when i spend my time with you. scheming together and meeting up just to chit chat about everyone we know is such a relaxing activity for me and i hope we'll do it forever.

as a lil christmas wish, however... i hope you'll learn to love accept your anomaly. i know it's fun when someone awful gets the short end of the stick, but. are you really living if you have to hide a part of you? why go above and beyond to make people believe something else? i know that i came up with it, but i didn't think you'd want us to do this even when we're older... like... right now. contrary to popular belief, we are old compared to how we were back then!!!! don't take this the wrong way, i don't mind helping you out whenever you need it, but ... let's try to tone it down? maybe, just maybe, you can put down the act.

just know that i love you wholeheartedly though! i'll be here for you no matter what you do or what you decide to do. you can rattle me with your ability if my letter pissed you off, but remember that i can fight back!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀love you, ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀sera ♧

[greypetrel]

Distance.

Ages ago, @salsedine sent me not one but 2 prompts from this Florence prompt list. You can find the first one here for some mutual F!Mahariel/Morrigan pining, but the second one...

Big God is one of those songs I really like and always need to listen to… twice or thrice in a row. I wanted to do it good and catch the feeling and I felt like I always was going out of theme. I wrote this prompt. And re-wrote it. And re-wrote it again. Settled on an idea. Wrote it twice. Re-read it and be angry at it.

I was considering changing the character (in my mind it's an Aisling song, but MH), or making it crack, but then I read Florence talking about it, describing this song as a “obviously, an unfillable hole in the soul, but mainly about someone not replying to my text"...

… And I realize I already wrote it in one of my ten thousand iteration.

So here you go it’s angsty. Post Trespasser. AND it’s epistolary, because I wanted to try it. Maybe I’ll post the bigger version on AO3, it’s Aisling’s pov and it got discarded because it was getting LONG even for my standards. That needs an ending and some more editing, tho, so here you go in the meanwhile.

37. The best of the best and the worst of the worst CW: Mental illness, PTSD, Depression

Sometimes I think it's getting better And then it gets much worse Is it just part of the process? Jesus Christ, it hurts Big God – Florence + The Machine

Skyhold, August 27, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

Just writing to check in that you got there all right. Stupid of me, since you left but… What, few hours ago?

I hope you can forgive me for organizing all this. I swear it’s not to send you away, it’s not because I don’t want you, but I don’t think staying here was doing you any good. Three days in a bed are too many, my love, I hope you can forgive me for worrying.

I am already missing you, before you can think of anything else. If you need, please know that I’m but a letter away. Ask, and I’ll come running.

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold August 29, 9:44 Dragon

Hello, love.

I’m told you arrived all right and you settled in Stone-Bear Hold, and I wanted to give you a welcome myself.

Don’t take these as any pressure to reply. Take your time, I am here waiting until you’re ready.

Pet Storvacker for me as well, would you?

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, August 31, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

Nothing much happened, don’t worry. It’s all bureaucracy and I’m quite bored.

I must say that you were right, your room is indeed dauntingly big - I’m rolling my eyes at your smug grin, right now. I left all the pieces of my armour on the floor, one beside the other, to fill it a little and to recreate some mess. You can laugh. Since you’re gone it’s all too tidy, and I miss you.

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 3, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

I missed yesterday, sorry about that.

I’m fine, it was just a busy day. Before you ask: yes, I’m eating regularly and I’m fine.

I think Dennet is a little bored, without you and Little Brother around. I caught him snorting grumpily at a horse that obeyed to him right away, the other day. I hope Little Brother is well, I am sure I don’t have to tell you to give him an apple from me.

Or should I? I got told you didn’t go to the stables onc  Nevermind that, you surely know better.

Love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 5, 9:44 Dragon

Is it already a week since I last saw your face? It seems a lot more.

I slept in my old loft tonight, it’s less big and daunty and I had a lot of work. It feels void anyway, without you, and whatever company there is at lunch can’t hold a candle to you, even if I appreciate it. See? I’m also eating with other people, like you’d want. It’s not really the same without you, but I’m holding on. And struggling to make these letters longer, as you’d want too.

Without you making shenanigans with Dorian and Sera, it’s all too quiet, and there’s really little to report.

Beside that I miss you.

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 7, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

I hate to speak about work, particularly right now. But this bears importance to mention:

If you’re approached by Sapphira, please turn her away. She came up with a plan and… We turned her down already, Cassandra is dealing with it. Do not worry at all, but if she comes to you, please be wary, I doubt she is your friend. I doubt she was ever our friend.

I hate to write this letter with such things. My plan was for you to forget about work for a while and figure things out, and look at me. You really married the wrong person not to talk about work, I fear.

I am sorry, love. I hope you’re doing better and are more rested. I hope you can get out of bed in the morning with no problems.

If you are and you do, then missing you so much is fine.

I love you, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 8, 9:44 Dragon

Love,

I’m making up for yesterday’s letter with a better one.

I managed to convince Cabot to give me the recipe of his scones, and to let me try it with his supervision.

I did some turns in the kitchen back when I was training, and well. I’m no baker in any way, but they didn’t turn out so bad for a first trial. I think you’d like them. And it was pleasant to do. By the time I’ll see you again I hope I’ll be better.

Maybe after I’ll learn these I’ll ask the cook to teach me to make custard, what about it?

I hope you are eating enough.

I do miss you, a lot. Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 11, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling.

I understand you aren’t well. I understand you need time and space, all too well.

This is in no way meant as a criticism or to withdraw anything I ever professed for you. I still love you, I still want you, I have no intention of leaving you, ever if you’ll let me stay.

It’s just been a difficult night and I fear that-

I don’t know what to think of your lack of answer and it’s terror-

I’d need for you to write back, just to

Please-

Never mind that.

I wish you answered to me. Just once. Tell me you’re fine, tell me anything, really.

Please.

I shouldn’t send this.

I do love you, I do, and I wished you were fine and you were here.

C

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Skyhold, Kingsway 12, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

Never mind the letter from yesterday.

I’m sorry I sent it, I shouldn’t dump that on you right now.

The love still stands. I’m better now. Could use a full night sleep, but this bed is just so damn big. I complained to Josephine and she laughed because apparently you told her the same thing.

She told me to say hi, maybe you’ll read this before her letters? Well. We all miss you.

Love, C.

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Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 13, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen,

I am so sorry-   Please, if you-   If you can bear to forgive-

I’m sorry, I really am that you’re not well and facing it alone. Before you can tell me so: no, I don’t mind listening. Please, tell me more. I hope you are really better, and it’s not something you wrote to make me feel better. Don’t lie just to spare my feelings, please, I’m better knowing.

I know you’re strong and you’ll make it through, you did so many times before and you’ll do it one more time, I trust you. Just, take it easy, please. You made the right choice and it’s good to pursue this path, even if it’s difficult and it hurts and thirsty.

You can do it. You already did it. More than once. I have not many things to believe into, right now, but I do believe in you.

I am fine.

Since when you started seeing that as a lie? I do wonder if it was exactly when you started complaining about it, or if you realised sooner. Comes to mind I never asked you.

I am surviving, I can’t say anything more than this, I am afraid.

It’s… I am so sorry. I have forced myself to read your letters just today, in truth.

Physically I am fine. I am not in pain, the wound closed well and the Healer is happy with it, says that beside the scars I have nothing to fear anymore. My balance is still off, but I trip and bump less and less. Nonetheless…

I am given things to do. I help the Augur and Sigrid Gulsdotten in their activities, and it’s good and honest work. The morning is for people, helping them out, preparing rites, picking herbs when we finish them. The afternoons the children come for lessons, and I’m more another student than a help, but the Augur doesn’t seem to mind much, and I quite like listening to the lore. I can’t but wonder if the Lady of the Sky was also a not going there.

After that is when time stops. I don’t know what to do, honestly. I lived so much out of roles and paths pre-traced for me that now that I’m out of them all I find myself in the void. Do I like the things I do because I had to, because of habit, or because I sincerely do? When I am left with nothing left to do, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I like and I don’t know who I am.

That’s why I haven’t replied before. It’s like… I think back of the person I was, and it doesn’t feel like I’m her anymore. I am terrorized at the idea that I’ll open those letters and they’ll all be addressed to a person that’s not me anymore. I can’t take it, right now. Thank you for having written, and thank you for not having written to her.

I miss you so much.

I miss you most at lunches: no one here can hold a candle against you, too. I miss our conversations and your friendship.

I miss you in the afternoons, because all that comes to mind is that I could curl in the corner of the couch in your office. Complain because it’s always full of boxes of reports and there’s no space. And just watch you work.

I miss you at nights the most. Sigrid is a good hugger, but she’s not you, she hasn’t your smell and she cuts the hugs always short.

Tonight I missed you so much that… Ida Sigridsdotten and Annike Majasdotten married, today. I put up a dress and smiled and helped the rites as I was asked to. But when it was over, and people started walking to the Hall for the banquet I missed you so much, I couldn’t ignore the memories. It was so unbearable that I fell back and decided to open one of your letters. Just one, I thought, I need to know who you were talking to.

It was so brief -not that I expected anything else, I know you. So I opened another. And another.

I couldn’t avoid answering your last letter, I hope you don’t mind if this is so long. It compensates for all those days of silence, I hope.

I really hope it does.

Is it ok for me to conclude this with expressing love? I am not sure who I am anymore, I don’t know what I like, but I do know that I love you. Reading your letters was a breath of fresh air. Ironical no? I get so much of it, these days.

Write to me again, if you wish.

With all the love I can muster, from exactly where I don’t know but it’s there, Aisling.

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Skyhold, Kingsway 14, 9:44 Dragon

Love.

Another calm day, full of bureaucracy.

I do hate dealing with money and calculating. You’d laugh at me and tell me it’s simple maths and do everything in five minutes.

Sometimes I still look up from my desk and expect you napping on the couch. I don’t think it did you so well, and I’m glad you’re out there doing better things, and I won’t lie: it made me feel observed. But now that you’re away, I do miss that too.

Maker, I miss your mess. Frida went through all your drawers, now they’re unbearably organized.

I do wonder: are you reading?

C.

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Skyhold, Kingsway 15, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

You would be happy in knowing I just made a fool of myself.

Your letter came, and I just took it and ran away without realizing, leaving apparently Josephine and a trio of Comtes who lent us money and were discussing of reparations standing in the Great Hall, mid speech.

If I don’t answer anymore, Josie came for my head.

Now, with order.

I am afraid you never were much of a liar, my love. I realised you weren’t fine as you told it the first time in Haven, you have always worn your heart on your sleeve. Honestly? I liked that in you from the start. I only hope this new you still has it, it was endearing and soothing. But if you don’t feel like that anymore, it’s fine anyway. But please, don’t lie to me. No need for it.

I wish you were here too, but I don’t think you’d like being here. For the rest, I’m fine. Really. It was just a bad night. I’m better now that I heard from you.

As for the rest, I can think of a couple of things you like: magic and animals. You love horses. Maker knows you worried me so and busied Josie enough to make you presentable again after the stables to like horses out of duty. What about it?

Answer, if you’d like. I understand if you don’t. I’ll keep the love with gladness.

All my love, Cullen

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Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 17, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen,

Please don’t let Josie reach you. Or if she did, hello Josie, can I have his cape back to remember him by?

Thank you, love   Cull   my love. It all brought a smile, and it was something I needed. That was a lovely long letter, please keep it up, I appreciated it so much.

I don’t want to see horses. My balance is still off when I’m walking and I would hurt myself on a horse, for real. And I don’t think I could   And I would hate to see you smug with a “I told you so”.

But yeah, I guess so. I pet Storvacker whenever she comes around, and it’s nice, she’s very beautiful and such a good creature. I think she remembers I saved her, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking. How’s Bran? Is he keeping you good company, did he learn to duck and not fetch?

The children hijacked the lesson, today, when the topic fell on Hakkon Wintersbreath. We went overtime because the kept asking me about the dragons I slayed, if it was true. Someone out there had spread the rumour I dealt with the three in the Emprise all at once? I had to struggle to convince them it didn’t happen like that, and they were even more disappointed than when I told them that slaying dragons is just a sad thing to do and I hated doing it.

Oh, there’s one thing I hate. Does it count?

I do love you, and I miss you a little less now that I’m writing back. Thank you for being so patient with me. I do love you, a lot. You’re one thing I really like.

Are you feeling better? For real.

Say that I’m sorry   hello to the others from me.

A.

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Skyhold, Kingsway 19, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

It does count, and I think it goes into the liking animals box. Anything else? I remember you were quite fond of swimming, if I recall correctly our first visit to Honnleath and our last one in Wycome. What about it? If you can catch a sunny day, the water should still be warm enough to bathe.

And sweets. Do they have something sweet to eat? Should I ship down there your candy stash?

Bran is fine, and is keeping me good company, thanks. He misses you too, but I’ve been fairly successful in teaching him not to sleep where you should be on the bed. Now he sleeps at my feet and I have to curl up. He still fetches, but we’re working on that too.

I am feeling better, I swear. For real, I took it easier in the last days and delegated some.

I firmly believe you wouldn’t fall if you tried to ride. I saw you. Maybe don’t start with a gallop, ease yourself in? I am sorry if I insist, but please, don’t let fear stop you. You love riding and you love that horse. And I’m sure he misses you too. And I’m not saying that to pressure you, but because you always light up when you talk about horses and about Little Brother, and I’m sure he misses you too. But it’s ok, ignore this paragraph if it bothers you, you surely know best what’s good for you.

Everyone says hello. There are various recommendations of hugs, and get well soon and missing you and a choir of “Horns up” from the Chargers and Dorian.

I second the missing, and the horns up too.

C.

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Skyhold, Kingsway 25, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

I am sorry if I told you something wrong.

Please, ignore the last letter.

Little Brother is well taken care of, safe as can be, and I recommend to give him extra apples and extra cuddles. Do not worry about him, love, and please forgive me if I insisted.

If I see another Comte pretending we borrowed money from him without papers to demonstrate it I swear I’m throwing them down the battlements. Bran growling at him had been a nice addition to the group. Josie too gave him a biscuit for his good job.

I happily announce you that I have a recipe for custard and a successful attempt to my record. It was good, I’m waiting for the first lemons to try it properly and try to make it as you like it.

I do miss you, love, and I worry. Forgive me if I said the wrong thing.

I do love you even if you’ll never ride again. Cullen

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Skyhold, Kingsway 28, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling.

You know what?

Fuck the Comtes.

Josie and Cassandra can hold their own for a while.

Wait for me.

C.

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Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 28, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen.

I’m sorry. Again. I really am.

I was angry at first. And hurt. The thought of not riding again… I have been scraped clean of so much, that the idea of realizing that I had given away that too was unbearable, even in theory. You were right in insisting, because yes. I do love horses not out of duty.

Spirits, or whatever power there is in this world, how many weeks of waking up before the dawn I did back in Haven, because I didn’t want a mount out of duty and out of a choice made for me, but I wanted that horse? With you, it’s the one thing I don’t want to give up on, and you reminded me I had to.

But you were right. – I miss your smug smile, now, I would so much love to be able to kiss it away.

After two days of being angry, I decided to go to camp out of spite.

I hate how people there can’t talk to me and the pity there. I should thank you for organizing my stay with the Avvar, it was… It was what I needed.

Anyway.

Little Brother was, indeed, angry. I can’t hardly blame him. I know how he’s feeling.

I stood there in the paddock, as in the first days. He ignored me for hours. And then he approached me. Bumped me to the ground with his head.

I deserved it, poor thing. I left him on his own for a month. And I know he must have felt abandoned and… And nobody should feel like that.

I cried for the first time in a month, and we cuddled.

You were right, my love. It did me well.

I think I’ll get back in the afternoons.

I never answered to you about magic and… I’m not using much magic. I’ve been seeing Desperation again in my dreams. Nothing much, I’m still here and I’m fine, both the Augur and Sigrid are aware. The Augur has been very helpful. I’m telling you because it may help you too.

He says that for all negative spirits we attract, there’s a good one too. The good one is lingering around, we just need to see it, even if it’s a little more difficult to tune down the noise of the other.

I feel mine: there’s Cole around, lingering at the edge of my vision. He hasn’t approached me yet, but I feel him, always there. At the ready should I… Well, I do need him. But I need him from afar.

I’m not yet ready to face head-on what happened, and facing him would mean that.

But I’m writing you from the stable, forgive the wobbly calligraphy. I hope you can still read it, but my desk is furry and breathing. I couldn’t take his head away from my legs, and I don’t want to. He needed this, and so do I.

I stopped crying, but I think I’ll get back at it in some minutes. It’s good for me, and I missed it too.

I feel hopeful today.

Thank you for pushing me to come here.

Thank you for knowing me better than I do. I needed that. I still do.

I will be ready to see Cole and talk with him. Eventually.

I think I’ll try to hop on Little Brother, tomorrow.

I should probably stop writing. I do miss you keenly, right now, and I wish you were here. Do not fret here, tho: you have work to do and I don’t want to distract you any more than I’m already doing, love.

I am fine. I’m not lying.

Please do not worry, and remember that I love you. Even if you make me angry at times.

I love you and I miss you, and I hope I’ll dream of you tonight, and that it’ll be a nice memory. It’s not that hot to swim, unfortunately, but I’ll be able to dream of when we did in Wycome.

Love, quite a lot of it even if it smells like horse, Aisling

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Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 29, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen,

Nothing much to add since yesterday, honestly.

I just wanted you to be the first to know: I am waiting for Little Brother to be saddled. I need to find a way to do it myself, but-

*the rest is written in a calligraphy even less readable and clear than the rest, clearly scribbled very quickly.*

You must be kidding- Who am I writing to, I’m telling you directly.

Spirits, you’re so sappy it’s lucky I love you.

Or not, the lucky one is definitely me.

Here? Really? With all those reports?

Ok I’m done, I’m asking you.

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Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 30, 9:44 Dragon

Hiding this in your boot as you sleep, if you won’t notice when you’ll put it up tomorrow, know that it’s the reason I smiled at you. Well, one of the reasons, not the only one and not the most important. But still.

Nothing much, I just wanted to say thank you, and reiterate that you’re impossible and stubborn and totally the fun police. And that I love you because you are.

Thank you, really.

A.