#so I am not being starved for castle experiences

[youngpettyqueen]

my tour site and the Edinburgh castle site: we recommend booking your tickets just a little in advance so that you guarantee your entry!

me, booking my ticket for August in April: got it

[ja3yun]

The Doll House | Sim Jaeyun

doll!jake x fem!reader warnings: fluff, smut (mdni), subby!jake, oral (m. rec), creampie, slight throat fucking, whimpering and whining, pet names (baby doll, pup), begging, anything else lmk! wc: 7.7k synopsis: it's your first week at your new job and you make a shocking revelation that puts your world in a spin and lets you experience something you never knew was possible masterlist | sunghoon a/n: hi! this is the first part of a 4-part series! again, i need to thank the requester for this because i am having so much fun writing it <3 the plot and everything will be gradually laced within each chapter so, while they can stand alone, it's best to read them all. thank you for everything and as always, likes, reblogs, feeback is all welcome!

p.s, please read the intro it sets up the whole story so you guys know how y/n got there and who soonyeol is.

You've been inside this home for exactly 42 hours and 51 minutes and surprisingly nothing significant has happened.

The silence surrounding the mansion is unexpectedly comforting, providing a much-needed respite from the hectic city life you've despised. The constant noise - whether it's the cries of babies, the grumbles of angry men, or the blasting car horns powered by thoughtless road rage - has progressively worn on your tolerance. No one talks about how exhausting it all is.

Maybe this is why people go on holiday, you wonder. Even though you're here for work, there's a sense of relaxation in the air that leaves you feeling peaceful. 

Before Soonyeol went on her ominous business trip, she left you a binder full of strict instructions on how to mind her house. It’s packed to the brim with dos and don'ts such as; cooking exactly 4 meals for the dolls at 5.30pm, placing them around the dining table, and never entering their rooms unless transporting them to their recreational activities. 

Each doll had their own rigorous routine, with some reading, some playing the guitar, and so on. Soonyeol made it clear that sticking to these routines is a must, which included the difficult chore of physically changing the towering dolls in the morning and before bed. They weren’t exactly hollow or porcelain, they were super realistic, their skin had some form of heat to it, and they had some weight to them but not as heavy as they first appeared. You had asked Soonyeol what they were made of but she brushed your question off, leaving you even more curious, the only conclusion you could come up with was sandbags or clay.

Currently, you are in the kitchen, cooking up a meal that none of them will touch. Of course, you didn’t expect them to chow down on your homemade lasagna considering they couldn’t even move their mouths, but seeing everything laid out and untouched after you give them exactly 35 minutes to eat (a rule in that godforsaken binder), it fills you with a sense of unease.

Within the mansion's walls, time seems to grind to a halt unless you make it move, you as the sole animate presence amidst the silence. 

You bring the plated food into the dining room, placing a dish in front of each doll. Despite the absurdity of the situation, you play along dutifully, conscious of Mia's warning that the dolls may be rigged with hidden cameras. To be fair, their eyes do seem to follow you, or perhaps that was just your imagination.

“This is such a waste of food,” you scoff, placing the last plate down to the doll with freckles on his face who is labelled in the binder as Sunghoon. You can’t help but think about all the food that is being wasted when there are people still relying on food banks, it makes you bubble with anger, yet, you’re the one doing it. You could easily just not feed them and just pretend to Soonyeol you did, but again, the eyes that surround the castle could be the difference between you keeping this job and going back home with nothing.

Soonyeol could easily fire you if it got back to her you starved her precious babies while she was gone, and that £5,000 is enough money to get you by while you look for another job, so you’ll do as you’re told for now.

With a resigned sigh, you wipe your hands on your apron and offer a forced smile to the lifeless dolls, "Enjoy," you mutter sarcastically, before turning on your heel and retreating from the room, leaving them to their silent feast.

“Thank you!” 

The words catch you off guard, freezing you mid-step. Did you actually just hear that? Slowly, you spin on your heel, astonishment written over your face. There they sit, precisely as you left them, their expressions the same as before. Yet, undoubtedly, the voice came from their direction.

Narrowing your eyes in suspicion, you examine them closely, your fingers poking Sunghoon’s shoulder to try and elicit any response, but one never comes. 

You could have sworn you heard a voice, a soft accent drifting into your ears. It’s not like it could have been the TV or radio, Soonyeol was lacking in the entertainment department, opting for more classic ways to entertain herself like board games and books.

"This place is making me lose my mind," you scoff, disbelief mingling with a nervous laugh. You are officially losing the plot, thinking the dolls can suddenly speak. What’s next, they’ll suddenly get up and help you with the dishes?

Maybe you just need to go for a walk around the mansion, touch some grass or whatever. Your mind needs some nature to set itself straight. With a final incredulous glance at the dolls, you shake your head, dismissing your fanciful worries. 

Stepping into the garden, you're greeted by the warmth of the summer sun kissing your skin. The sprawling lawn stretches for acres, overgrown yet hinting at hidden beauty beneath the tangled vines and moss-covered statues.

The pathway is clear, giving you a chance to wander further into the field. With some TLC and a green thumb, you ponder whether you could turn this landscape into a true garden, it’s not like there is much else to do, but would Soonyeol be okay with that? Everything else in this house is seemingly stuck in a different century; the large gold-framed portraits, the scatter of porcelain dolls that look like something straight from a horror movie, and the furnishings scream Renaissance. Maybe she prefers it that way.

You are perplexed by the mystery surrounding Soonyeol and her isolated living. A lack of information about her and this home has you grasping at straws. The mansion has no internet or even a good phone service which raises your suspicions about her more. There is only a landline phone that is set to make local calls. All you've learned from this information is why she resorted to placing a job advertisement in the newspaper.

Questions swirl in your mind. Why choose such isolation? Living alone, devoid of company or modern comforts, seems unimaginable. Two months might be tolerable, but for someone to endure years in solitude, it's perplexing. But then again, who are you to judge? She might prefer her own company and God knows there must be a lot less drama.

Lost in thought, you reach out to touch a thorn from a withered rosebush, only to recoil in pain as it pricks your index finger, "Shit!" you shout, instinctively sucking on the wound as blood wells up. Why you felt driven to touch such an obviously dangerous plant escapes you completely.

Sulking back inside the house, you walk directly to the kitchen, the sight of familiar surroundings provides some consolation as you go towards the sink, your injured finger throbbing with each step. Who knew a thorn could cause so much damage?

You reach for the basin and turn on the cold tap, hoping for a little relief. As chilled water falls over your wound, you sigh with relief, the coolness relieving the pain immensely, with a sudden sensation of peace flowing over you. 

The clock's chime breaks through the quiet, jolting you back into reality. It's 6pm so it's time to tend to the dolls again. You reach to get a plaster from the first aid kit, only to find it empty except for a single bandage and some foil blankets. Panic sets in as you examine the seriousness of your bleeding finger; it’s a neverending flow of crimson which only makes you pout, sucking on it once again.

Desperately searching the kitchen cupboards, you find bits of kitchen roll and sellotape. It's not ideal, but you have no other choice. You gently wrap the kitchen roll around your wound, securing it with sticky tape. The improvised dressing will have to suffice; the thought of spilling your blood on Soonyeol's cherished dolls sends chills down your spine. You don't want to think about what she would do.

Stepping into the dining room, you're greeted by the familiar sight: cold food arranged neatly before the four unyielding dolls. Their impassive stares seem to pierce through you, sending a chill down your spine.

With a theatrical pout and arms crossed, you address the silent company, "Didn't quite hit the mark with my culinary masterpiece, huh?" you jest, met only with the silence of inanimate figures. Chuckling to yourself, you gather the untouched plates onto the cart, contemplating a pragmatic solution, "Well, I suppose I could just freeze these and give them to you tomorrow," you quip. Soonyeol said to feed them, she didn’t say it couldn't be the same meal over and over again.

After clearing up the dining hall and putting the meals in the freezer, you make your way to retrieve the rusty wheelchair you are convinced will give you tetanus from the hallway closet. It’s the easiest way to transport the boys from A to B, and you daren’t carry them anywhere in case you drop and smash them. 

As you unfold the chair, a creak reverberates from behind you, causing your muscles to tense involuntarily. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as a chill courses through your veins. While the old house has its usual symphony of creaks and groans, this sound feels different, more sinister, as if someone - or something - is lurking in the shadows.

“Hello?” you say whispering yet not daring to look behind you. If you have learned anything from the multitude of horror movies you’ve watched over the tears, it’s that as soon as you look back, all shit breaks loose.

You stand there with your heart pounding in your chest and you scold yourself inwardly for succumbing to irrational fear, "Come on, Y/N, pull yourself together," you mutter, attempting to rally your nerves. But the silence that follows your whispered reassurance only amplifies the unease settling in the pit of your stomach.

With a resigned sigh, you steel yourself for whatever may lie behind you, “Fuck, Y/N, just turn around. If you’re going to die, you might as well get it over with,” you chide yourself, voice tinged with frustration.

Thinking it’s best to just face whatever your demise is, you swiftly turn around, half-expecting to come face-to-face with some unseen terror. Yet, all that greets you is the empty hallway, bathed in the dim glow of the flickering lights. There's no sign of an intruder, no lurking threat—just the same mundane surroundings you've grown accustomed to.

You never thought you’d think this, but you’re happy to see the tiny collector dolls that line the hallway.

A mixture of relief and embarrassment floods over you as you realize the absurdity of your fears. "God, I'm losing it," you mutter, a manic laugh bubbling up from deep within. With a self-deprecating shake of your head, you lightly slap your forehead with the base of your palm, chastising yourself for letting your imagination run wild.

First, the talking dolls, now this unfounded paranoia—it's becoming increasingly clear that the isolation of this mansion is taking its toll on your sanity. 

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you shake off the lingering unease and embarrassment to focus on your duties. 

With a determined stride, you make your way back to the dining room, the memory of your brief bout of hysteria fading into the recesses of your mind. You push the wheelchair over to the table to retrieve one of the dolls, however, a glint of blue catches your eye.

A plaster - suddenly, inexplicably there, resting in front of the doll named Jongseong.

Your brow furrows in confusion, disbelief coursing through you. "How... was that there the whole time?" you mutter, disbelief colouring your tone as you glance between your injured finger and the God-sent plaster.

With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, you reach out to pick up the plaster, examining it closely as if searching for any sign of trickery. But it appears to be nothing more than an ordinary adhesive plaster.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," you mutter to yourself, unable to suppress a nervous chuckle. The rational part of your mind insists there must be a logical explanation for the plaster's sudden appearance, but logic seems to have taken a backseat in this peculiar mansion. 

Surely you would have noticed it on the table when you were serving the food…right?

Deciding to set aside your questions for the moment, you carefully retrieve the plaster and apply it to your injured finger, the soothing sensation providing a small measure of comfort.

As you finish tending to your wound, you cast a wary glance at the dolls, half-expecting them to spring to life and offer an explanation. But they remain as silent and motionless as ever, their enigmatic presence only adding to the mystery of this place.

With a resigned sigh, you focus once again on getting the dolls to their rooms. Maybe if they’re out of your sight, you’ll stop conjuring up these ridiculous notions that are swirling in your mind.

“C’mon Jaeyun, let’s get you to bed,” you say softly as you pick him up with a strong heave. The weight of him in your arms is a humbling realisation that you need to start going to the gym more because lifting a doll shouldn’t be this taxing.

Plonking him onto the wheelchair, you begin to make your way to his room. The corridors grow longer each time you make the journey to their respective bedrooms and with the house being the size that it is, transporting them is the equivalent of taking a quick nip to your big Tesco and back.

Finally reaching Jaeyun's room, you turn the ornate handle and push the wheelchair inside. The room is bathed in a soft, amber glow, casting a warm hue over the plush furnishings and intricate decor. With careful precision, you guide Jaeyun onto the bed, taking a moment to study his features up close.

The doll's face, once unsettling in its hyper-realistic detail, now holds a curious fascination. Despite the initial unease you felt in their presence, you can't help but admire the craftsmanship that went into their creation.

Jaeyun's eyes, a rich shade of brown, hold a mesmerising depth that seems to draw you in and they glimmer with an almost golden hue when touched by sunlight, adding a touch of ethereal beauty to his already captivating features. His lips, full and luscious and they evoke sense of envy into you, marvelling at their perfection. His nose, a graceful arc that sits harmoniously amidst his features, only adds to the beauty.

With gentle admiration, you touch his bottom lip with your thumb, amazed at its softness. If Jaeyun were a living, breathing being, you can't help but imagine how irresistible those lips would be, how you would find any excuse to steal a kiss. The feel of his lip beneath your thumb is uncannily real, its texture mirroring your own, and as you release it, it springs back into place as if alive.

Your eyes dart over his face, drinking him in as you fix his long, dark hair, “You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, the words leave your lips almost unintentionally, spoken in peaceful tones as if frightened to disrupt the calm tranquillity of the moment. 

“Thank you.”

Your entire body goes rigid as you hear the same words from the dining table, mirroring the exact accent you had heard before. The hand that had been gently brushing aside the stray strand of hair now drops to your side, your eyes fixed on Jaeyun's mouth as it forms into a bright smile.

As if gasping for air, you stare at him in disbelief, pointing a trembling finger in his direction. "Y-you just spoke!" you manage to exclaim, your words choked with bated breaths. Panic threatens to engulf you as you try to understsnd what is happening.

Your mind races, grasping for something, anything to hold onto as the world spins around you but there's nothing, and your body betrays you, collapsing to the ground in a desperate attempt to escape the surreal nightmare unfolding before you.

With wide, terrified eyes, you watch as Jaeyun moves slightly, preparing yourself for the inevitable scream that threatens to tear from your throat. But before you can utter a sound, he rushes towards you with a look of panic etched on his features.

Jaeyun's eyes are filled with concern as he gazes down at you, his hand covering your mouth to stifle any outcry. With a gentle yet urgent expression, he leans in closer, his lips forming almost silent words as he implores you to remain quiet, “Please. Shhh, I’m sorry!” he says with urgency, trying to stop you from bellowing out and causing alarm.

Your chest rises and falls with the rapid beat of your heart, your head suddenly feels faint and conflicting emotions wash over you. Fear, confusion, disbelief - all vie for dominance as you struggle to make sense of the impossible situation unfolding before you.

With wide, frightened eyes, you stare up at Jaeyun, searching his face for any sign of explanation or reassurance. But all you find is the same look of concern mirrored in his gaze, a silent plea for understanding.

“I promise, I’m not going to hurt you,” he utters, his body now relaxing as he feels your mouth close under his palm, “If I take my hand away, please don’t scream, okay?” 

His words are filled with panic, a frantic attempt to prevent more concern. When you look into his eyes, you can sense the sincerity in his plea, a glimpse of humanity you didn't think was possible.

For a moment, the world seems to stand still, the air thick with tension and uncertainty on both of your parts. But then, with a shaky breath, you nod in silent acquiescence, willing yourself to trust the doll before you. 

Jaeyun’s hand slowly withdraws from your mouth but is still armed in case you fall through on your promise to stay quiet. Once he's satisfied that you won't scream, Jaeyun rises to his feet, offering you a shaky hand. You accept, noting the slight tremor in his grip, evidence that he's just as affected by this inexplicable turn of events as you are.

Standing before him, you can't shake the feeling of disbelief that washes over you. None of this makes sense - talking dolls, moving on their own accord - it's all so implausible, so surreal. And yet, here you are, faced with the undeniable reality of Jaeyun's existence.

"What are you?" you ask tentatively, withdrawing your hand from his as you study him intently, searching for any clues to unravel the mystery.

Jaeyun tilts his head in confusion, his expression mirroring your own bewilderment. "I'm a doll, you know that," he replies matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but how are you moving? How are you speaking? Are you possessed? Alive? Am I dreaming this?" you barrage him with questions, your mind racing with a million possibilities, each more absurd than the last.

“I’m Sim Jaeyun, manufactured in 2002,” Jaeyun says as though it’s so obvious, which to his defence, it is - the stamp on his back that you’ve caught sight of while changing him is proof, "I'm the model made for Australia. G'day mate!" he adds, attempting to inject some levity into the conversation with an exaggerated Australian accent. But his efforts fall flat in the face of your mounting terror and confusion.

"I don't understand," you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty, "How is this possible?"

Jaeyun's expression softens, sympathy flickering in his eyes as he meets your gaze, "I wish I had all the answers," he admits, his voice gentle yet tinged with resignation, "But the truth is, even I don't fully understand what's happening to me. I ended up here one day. The others just tell me not to ask questions.”

As Jaeyun's words sink in, a surge of disbelief sweeps over you, threatening to overwhelm you in a sea of bewilderment and despair, "Others? You mean..."

"My brothers, the ones you've been looking after for Soonyeol," Jaeyun says, his voice calm.

The realisation hits you like a tonne of bricks: all four dolls, like Jaeyun, are somehow alive. You've spent the last two days living under the same roof as these living dolls, entirely oblivious of their true selves. The idea of it sends shivers down your spine, and a dreadful feeling rises in the pit of your stomach.

Every creak in the floorboards, every echo in the halls - you had chalked them up to the ageing mansion itself. But now, you realise that they were caused by these living dolls moving about, silently watching and listening to your every move.

You contemplate the idea that you're going insane because the stress and isolation of the mansion have finally taken their toll on your sanity. But deep down, you know that this is far too real to be a figment of your imagination.

Sensing your distress, Jaeyun guides you to sit beside him on the bed, his touch gentle yet strangely disconcerting. A doll is offering you comfort while your mind is in a whirlwind of emotions that threaten to overwhelm you. In what world is any of this normal?

His thumb strokes the back of your hand as you sit in silence. A small smile creeps on his face and a blush somehow paints itself on the apples of his cheeks as he remembers your earlier comments.

“You think I’m beautiful?” he asks gently, drawing you back into reality from the maze of your mind.

“What?”

"You said I was beautiful," he repeats, his tone gentle yet earnest, his eyes filled with a quiet joy. Jaeyun's smile widens slightly, his body shifting to fully face you.

As you finally meet his gaze, the weight of his words settles upon you, and you see just how much your earlier compliment meant to him. The twinkle in his eye reflects a depth of emotion that mirrors that of a human, his happiness evident in the way his features soften and his eyes light up with warmth. If he was beautiful before, he is otherworldly now.

“Yeah…you are,” you confess, now reciprocating his blush.

Jaeyun's hand gently cups your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine and you can't help but feel something blossom within you. His palm, slightly cool against your flushed skin, serves as a reminder of the surreal reality in which you find yourself.

Jaeyun's lips suddenly meet yours, enveloping you with his gentle kiss. Touching his lips earlier paled in comparison to the sensation of his soft, plump mouth moving against yours, and it sends a shiver of pleasure coursing through your veins; for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to be swept away by the intensity of the moment.

But as reality crashes back down upon you, the weight of what you're doing comes crashing down.

This is a doll, not a real person.

You push Jaeyun away and your mind suddenly clears, “What are you doing, Jaeyun?” you ask both perplexed by his actions and a little disgruntled by yours.

His wide eyes only serve to make you feel guilty, there’s a tinge of hurt in them along with confusion. His hand removes itself from your face, leaving your cheek cold and craving his touch again.

"Soonyeol says I should kiss when I want to show my appreciation," Jaeyun explains, his voice tinged with confusion and a defeated tone that tugs at your heartstrings. It's clear that he's not accustomed to being rejected like this, his owner obviously giving him what he wants.

Now that you think about it, Soonyeol must know they’re real, meaning she has relationships with these dolls. Granted, you figured that out when you were undressing them and saw they are anatomically correct, but now this is a whole new layer. She has formed connections with them that go beyond using the dolls for her pleasure. 

"Isn't it cheating?" you ask, locking eyes with Jaeyun, ignoring your swift realisation of the risk. Those beautiful brown eyes seem to draw you in, inviting you to forget all reason and succumb to the burning need between you.

He shakes his head slowly, a tinge of hesitation in his eyes as he chews his lip, "No. Soonyeol shares us, which means I can be shared. It's how it works," he says, his words laced with desperation as he tries to defend his actions. He knows Soonyeol won’t see it that way, but he needs you for his own selfish pleasure; he can’t wait two months until his minder comes back.

However, the rational half of your mind perks up one last time, refusing to be influenced by Jaeyun's words, forcing you to express the painfully evident reality that lies between you, "You're a doll, Jaeyun," you say, the words thick with reality.

However, as if feeling your wavering resolve, Jaeyun's demeanour changes, his puppy-like appearance giving way to one of mischief and longing. With a sudden boldness, he comes in closer, your noses touching as your breath hits his lips.

"I'm a doll with everything you need," he says seductively, sending shivers down your spine as his luscious lips brush against yours with each syllable. 

Your heart races as Jaeyun's proximity overwhelms your senses. Despite the nagging voice of reason in the back of your mind, you find yourself unable to resist the magnetic pull of his presence.

As Jaeyun leans in for another kiss, his persistence and gentle touch send a rush of heat coursing through your body. You find yourself melting into his embrace once more, unable to resist his lips on yours. His smile against your mouth fills you with something beautiful.

His hand finds your cheek, his touch tender yet possessive as he deepens the kiss, sending your senses reeling. The surreal sensation of his tongue, colder than any other person's you’ve had the pleasure to kiss, intertwining with yours only adds to the intensity of the moment.

But as the kiss grows more passionate, you feel Jaeyun's hands begin to roam, his touch becoming more urgent and insistent. The way he impatiently tugs at the hem of your t-shirt and his hips practically humping the air through desperation, heightens your own arousal.

You draw back, taking your shirt off, giving him what he wants. Jaeyun's eyes light up in delight at the sight before him, his gaze raking over your exposed skin with hunger. Without hesitation, his hand instinctively reaches out to touch you, his fingers grazing over the fabric of your bra as he seeks to explore every inch of your body.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, as he stares up at you. You understand why he’s so used to getting his way, that face of his could start wars if he asked. 

With a soft smile, your fingers continuing to thread through his hair with a gentle touch, "Nothing in comparison to you," you confess, your words spoken with genuine admiration.

Jaeyun's response is a soft whimper, his body trembling slightly under your touch as he leans into your caress. It's clear that he thrives on the affection and validation you offer him, cherishing every compliment and sweet gesture. He isn’t going to take control of this situation, he wants you to lead him, to make him feel like he is yours.

And he looks so fuckable right now.

Feeling emboldened by the rush of desire coursing through your veins, you seize the opportunity to take control of the situation. With a newfound confidence, you gently push Jaeyun back onto the bed, straddling him as you hover above.

His eyes widen in surprise, a mix of anticipation and excitement flickering in their depths as he watches you with rapt attention. With a playful glint in your eyes, you lean down to capture his lips in a searing kiss, your hands trailing down his chest and exploring every contour of his body.

Jaeyun responds eagerly, his hands roaming over your back as he returns your kiss with equal fervour. But as the heat between you intensifies, you can sense his longing for more, his desire for you palpable in every touch and caress.

You plaster on a mischievous smile and lean back slightly, teasingly tracing your fingers along the waistband of his pants. He hitches in anticipation, his eyes darkening with desire as he silently urges you to continue.

With deliberate slowness, you begin to unbutton his pants, savouring the feeling of power that courses through you with each movement. As the fabric falls away, you're met with the sight of his cock outline, his arousal evident in the way he strains against the confines of his underwear.

You lean down to press your lips against his neck, trailing soft kisses along his jawline as you whisper in his ear, "Do you want me to look after you, baby doll?"

He mewls out and nods quickly, knowing that is the only thing he needs right now. Your touch is different to Soonyeol’s, yours is filled with a new fire that you’re discovering, while Soonyeol’s is experienced and knows of Jaeyun’s wants and needs. He can’t deny that he feels even more alive than before right now.

Trailing one finger over his clothed cock, you apply pressure as you reach his tip, causing him to whine out. You aren’t typically in charge in the bedroom but you can’t deny how easy it is when Jaeyun is underneath you, silently begging for you to claim him.

You pull down his boxers, seeing his cock in a new light. Honestly, you tried not to stare at it too long when you changed him but you knew whatever Soonyeol had ordered, she ordered it with herself in mind. He was average-sized but curved to the right, meaning he could hit places some others couldn’t; even the thought made your mouth water.

There’s a desire to know how his cock is standing to attention considering there isn’t any blood in his body, but this whole situation defies logic so what’s one more question to add to the pile? All you can really think about is how good having him inside you will feel.

Grabbing his length, you begin to pump him gently, still trying to navigate how fragile he is and how far you can take this. He isn’t made of glass but you still need to be careful. 

His reaction is immediate, his jaw slackening as you pick up the pace, your movements becoming more assured. Jaeyun’s legs kick slightly as his body involuntarily moves under your touch, desperate for more than you’re offering him.

Sensing his need, you lean in and give his cock a teasing lick before spitting on it, slickening the surface to make your motions even smoother. His breath hitches at the sensation, a low groan escaping his lips as he arches into your touch, craving more of the pleasure you're giving him.

With a hunger that matches his own, you release him from your grip and lean down, taking him into your mouth with a slow, deliberate motion. His gasp fills the air as you envelop him, the wet heat of your mouth sending shivers down his spine.

"Y/N..." Jaeyun's voice is barely a whisper, filled with a mix of disbelief and pleasure.

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze with a smouldering intensity before returning your focus to the task at hand. With practiced skill, you move your lips and tongue in tandem, exploring every inch of him with a fervour that leaves him trembling. 

There is an urge to look after him, with each whine and whimper he screeches out in response to your tongue flicking over his tip, you want to cherish him as your own. You carefully watch his face to make sure he is enjoying himself which clearly he is, his eyes screwed shut and chest heaving despite the lack of air.

Pushing his length further into your mouth, you feel the tip of him hit the back of your throat, piercing your tonsils as they involuntarily try to swallow around him. You switch between bobbing your mouth and enveloping his whole cock down your throat, staying there for a moment as you nuzzle your nose against his lower abdomen.

His fingers thread through your hair, a silent plea for more as you continue to lavish attention on him, each suck and swirl of your tongue pushing him closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"Oh god, Y/N," he groans, his voice thick with need. "I-I can't... I'm gonna..."

Can he cum? Like physically, is your mouth about to be filled with doll cum? You’re going to find out eventually.

But who says he can get everything he wants just at the bat of an eyelid?

You pull back slightly, your lips glistening with saliva as you gaze up at him with a wicked grin. "Not yet," you tease, your voice husky from the beating your throat has just taken, "I want to hear you beg for it.”

His eyes widen with anticipation, a need burning in their depths as he watches you, “But Soonyeol always lets me cum,” he pouts, the edges of his mouth drooping down.

“I’m not Soonyeol though, am I?” you retort, your hand stroking him again, “I can stop completely if you want?” 

Jaeyun doesn’t like that idea, shaking his head manically and chanting ‘no’ as he looks at you with pleading eyes. His minder is kind, always giving him the pleasure he needs when he wants it, so this is new to him, yet, he can’t help but find some pleasure in the prolonging of his orgasm.

“Come on, baby doll, beg for it,” you murmur against his tip, looking up at him through hooded eyes as you tease the tip of his cock.

His breath catches in his throat at your words, his mind a haze of desire as he struggles to find his voice, "Please, Y/N," he gasps, his voice thick with need, "Please let me cum. I need it, I need you so bad."

The desperation in his voice and his tiny weeps send a shiver down your spine, and with a satisfied smirk, you relent, taking him fully into your mouth again. 

You aren’t like this in bed but he just manages to bring out this side of you and you can’t complain about it. 

As Jaeyun's fingers tangle in your hair, a shiver of anticipation courses through you, heightened by the primal instinct driving his actions. You feel the tension building in his body, his movements becoming more urgent as he approaches the brink of release.

With a final tug at your roots, he tightens, his balls drawing up as he releases into your mouth with a guttural groan of pleasure. His hips buck uncontrollably, driving himself deeper into your throat as he rides the waves of ecstasy coursing through him.

You surrender to the moment, allowing him to take control as he thrusts into your mouth, his movements are rough yet achingly intimate. Each sensation sends sparks of pleasure racing through you, mingling with the taste of him on your tongue as he spurts his essence. It’s not exactly cum, it doesn’t taste like it, but it’s filling your mouth up, some of it dripping out onto the bed below you.

And as he finally reaches the peak of his pleasure, his body trembling with the force of his release, you swallow him down, accepting him completely. You lap up the last few drops before giving a gentle kiss on his bell, smiling slightly as you relish in your work.

Jaeyun’s face exhibits one of pure bliss, his grin wide and his eyes closed. He looks so ethereal right now, your only wish is to cater to him. Soonyeol must have her hands full if she does this with all of them, no wonder she would need two months off.

Sitting up, his hands pull at your jeans, unbuttoning them with determination but you stop him, “Jaeyun, what are you doing?” you ask.

“I’m going to fuck you, is that not okay?” Jaeyun’s eyes have that spark in them just like before but more intense, like he’s bursting to the brim with happiness.

You can see the determination in Jaeyun's eyes, the fire of desire burning bright despite the recent climax. His eagerness to please you matches your own desire to cater to him, but you can't help but feel a twinge of apprehension.

"Are you not tired, Jaeyun?" you reply gently, placing a hand on his cheek to capture his attention, “I don't want to push you too far."

Jaeyun's expression softens at your words, his gaze meeting yours with unwavering sincerity, “I’m a doll, Y/N, I don’t get tired.”

Damn, maybe you should invest in one of these unalive-alive dolls with the £5,000 you’ll get from this job.

He sees your astonishment and laughs softly, his teeth on full display, “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re confused, Y/N,” his voice is back down to a whisper, his hand enclosing yours on his cheek as he nuzzles into it. Jaeyun knows how to use his charm to get what he wants but it’s significantly easier when the person he is trying to persuade wants it just as much as he does.

You find yourself nodding in agreement, unable to resist his enticement. With a shared understanding, you move in to capture his lips in yours, sealing the moment with a delicate kiss.

His hands go back to work, pulling at your jeans to take them off of your hot body. You help him out, pulling away from his mouth to undress yourself, leaving you both naked and wanting nothing more than to be entangled in one another.

“Wow,” he utters as his eyes trail your body from head to toe. His owner is beautiful but you have something about you that is sucking him in, the curve of your hips and the stretch marks on your thighs; you’re a vision he never wants to forget.

You turn scarlet as you see him staring at you, suddenly feeling less confident than before. But he quickly eases your mind as he licks his lips and pulls you into his lap, placing you to sit right on his cock, “I think you were wrong earlier,” he mutters into your shoulder as he places kisses along your chest.

“What do you mean?” Confusion lingers in your mind as you process his words, your fingers instinctively tangling in his hair as you look down at him with a mixture of surprise and affection.

“When you said you weren’t as beautiful compared to me. I think you’re so wrong,” he admits in a hushed tone, hands roaming along your waist and down to your thighs, feeling every inch of you.

Leaning down, you kiss him again except this time, you grind your hips, letting his cock slide between your folds and his tip brush against your clit teasingly. The action makes you both groan out in lust, wanting nothing more than to be tangled in one another. 

Jaeyun lightly slaps your ass to signal you to hover slightly, ready to dive into you. He hasn’t had sex with anyone other than Soonyeol so his eagerness is palpable, his mouth fighting a bright smile akin to a puppy.

Once you’re above him, he guides his cock to your hole and sharply pushes into you, causing you to fall forward onto his chest.

He enthusiastically bucks his hips up into you, ensuring that he is catering to every inch of your pleasure. Although he enjoys being looked after and cared for, he will always reciprocate; your enjoyment is as important to him as his own.

It's funny how different he is with you than with his owner; with you, he wants nothing more than to impress you, evident by the way he's focused on fucking into you, but with Soonyeol, he does whatever he wants to give her pleasure but there's no need to put in massive amounts of effort.

You feel his dick pressing deep into you, that curve that you noticed earlier is now doing wonders against your walls. Meeting his thrusts, you bounce on him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pick up your pace. 

The sound of your skin slapping against Jaeyun is like music to his ears, the smile he was trying to fight off now splitting his face, the joy of fucking you so obvious from his expression. He wants to do this forever.

Looking down, you see him lost in glee and lust as he continues to thrust up into you at a fast pace, his gaze down at where you’re pussy is sucking him in. Gently, you lift his face to look at you, his wide gleaming eyes now staring into yours.

“You’re doing so good, pup,” you assure him, kissing the tip of his nose. He feels his non-existant heart soar at your words, his face radiant with your praise. And you weren’t just saying it, he truly was sensational, probably the best you’ve had in a long time. 

Jaeyun takes your words of appraisal and uses them to fuck into you harder, his mouth now attached to your nipple and he sucks and licks at it like a man starved.

You can feel that familiar coil in your stomach that signifies you’re close to release. Snaking your hand down to your clit you begin to rub circles on it quickly, but as soon as Jaeyun notices, he nudges your hand away and takes care of it himself, rubbing and pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger.

Throwing your head back, your breathing stops momentarily as you push out your orgasm, your wetness coating your inner thighs and his cock as you cum harshly around him, “Jaeyun, fuck!” you cry, hands gripping any part of Jaeyun they can.

Jaeyun shudders as you clench around him, spilling himself into your heat along with you. He rubs his face desperately against your tits, relishing in the feeling of you against him. He has this aching need to be as close to you as possible.

Both of you are in complete and utter bliss as you hold one another, coming down from your highs.

As Jaeyun peppers open-mouthed kisses along your neck, he savours the sensation of your heartbeat, saddened slightly by his lack of. If he had one, he wished you could hear how loudly it was beating from pure satisfaction and tenderness.

"That was incredible, Y/N," he murmurs against the curve of your nape, his smile pressing warmly against your skin.

You tenderly kiss the top of his head and linger there for a moment, your fingers tracing light strokes along his back. But as the clock chimes once again, signalling the passage of time, reality intrudes upon your blissful moment.

"Fuck, I need to get the others to bed," you say regretfully, reluctantly withdrawing yourself from Jaeyun's embrace. The air feels colder now that night is settling in, and the absence of his touch leaves you longing for his warmth.

Jaeyun watches you with a mixture of understanding and longing as you get dressed, his gaze following your movements with a hint of reluctance, he wants you to stay beside him the way Soonyeol does, to look after him a little longer.

Before you part ways, Jaeyun reaches out to gently grasp your hand, "Y/N," he begins, his voice soft yet filled with urgency, "Please, don't tell the others. We aren’t supposed to tell you, and they already think I’m incapable of keeping a secret,” he says disheartened, the last sentence laced with vulnerability.

His plea catches you off guard, but you can see the sincerity in his eyes. Kneeling beside the bed, you take his hand into yours and kiss it softly, “I promise, I will not tell anyone, okay?” you reassure him, punctuating your sentiment with a smile, “This stays between us.”

It’s a promise not only to him but also to yourself. At the end of the day, no matter how good it was, you fucked a doll - an alive one, but still a doll. 

With a grateful smile, Jaeyun leans in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, a silent gesture of gratitude for your understanding, “Thank you, Y/N. This won’t be the last time, will it?” he asks tentatively, trying to seek out how you might feel about the entirety of the situation.

You weigh up the question in your mind. On one hand, you would have someone to talk to and indulge in, but on the other, it’s risky and if Soonyeol found out, you know there would be hell to pay.

“Let’s just see how it goes, pup,” you say vaguely, kissing his forehead one more time.

This mansion is filled with secrets that you need to uncover, and you have two months to do it.

taglist: @nshmrarki @kgneptun @ui11iane @addictedtohobi @parksunghoonsgf @chaewonshoney @chiiiiiiiiis @lilyuwon @rayofsunshineeee @moon7jay @erehkinnie30 @brownsugarbaybee @minniejenseo @woninluv @jaysluvs @fakeuwus @capri-cuntz @ash024 @who-tf-soddhi @bambangan @vousty @heeseungspookie @alvojake @yorukoshii @haechonly @riftanswhore @belowbun @emikotakayami @branchrkive @featjunranghae @thejjrl @nyxtwixx @sunghoonnsupremacy @nctislifue @itsnikitty @enhypenlovre

[alpaca-clouds]

Why all most vampires are depressed

A few days ago, there was a bit of a discussion on one of the Castlevania discord servers, because I said that Dracula was suicidal before Lisa came to the castle in the first place. The first reaction was: "Oh, with you all vampires are suicidal!" To which I could not help but reply: "Well, yeah. Kinda. At least very depressed."

Let me explain: Vampires still have a brain and a nervous system. As such it stands to reason that they can be traumatized. (As our beloved vampire spawn above so readily demonstrates in BG3.)

Now, most vampires are not Astarion, who gets turned and then literally tortured for 200 years. But in most worlds we see that have vampire characters (compared to vampires as mindless monsters) we still have at least some sort of conflicts happening between vampires and their sires. We also have a lot of conflicts happening between vampires and vampires and humans. Not to mention, that most vampires will have to kill at some point or another.

And here is the thing: Our nervous system tends to collect trauma. Even the small traumas. It is how you get CPTSD instead of just normal ass PTSD. And if you live hundreds of years, well, you get a lot more chances to experience small and medium traumas. It does not have to be this one big trauma (though the chances are obviously also bigger for that), it can just be a lot of small stuff collecting over time.

Almost all worlds we see with vampires, the vampire culture tends to be one that values strength shown through violence. We also see vampire culture being one of politics, where if not literal backstabbing, there is at least social backstabbing going on. Which both are things that would easily lead to trauma. And then there is just the fact that vampires drink from humans, and might kill some of them. And, well... Killing people usually also traumatizes the killer.

You get where I am going I hope.

And additionally to that there is the other part of being immortal: You gonna see most people you ever cared about die. Scratch that: You are gonna see your CULTURE DIE. The world is constantly changing. Cultures change. Some cultures die out. You are still around, but the world around you is no longer the world you grew up in. That, too, is traumatizing.

This is also something I think will still be addressed in Olrox in future seasons of Castlevania: Nocturne. Because he saw his culture being killed. Yeah, the man is traumatized, what do you think?

So, yeah. When I write vampires, they usually are traumatized, depressed, and not rarely have some suicidal ideations. Because I feel it is only realistic. You just cannot live that long and not be traumatized af.

And, yeah. Just look at Dracula in Castlevania. Do you think a person, who started out in a mentally good place, goes from "my wife is dead" to "yeah, kill all humans, before all the vampires (including myself) will starve to death"?

But also... It makes for interesting stories. Because there is just a powerful statement behind a character going from "I am sad, the world is hurting me" to "I want to live".

Which is why I just love Astarion's story so much. That boy deserves to have a nice life now. To heal. And find stuff he likes doing.

It is also why I love writing my version of Striga the way I do. Because she is traumatized as fuck, but she also decided that if she gives into it, the people who have hurt her, would have won. So, instead she lives and finds the good things in her life, and she helps others.

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Never Loved

One more Blood of My Blood cinderblock for you @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush. Put on your most dramatic breakup song playlist.

Summary: Castle Dracula is abandoned. By son, by subjects, by its Master. The latter finds himself dwelling in the dirt and dark as he waits to strike the English shore once again. Thinking on traitors and thieves. And on his dear friend, who makes him bleed still into the grave earth.

Warnings for: Violence, coercion with and without hypnotism, and domestic abuse.

He woke with a draining ache behind his eyes. A worse one in his chest.

The surprise had gone out of this nights ago. Anger rushed over the sensation like a balm. More, he rushed toward anger. Spurred it, stretched it, wrapped it around himself like a gossamer membrane. It would thicken as the night wore on and his mind roamed its new gamut of bile and rage, snapping at itself until the sky overhead should have roiled in time with his internal tempest. But no. Only favorable winds here. Not that such winds were wholly necessary now. He and his grave earth rode a ship without sails. How fast the mortal mites and their innovations worked in this age.

Jonathan had spoken of traveling by one. An idle comment in their talks of England. One of many. The travel, the choice of estate, the precautions needed to counter the possibility of a second attempt to thwart the setting down of roots. Always in that measured way. Always with the mien of one laying out itinerary rather than laying the foundations of an invasion. Always looking his Master in the eye. Always with that sad grey shade in his pallor, the face of a man who hates his work and knows the alternative is worse.

Poor villain against his will. Poor martyr. Poor Jonathan.

Thunder grumbled high overhead. He heard voices through his box, warm bodies exclaiming and jumping. One of them was close. There was a spiced whiff of cigar smoke. A cheap odor.

Not like the ones you gave him. He dropped so many vices after the boy was born. Smoke and drink vanished from his lips overnight. Just in case they might have tainted him somehow. Spoiled the blood. You told him it was nonsense. Even she did. But he would not have it. Not until this year. He used his allowance for one single box of cigars; cheap, like the ones he’d had back in his shriveled nothing-life in Exeter. You caught him at it in January. Within the month he found the little box gone, replaced by a pack of Romeo y Julietas. One, maybe two a month since then. And what did he say when you asked him why? Why return to the habit now?

“Almost time,” he’d said. That’s all. “Almost time.”

He had pressed Jonathan on it. Oh, gently, gently. Barely a nudge of the mesmer; because he’d thought he already knew.

Jonathan had looked at him through the coiling smoke with those dead starlit eyes. The same glowing shade of the ghost-light on St. George’s Eve. And he had simply raised his hand to his chest, rubbing the place over his heart as if there were still a crucifix to wear there. Worry and sorrow had rolled off him like cologne.

“I may as well, Sir. I think I am saying good-bye to it this year. In whatever way.”

And oh! Oh, what an idiot child he had been in that instant! Later that night he had laughed aloud at himself. He had actually felt a pang of fear. Had even strained his ears to be sure of his friend’s heartbeat. It had drummed steadily enough, he thought. Mostly. Steady, but thin. Always thin, for the tide of his blood was necessarily fickle by his exsanguinations, but…

But you did not know for certain if there was some threshold near to being crossed. You’d never had a case like Jonathan Harker before you. Not even to experiment with. Why bother? You never thought in terms of keeping a single body as your reservoir when you were content to either starve or glut yourself at random. No one like Jonathan existed to you until he offered himself up as the living meal to you and two other hungry mouths for twenty years. And, childish thought, you’d wondered if he could do thirty. Longer. However long the charade could last before the inevitable came and you bled yourself back into him, feeding him from your heart’s blood to end the game of humanity and lock him in your thrall. And then, finally, you would get to see him drink. Master’s orders, my friend. Gorge yourself.

But that presupposed there would be no issue come the time of turning.

That this state, the ghoulish and gauntly haunting form that existed on the line between life and death, was not itself a spoiling factor in the process. Would the rules change if he died as this creature? Would he rise at all? If he did, would he be a Vampire or something else? Something still beholden to his Master only because he was chained by love and not the unshakable tether of being sired into undeath?

He did not know.

Having acknowledged that he did not know, he had almost ripped the cigar from his friend’s mouth so that he might force the man to drink from his veins that second.

Jonathan had seemed to read this in him. He tapped his ash into the tray with something very nearly like a smile.

“No, Sir. Not now. There is every chance I could be wrong. Perhaps it’s age alone whispering to me. Many men start to dwell on these things once they reach the 40-year mark. So I was always led to assume. For myself, I remain shocked that I have lived this long in the first place. I only feel as if there is now a clock ticking somewhere in all this. That it will end before the year is out because…”

He had paused to puff and shrug.

“…because it must end. Either because this state is finally preparing to collapse or because, with three adults to feed, I have begun to deplete too much to sustain the meals and myself.”

It was true. The boy was now a boy only in feeling. Somehow the calendars had piled up and the child was now a young man. Careful with his Papa—and no, even now he did not envy the boy learning his Lesson from his mother the night his adolescent hunger had slipped too far and left the man as pallid as his hair—but still taking more than he ever had in his boyhood. He and his mother had agreed in silence to feed a little less, alternating on their meals each feeding. Even he had stopped short of a full draught more than once. And it was not enough.

Still, Jonathan had been unperturbed. His Master had thought little of that calm. Time had not broken so much as smoothed him. An unfinished stone sanded and shined by a waterfall’s endless pressure until what had been his nightmare was reduced to mundanity. Ah, he woke to the New Year feeling that death was imminent? Hmm. A shame. May as well enjoy a smoke first.

Months passed since that scene. Though his blood did not change, his mien did. Each turn of the calendar’s pages brought some unknown weight down heavier and heavier on him. Distraction drew his attention away, his ghost-light eyes blazed like warning flares in the dark sockets, he lost himself for minutes or hours at a time at the desk, and once, in the far end of March, his Master had caught him weeping silently while eating. A tear would roll every few bites. Savoring and saying farewell at once.

Whether this unknown mortal clock really was ticking or not, his friend believed in it. Felt it was real enough to say his good-byes to human sensation. Such a fuss, his Master had thought. Tried to think.

You did try. Truly, painfully, you tried to make yourself laugh. Jeer. Hold to certainty and joy at the approaching finality. Humanity shed to give your friend his stalled eternity. Still, you caught yourself worrying. Wondering. What if something went wrong? What if something was wrong already? What if, ha, he was making plans to short you at the last? What if he had made plans with some conspirator in the towns to pierce his heart and take his head? What if the turning somehow did not take at all? What if, what if, what if?

What if indeed. You fretted so much over those months, old devil. You worried about every little thing that might go wrong before you made your move. Before you ended the game and took your prize and burned the nuisance of mortality on the pyre it deserved two decades ago. 

The prize you never thought was waiting at the end of someone else’s long game.

He made a noise into the soil. A coughing bark of a laugh. Out in the cargo hold, the smoker stirred.

“Hello? You down here, Mikhail?” He leaked himself out of the box. Fog to flesh. The smoker squinted in the half-gloom, coming closer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he echoed. The smoker swung around to face him. There was not much to face, as he stood still in shadow. He watched the man’s brow furrow. Trying to squint his way toward recognition.

“Who are you? One of Arnold’s new boys?”

“No,” he answered, stepping into the glow of the man’s lighter. The squint turned to a gawking mask of horror bordering on disgust.

“Jesus,” came out in a gasp that reeked of cheap smoke. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Trouble at home,” he admitted with a flash of teeth. Within a blink, he was tearing into the man’s throat. He inhaled blood and cigar fumes until he was iron-grey, until he was at his prime, until he was a youth. Hating the taste with every gulp. Unable to glut himself further, he sighed and twisted the man’s head off. The heart he tore out with more relish than he preferred to admit. He crushed all three pieces of the body as if crumpling paper and did not rise to the deck until he sensed it was unoccupied. Up he went, tossing the balled up remains into the waves. “My thanks,” he whispered after it.

The corpse had provided him with something like a lackluster disguise. A jacket to match the rest of the seafarers.’ He hoped the sight of it might let him go unbothered on deck. Though it was an easier thing to simply slip back down to the cargo’s shade, he wanted the openness of the night and the sympathetic frown of the moon peeking through the clearing clouds. He looked up to it now the way a drunken man sulked up to his barman. A barman who had waned a few phases since he was last seen.

The moon had been so full the last time he saw Jonathan. Rather, times.

Once while alive. The other…

“Which one are you, then?” Swallowing a curse, he slid his gaze to his right. A man with a flask stood there, pausing mid-sip to scrutinize him. His lip curled as he gestured with the liquor. “Who said you could have hair like that and work a vessel, eh?” He did not pause for an answer before shaking his head and taking a full drink. “Arnold’s getting sloppy if he’s hiring from…from…” A cloud of hazy concentration came and went on the ruddy face. “What? The Nordics? The Slavs? One of those lots with hair to their knees.”

He did not answer. Only looked again to the moon. He imagined the wedge of it gazed back at him with apology. The man blundered forward a step, reaching to take him by the shoulder.

“I’m talking to you, boy—,” A callused hand passed through his shoulder like mist. For it was. The flask made a tinny sloshing sound as it struck the deck. “Oh.” It was a small sound. The frightened moan of a child in a rancid dream. Feeling the moment warranted it, he turned his young man’s head to fully face the man. Letting him see the maimed display of the left eye. The dried maroon crust that streaked his cheeks. The man made another noise, even reedier. “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Arnold never said anyone died on this one. It’s too new, he said.” His throat worked like a thin tangle of pulleys. Bloodshot eyes bulged. “The Persephone’s only been on the water three years and no one’s ever…”

“Newness is no guarantee against death any more than age is a guarantee against foolishness,” he grated out.

“Right. Right, of course, apologies. I’ll just—I’ll just—,” the man didn’t seem to know what he’d ‘just’ for several tediously agonized seconds. But, between the drink and the rarity of the moment—How often did one cross paths with a spirit, after all?—his feet remained anchored. Then, “…How did you die?”

Of idiocy. Here and now. Requiescat in pace.

“I was betrayed. Over a woman.” Sour needles pricked along his throat. “Over a child. The years made me blind. Soft. Comfortable. So certain that all was in order, that I held everything in my hands. But I lived among thieves without knowing it. I woke one night to find all that was mine was gone, stolen, and the one I had handed my heart threw it away as though it were the sole piece of filth that could not be bothered with. And then…” He gestured to the mark upon his face. His eye now a ball of blazing arterial red set in a spray of wild scarring from the lightning bolt. Even after a deep meal, he felt that the damage had scarcely receded. Had he not twisted in time, the blast would have struck him square through his skull.

The wretched woman had fine aim.

And that’s not all she has, is it?

“Sorry to hear it, son,” came from his right. The man had retrieved his flask again. It winked like tarnished silver in the moonlight. Though his face showed a bleary bafflement as to what exactly the manner of death could have been, he went on, “And here I figured the worst that could happen to a man at sea was drowning.”

“Terrible ends can happen anywhere. But if it saves you worry, I will not remain on this ship forever. I will disappear once it docks in England.”

“Reckon you’re off to haunt the bastard who did this to you?”

“Not yet. First I must go to my son, who they sent away all oblivious to their work. Then,” his hand drifted of its own accord to his chest, dipping under the hanging coat to feel at the lump in a high pocket. It sat cold and out of place there, like an elaborate little tumor. Touching it brought back the pain to his chest and eyes. “Then I shall see to the traitors.”

“Cannot say I envy them.” Another sip, nearing the bottom.

“Few would. They thought me a monster to slay together. But they have yet to meet the worst of me. For they grew comfortable too, seeing me docile, hospitable, giving them my home and my love and a thousand allowances that no other in my life has ever wrung from me. Yes, I will haunt them. I will hunt them. And I will deliver to them a recompense so much worse than death.” The man was trying again to drink from his flask and finding himself thwarted. “Empty?”

“Afraid so. Do you ever miss that, being dead? Getting to drink?”

“No. I still drink. But I am full for the evening.” He bared his teeth in a gleaming crescent. Some of the man’s crewmate still stained his fangs. He watched the man’s face abruptly lose all its tint. “I am glad you got to enjoy your own. It is a rarity not to face this part sober.”

So saying, he plunged his hand into the man’s chest. He twisted out the heart with the ease of one plucking a ripe apple from its bough. The man croaked out only a small noise at this. Nothing more than a damp little bleat, smothered by the steady roll of the waves. He was still gawking at his heart in one clawed hand while the other snared him and hurled him overboard. The sound of the splash was nothing. Sighing, he shrugged off the apparently useless jacket and cradled the heart in it to prevent a drip. Back to the cargo hold it was. Down to the dark and the dirt and—

He left it waiting for you. Even in the midst of all the confusion, the haste needed to get out, to be gone, he made sure to leave it right there in the sow’s coffin.

The cold lump shifted in its pocket.

He bit down a curse as his eyes stung, burned, boiled.

A roost was made in the furthest corner of the hold. The heart sat in his hands. Huge and dense with old smoke and liquor and fatty seaside meals. He’d lied to Jonathan before, about how certain consumed vices changed the blood’s quality. There was no alteration in what it fed, but the taste shifted. Between the crewmate he’d siphoned and the swollen muscle in his fingers, he realized he was indulging in the nearest thing he had to slovenly eating after a hard day. He took an experimental taste of a ventricle.

Immediately acrid. A rich and awful tang that ran to the back of his throat.

Nothing like the spigot that had flowed for him like careful clockwork for two decades. So meticulously tended by diet, by caution, by the vessel it sprang from. Twenty years of ambrosia meted out in scheduled mouthfuls and the occasional drop snuck between meals, as was his right.

“No, my friend, not the wrist. The boy would know someone was taking extra. And from his own plate! So to speak. Undo your collar, you know she will not complain…”

And Jonathan had. The brilliant eyes sliding away from his Master as he stole one, two, three, four or more little tastes from neck and shoulder, collarbone and breast. A single sip from each bite. He had not even winced. Not until Jonathan’s Master brought his mouth up to his face. Printing the blood there like a girl with her kiss’ lacquer. It had taken his Master’s hand around his jaw to make Jonathan turn and face the second one, pressed into his own lips. Eyes shut against the threat of a trance, mind fluttering frantically out and away.

He had let him then, back in those early nights. Always so shy, his Jonathan. Even after the whirlwind of that long-ago summer, the thresholds crossed and barriers erased for the sake of playing his Scheherazade, still he quailed from the gentler edges of his better. Hiding up in his head or in his Master’s teeth or under the flimsy shelter of his duties whether they were self-assigned or not. Anything to not accept what lurked and grew under the veneer of mere surrender to an enemy.

Had that too been a trick? Laying bait the way his Master had once drawn the hunting dogs back to his genius loci with the woman already tainted?

A Wolf did not chase if the prey did not run. And he did love to chase. To play. Up to a point. He had tried more than once to smother the overgrowing feeling in him as the years marched and his friend continued to drop his eyes and tense away from tenderness. When that failed, he told himself it did not matter. He owned his friend through the woman and their son, and whatever performance he sought—the rent owed to many a charitable landlord, really—could be ordered from him.

And he had ordered it.

In specific, he had, on a particularly maudlin night, ordered his friend to kiss him as he would her. He would know the difference. He’d leeched through her senses on occasion when they were, quote, ‘alone’ together. Sometimes he thought Jonathan even saw him staring out of her eyes. Or else the woman simply gave him away by some private sign or other. Whatever the case, Jonathan had never once withheld his love with her.

So, the order. Out of curiosity. Out of boredom. An order given without even a trance to smooth the act, just to see how he would muscle past the walls of indignity and a lover’s loyalty as he had back when he thought he had been charming for his life in their supple sabbatical once upon a time.

Instead, a magic trick.

Between one blink and the next, Jonathan had been the self he reserved for the woman. Even the smile kept for her had been there. A necessary prelude to the hands that bookended his Master’s face and pulled him level. Just like that, there were their mouths together. Not the press of a patient doll’s lips as its owner mashed themselves there in pantomime of intimacy. If he had not known better—

But Jonathan made sure he did. As soon as the kiss elapsed, he’d receded into himself. Less a tortoise into his shell than a closing fist praying not to be pried open lest the treasure in it be snatched away again.

“Was there anything else, Sir?” asked in the rug’s direction. Shame and a miserable whiff of apology yet-to-be had stamped him. He would throw himself into making amends to the woman, of course. Whether or not he wounded her with tattling on this little service, he would meet her with whatever kindnesses he could muster that were not already given. It was one of many moments in which he was convinced that his friend would give of himself until he was down to bones and then try with his last breath to gift someone his ribs. “Sir? Am I dismissed?”

He was not. All at once, his Master had a list of tasks for him to perform over the course of days. Weeks. Months. A year and more. And was that not where the mistake of it all had begun? The willing leap at addiction? Commanding his friend, his immaculate actor, his Scheherazade, into a hundred little indulgences. And not just in matters of sampling each other. Sometimes he would wring whole nights out of the man, without even the boy to perform for, trapping him by the fire or in a moonlit room or down in that half-secret glade by the stream where they played hunter and hunted and hid together from the walls of domesticity, spurring his friend into the easy and smiling talk of companions, of intimates, of…

Go on, old devil. You can admit it. Why not? What point is there in pretending he did not perform so well as to leave you reduced to this?

Fine.

Talk of those in love.

Yes, he had used the exact word. More than once.

Do this, do that, do any and all these things as if you loved me. Just as you do her.

And Jonathan had. Always with the bracing misery before and the shuddering withdrawal after. But he served his Master’s wants. He did so with such an ease that his Master had invented half the trap himself; he had convinced himself somewhere that he was giving his friend permission to do what he truly wished to do, freed from the yoke of duty and fealty to the woman, to his morals, to his sanity. Yes, that was it. He was giving his friend release. Lifting away the leaden weight of his beloved martyrdom and letting him know, yes, it was alright, he could want something other than what was ‘right’ or ‘good.’ What had such scruples brought him besides pain? God and humanity no longer had a place for him or his family or his love; that bottomless fount that had more to give than his veins ever would.

Here, my friend, I will take it. I will catch it all as it spills. Love me. Love and be happy. It’s alright.

The cold lump in his pocket felt heavy and frigid as a glacier on his chest. Scrubbing his hand clean on the jacket, he fished the hateful treasure out of its home and glared at it in his fingers.

A brooch the size of a dove’s egg. Antique gold ringing a garnet of such brilliance it might have been frozen claret. Splitting it was an ornate dragon, rampant, seeming to cling to the stone like the mythic hoards of legend. One of few mementos kept in his bedchamber from mortal days and nascent immortal nights that had gone sour in recalling their joy. He had taken it from its hiding place of velvet, shined it until it glowed, and, at the end of another race through their wilds, another capture, another victory drunk from the won throat…

“You have been here five years. Yet still I get word that you are not always recognized as being in my service.” This was fractionally true. At least in the sense that he knew there was a certain level of laxness that existed between Jonathan and a handful of those he did business with in the towns. Little mistakes or a dragging of feet on assorted exchanges and services that his friend would try to paper over with excuses on their behalf.

Once, only once, he had even tried to get away with hiding a newcomer’s attempt to swindle him outright. He had only seen a tourist of means with an Englishman’s lilt and tried to rob him over a new toy for the child and a novel for the woman. Jonathan had not pushed back, only gutted his allowance while the seller’s neighbors threw their shocked and silent looks. Perhaps that would have been the end of it but for Jonathan idly mentioning the encounter to the woman as they shared his bed post-feeding, thinking little of it. His Master, listening through her, had thought otherwise. Enough to find and inform the seller of his misstep personally. The next time Jonathan went to town he came back somewhat shamefaced with a burden of extra wares given ‘as a courtesy.’ The peasants were careful to point him out to new citizens ever-after.

All this in mind, Jonathan had looked at him oddly over the excuse.

“If that is the case, it has not hindered me in any way. The people have been nothing but gracious when I come through.” Gracious and afraid, he knew not to say. His Master had shooed the words away like flies.

“You remain ever lenient, my friend. You would apologize to the wheels of a carriage as they ran you over. It is for your own good that you must wear this, lest you and your goodwill are trampled by the opportunists among the chattel.” Out had come the brooch. “You will have this visible at all times. Be it to clasp on your coat or wear at your throat. Do you understand?”

“Yes, S—,” A look was caught. No, no. He knew the rule out here. Away from mother and child. “Yes, balaurul meu, I understand.”

Not well enough, of course. Not even when he was made to sit still, his chin up so that his Master could pin the thing in place. No, he had not understood then. Not until the next night when he took his place in bed for the family meal. There he had sat, undoing his shirt collar—with the brooch nowhere in sight. Not before the feeding. Not after he buttoned himself up with strengthless fingers. Not even on his nightstand.

The boy and the woman had looked up with curiosity and ire respectively when Father hadn’t taken his usual leave for the saccharine post-bleeding period with Papa. Papa himself had looked concerned and lost. No one had made a mistake, had they?

“Father? Did you want to stay too?” from the boy. A thread of worry in his voice, as was natural whenever Father deviated from his routine, but far more of eagerness. Father so rarely lingered overlong with the entire family in the room. And, he would admit it, it stung to deflate the child’s hope.

“I am staying,” he’d said, “But you and your mother must go for a time. There is something important I must speak with Papa about.” There had been some bristling at that. But he had yanked the woman’s leash and the woman had taken the boy away by the hand, thinking soft assurances and lies at him until they were out of the tower. Jonathan, dear oblivious Jonathan, had peered at him with genuine confusion.

“What is it? Has something happen—,”

His Master had flung the full weight of the trance into him like a boulder. A boulder that became a crushing fist around the flailing mote that was Jonathan’s ostensibly free will. Having hold of it, he wrenched his friend up to his feet and prodded sharply at his mind until he turned to where he’d stored the brooch. There, the wardrobe. Go. Fetch.

Jonathan had managed two steps before the weakness of his emptied veins dropped him to hands and knees. He crawled the rest of the way. Staggered back upright. Worked the doors open and shuffled with trembling hands through the hanging clothes. Here was the coat. There, fastened at the chest, was the brooch. He fumbled at it with twice the difficulty of fastening his shirt. So much so that it pricked his thumb bloody and slipped through his fingers. He made a small despairing sound before falling back down on his knees, searching in the shadows and shoes for it. When his hand finally closed on it, his Master tugged again at his mind, ordering him back the way he’d come. Across the floor, up into the bed. Holding the brooch.

His Master tugged again. Jonathan held the brooch out on his palm. The one now striped and smeared from the bleeding thumb.

“What did I tell you to do with that, Jonathan Harker?”

“To—to wear it in town—,”

“No.” He’d paused to watch Jonathan’s face. The shift of expression that sketched such a perfect epitome of dread, especially in a bloodless face. “I said, You will have this visible at all times. And where was it instead? Thrown away, out of sight, out of mind. Is it not so?”

“N-No. No, I did not mean to—,”

“Must I make it simpler for you? The boy still has the collar he never bequeathed to the trapped wolf. I am certain it would fit you. The emblem would never be misplaced again.”

“Sir—,”

“Do you think I gave it to you as a whim? Another token to cast aside, to ignore like all the rest you are showered with all unconscious to, stewing in your precious stringency, self-deprived as a monk?”

“Please, I swear, I only thought—,”

“What? What did you think? Do tell.”

“I thought,” his voice caught and rasped, trying not to be a cough. “I thought it was meant for strangers. As something official, part of a uniform. I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t know it was…” But here the words dried and his face showed again that crumpled confusion. The pain of a kicked dog unsure of what mistake he’d made, only knowing he had erred. Jonathan’s eyes had found his Master’s, as much plea as fear.

What? the look begged. What is this? What did I do wrong? I cannot act without my lines.

There was no questioning of his Master’s anger. Such storms were known to pass and one could only brace and weather them. This was all he knew.

But you knew better, didn’t you, old devil? It took you a moment to catch up to yourself. To truly admit it to your own mind, even knowing from what happy old era’s dust you fetched the thing from. You made no ceremony of it. You buried the giving of it in a disguise. But the meaning was there even as you fastened it to him without fanfare, without warning. All you did was stitch an importance to the ornament that was invisible to him. And look where it led.

Jonathan hadn’t blood enough in him to hold rigid as he usually did before his Master’s moods. He shuddered even as he fought to be still. Afraid. Cold. Eyes of pale blue glass pinned to his Master, searching desperately for a reason to it all, for the thing he must make amends for.

Still with his hand outstretched. The brooch in a bloodied palm.

Just as it is now. Here in the brine-scented shadows. It looked more precious in his.

It had.

Jonathan had kept the hand out even as his Master joined him on the bed. As his Master plucked the brooch up, tasting it clean of the red stain, then kissing away the same from the bleeding thumb. As his Master gently tilted the quivering chin up and fastened the emblem in its proper place. As his Master did not move except to close the last of the gap between them, stroking the white curtain of hair from his brow.

“I am sorry, draga mea. You did not know because I did not explain. It is too easy to forget you are the only one here who does not go walking into others’ minds. So often you fool us all into believing otherwise.” The stroking hand traveled down to trace Jonathan’s jaw. No longer shaking. Not as badly, anyway. “You did not recognize that it had a mate, did you?” Jonathan turned his head an inch, frowning. His Master tilted up his own chin. For a moment, more confusion. Then realization.

The stone worn at his Master’s throat had no beast stretched across the stone. His was a coil that encircled it entirely, an ouroboros of a dragon.

“I know that rings are the tradition. But you are a creature of loyalty and I did not wish to test my Harkers’ ire in demanding you remove the gold band for something of mine, be it a signet or a stone. This is as close as we can come the way we are. At least until the night of consummation. Baptism. Whatever you prefer.” He trapped Jonathan’s eyes with his. “When that time comes, we can talk of more classic rites, insofar as our arrangement allows for such things.”

Jonathan had nodded at this. Perhaps tried to speak. A ‘yes, Sir’ seemed to snag on his tongue. The shock was too much to work around on his own, so his Master hoisted him over it with a final hook of the mesmer and gave him words to say:

“Of course, balaurul meu. I look forward to it.” His mouth had snapped shut around the last word, pallid eyes huge and almost teetering in their sockets. He was shaking again. Ah, it was too much as he was, poor thing. His Master had left him swaddled in another blanket, asking if he was prepared to see mother and child now. Jonathan could only nod, his hand rising and falling away from the space before the brooch. As though he feared the thing would bite him.

Good.

Good enough, you reasoned. He would grow into it. He would accept it. He had accepted it already. Enough that you had to deal with a particularly entertaining round of aftermath from the woman’s mind. For all her collaring of herself when she had to grovel for something—and was her own peasant’s past not fine training there?—the Vampire of her could not be smothered when it came to theft. Not even sharing! This, when you could have ordered the ring off him. Could have had him write up divorce papers for the dead, if only as a prop to hang in the office. But then the boy would have questions. Perhaps even tears. Was Papa not allowed to love more than one parent? It would not do. To think you offered to let her be Maid of Honor.

Amusing fireworks had ensued.

They had cooled, he thought, as the years continued to stack. On and on until the end of their second decade made its way to them. Jonathan never misplaced the brooch again. The woman appeared resigned to joint custody of both her Loves in her sullen way. And the boy, his little diavol, barred from full knowledge and unhappiness, had grown to manhood under their care.

A fine excuse the latter had made.

He thought back to it now. That last scene with the grey and ghastly shape of his friend in his surreal mortality. Another cigar lit, the smoke curling out the library’s window. What a strange image he’d made. He had looked like…

A month or so ago he had found his friend thumbing through an American magazine of all things. Some publication or other that had made its way across the Atlantic and the Channel to join its English siblings. It had been one of his few vices over those latter years, catching up on the newsworthy pulses that beat outside their mountains. The American one had shown an advertisement at the back. A rather charming illustration of a man in what had to be a modern eveningwear suit. Arrow Collar and Shirts for Every Occasion the image declared.

Jonathan had seemed to be a macabre translation of the man posed in the picture.

Seeing this, an abrupt needle of mourning had pierced his heart. Twenty years of feeding had made his friend into this wasting enigma. Twenty years of allowing the arrangement to unspool on and on without end, simply for the fact of Jonathan continuing to breathe and bleed unimpeded, as if his will alone were enough to hold his half-life existence together. Twenty years of letting his friend’s incessant need to give of himself down to the marrow get in the way of sense. Of what was right. Of what was long past due.

How did you allow this? How did you agree to let this carry on so long? Look at him, look at the calendar. So many years lost in which he could have already been what he was meant to be. Why? For your agreement? For the charade of the bitter conqueror taking his consolation trophy? It made sense at the start, perhaps. Those early years of gloating. It was your due. But once the sting was gone, once it became clear what he was to you under the vitriol of old, what excuse was there to drag this on, to make a living ghost of him? What excuse is there now? Look at him, old devil. Look at him and think of what he could have been, should have been, for the last quarter of a century.

And he had. He’d stood in the doorway, staring, overlaying the haggard reality with what should have been. Here was Jonathan Harker, forever young, the flesh back on his bones, his eyes free of shadows and crimson as an opened throat. Jonathan Harker, still and strong, a beautiful killing thing like a spider waiting in its silk.

Instead, he was this. A ghoul waiting to find out the when and how of his death before the year concluded, seeming far deader than the thirsty revenants he called his family. The unfairness of it wrenched in his Master’s chest. Worse still was the hindsight of its pointlessness. As if this arrangement of the household had done anything but ruin his friend and cripple their son against the reality of the wider world waiting for them. He had even felt a twitch of pity for the woman, if briefly. She had lost her Love to the needs of their hunger and their Master’s whim, watching every year as that Love was shriveled and shifted into a wretched grotesquerie of what he ought to be. Her prized possession spoiled by mishandling and a refusal to simply tear their Jonathan free of his scruples and do what needed doing.

“Was there something you needed, Sir?” Jonathan had asked without turning. His eyes were on the moon. Full as a pearl.

“There was. Is.” His friend did not jump upon seeing him abruptly at his side. Nor did he turn his head. “You are almost replenished.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am.” A tap of ash. Still not taking his attention from the sky. “Did you wish to steal a drink ahead?”

“It is not stealing. Only taking what’s owed.” There was a soft sound of fabric pulling away. Jonathan had turned and froze. His Master had removed his own clasp and the cravat under it. Vest and shirt hung open. The skin above his heart was already cut open. “And giving what is long overdue.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary. Not already.”

“When, then? How much longer will you reduce yourself like this? They are beginning to go hungry even with your sacrifice, my friend. Mother and child both. But he is not a child anymore, is he? He is grown. He must feed as such. Yet he tries to feed only as a boy, just as his mother feeds in her little halved tastings. Even I have taken less than my share. All to bow to your craving for self-destruction. No more of it.”

“This seems somewhat—,” Jonathan first tried to sidle away from the sill, only to have himself caged back against the stonework by his Master’s arms, “—abrupt.”

“You have until you finish the cigar.”

“Case in point.” Another drag was taken, neither rushed nor prolonged. Jonathan blew his stream of smoke out into the breeze. Then, “Was that why you had so many of these on hand before? The food and drink and assorted sensory comforts?”

“Before?” Jonathan looked at him. Waiting for him to—, “Ah. Then. No, not precisely. There was an act to perform. Had it been Peter Hawkins there in your place, he would have had the same to consume before his…dismissal.”

“That’s what I mean. You were always planning to either ‘dismiss’ or ‘retain’ your solicitor of choice. You went out of your way to provide the equivalent cuisine and indulgences of a noble’s home, even when the reality of things had set in. I might have had, say, a week’s worth of fine dining and then bread and water from then on. But you kept at the kitchen regardless. Why was that?”

“To drop the quality would be to ruin the masquerade,” his Master said, wondering at the turned subject. Knowing not to be swayed. “Had you proven to be a lowly churl not worth my time beyond the completing of paperwork, you would not have eaten at all. The wolves would have had your bones for toys in the same week.”

“Mm,” another puff. Jonathan was halfway through. “My mistake, then. I had assumed you were interested in giving your pawn a long last meal before his life ended, permanently or otherwise. That or fattening the metaphorical calf. It was hard to imagine you enjoyed playing the role of host and staff without it being part of some standard habit.”

“So it might have been when you returned home.” Oh, only twenty short and endless years ago. Still with their enemies’ blood under his nails. Begging sanctuary for his Loves, bartering his own throat. Memories, memories. “For some reason, you seemed hesitant to trust my culinary skill a second time.”

“Yes, well. Blame that on a joke too many made about the wine and red meat on the menu. I’d not expected you to throw aside pretense to the point of…” Jonathan nodded at his Master’s bleeding chest. “…this.” More ash tapped over the stone sill. A third of the cigar was left. Jonathan’s eyes floated from the oozing cut to the moon. The effect erased all but the furthest edges of blue from his irises and made them into coins of silver. His brooch glowed like fire. “Do you know what I ate on my wedding night?”

Stop. Plug your ears. A trick. A trap. Laying bait again, old devil, do not listen, do not let him talk, do not hesitate, this is how he works, how he has always worked, how he has been the only one in all the infinite hell of your unlife able to steer the storm of you. In pain, in suffering, in servility or supplication, the silver of his tongue did more to tame you than any holy relic, and you knew it and you did not care, did not think to care, because he made himself satisfied with crumbs, with vapor, even when you tried to force bounty into his hands and down his throat, do not listen, do not wait, take him, own him, seize his mind and soul and senses now now now before it is too late—

But this was the bellowing of the present into the past.

All he could do in the ship’s dark was muffle his curses by biting into the bloated heart as the memory unfolded in all its hopeless reality.

“No,” he’d half-whispered to his friend. “You never said.”

“I had what I’d been having since I was taken in by the nuns. Broth and bread. Small simple soft things. I was half-dead then too, albeit in a different direction. Mina and I married and made love on my sickbed, in a rush of joy and tears and illness. I left our wedding venue with one hand in hers and another on a cane. Now I am here, twenty years on, with another marriage to begin in haste. The marriage that will also be my death knell. Lenore again, but without any hope of resting in peace.”

Jonathan watched his Master through his lashes.

“When I am drunk from a last time and I drink in turn, it will be the moment I say farewell to what is left of the good man who existed before I turned the kukri on those I trusted with my life and who I would have died to shield, had it not been for God putting my Loves on the same altar He set before Abraham. The last of that good man will die to the blood baptism, to an unbreakable chain of connection with what is reviled by the divine. Fickle thing that it is. But before I was a Christian, before I was taught the lie that God is absolute love, I already held Love as holy. I held kindness unto others as a mission. It hurt me then as it hurts me now to envision pain wrought on another without cause but profit or cruelty.

“But that feeling will be sunk into a spiritual chasm once I turn. Already I dropped a piece of it into the dark when I bloodied my hands. The rest will follow and I shall become a Judas not only to a select few, but to the whole of humanity. While I can see the logic in throwing myself into consummation for fear of turning back at the last second, I do not think I can stomach yet another threshold where I do not get to walk, but must hurl my way across. Another sprint, another crash into one world out of the last. I would ask—,” his throat had caught, eyes gleaming, “—I would like to have the day.” He cracked a sad smile. “St. George’s Day. A fitting hour to say good-bye to the good of me. And for our son’s birthnight, we shall have our last family meal. No meager shares. No restraint. I shall be too weak by then to hold off. And it will not be done behind closed doors. Behind my Loves’ backs, like another secret. Please.”

The eyes, the eyes, no power in them but what his Master put there, but they held and they drowned and pleaded for this, this last meal, this final allowance, and—

And you swallowed it. Inhaled it. Drank it from him like he’d slit himself open over your mouth. You did, old devil.

He had.

He’d looked his friend in the eye—eyes still vulnerable, still susceptible, still able to be hooked and pinned like the rest of him, ready to be stolen away into his thrall without another puff of the cigar left between them—and said, “Very well. But know that I will accept no hesitation tomorrow. No rescinding, no stalling, no last-minute dawdling. You make your good-byes to yourself tomorrow. Make your peace and apologies to the world if you must. But then I will eat the martyr out of your blood and fill the space with something better. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” This he said before taking his handkerchief from its pocket and wiping the dark smear from his Master’s heart. For almost a minute said Master held still enough to pass for a waxwork as Jonathan righted the shirt, the vest, the cravat. He took his Master’s brooch from a clawed hand that had turned suddenly feeble before pinning it to the silk. It wasn’t until Jonathan tried to pull his hands away that they were caught.  “Was there something else?”

“Yes. You finished,” he’d nodded to the smoldering nub of the Romeo y Julieta, “and I will not go without something for my patience.”

“I need my hands if I’m to open my collar.”

“Everything I want is above the neck.”

“As myself? Or is this a commission, balaurul meu?”

“Surprise me.”

“Only if you do not bite your tongue.”

He’d not understood. Not until his face was brought down and he had seen the flash of parting lips and teeth and then—

You should have bitten your tongue. Should have trapped his head in your hands as he played at catching yours, should have bitten and fed yourself into him while he was snared. If he would dare lie to your face your deserved to bleed yours into his. Bastard. Delilah.

He thought these and a thousand curses even as he warred with the recollection of that taste, that consumption in two directions. What he had thought was a mere prelude to all the ages yet to come for them. Never thinking for an instant that it was only the last helping of honeyed poison. Even the sheepish fraction of a laugh that had left his friend was another dose of venom to numb him with.

“Forgive me. I just now imagined how we must look. An old man preying on the youth.”

“Indeed. You are still all but a gamin, draga mea. In any case, this is hardly novel for us, is it? Merely a change of position. A slow dance.”

“We must all be cautious about said dancing in England, you know. The laws are still—,”

“I am aware. Just as I know what lawmaking parties are at the top of my list to be invited to dinner once we secure the new estates…”

And they had talked. And talked. On and on toward the sunrise. Jonathan had insisted on taking himself to sleep lest he spend his grand farewell to humanity passed out the whole day. Away, Master, away. Shoo.

Off he had gone. Dense and careless.

Did you smell coffee on the way down? Did you? If so, did you think it only imagination or just shrug it away? Your friend, ever disdainful of wasting an hour. Fine, fine, let him wring St. George’s out in his way. What did you care? Fool.

The boy had still been up with his books and, he saw, some his Papa’s magazines. Odd. No less odd than seeing him return to the coffin rather than exercise his ability to doze where he liked; his miracle of a child, born alive and undead at once, able to sleep without a grave earth as bedding. Odd, odd. But he had not cared, had he? What reason was there to care when he had tomorrow night already dangling before his eyes?

The woman was already in her coffin, either sleeping or feigning sleep. He had not bothered to check. Had not cared whether she knew of her husband activity or not. If she now mulled the vision of her Master tasting what was hers, his, theirs, making plans for the future while she gathered dust in the chapel. How pleased he’d been. How sure.

“Father? Are you alright?”

The boy, the child, the son. His son. A young man who’d looked now so agonizingly like his fathers it sent a shamefully fond dart through his chest. Bless the fluke of the woman’s own features, kin of his kin, blood of his blood, by design or accident. He had smiled. Not grinned, not leered, but smiled with an ease he had forgotten he was capable of for so long. The look had made the boy’s face go even slacker with wonder.

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

“You look different.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You look…I don’t know. Not younger, but,” the boy had fumbled for a word, “lighter, I guess. Did something happen?”

“No. But something will. Ah-ah, no prying,” when the boy perked up in his coffin, “Go back to your books. You will know more tomorrow.”

“Alright,” came the half-false sulk. “Good-day, Father.”

“Good-day, diavol.”

And he had gone to bed in his tomb fattened on bliss and craving more.

And then.

And then.

Bastard. Delilah. Thieving scheming viper of a traitor.

So much accomplished and destroyed within a day and night. Oh, his treacherous Harkers. Had they only been loyal, been wholly his in mind as much as will, he would have drowned them in praise and prizes for such work against a foe. The patience of it all. The skill. The performance. It surpassed the immaculate and made him ponder for one dumbstruck instant in the midst of his rage whether they had ever been human and not some stealthy pair of incubi come to prey on him.

Such a theory was only an excuse, he knew. It would not do to whittle down their ability to that of mere imps. No, they were but a man and a woman, however altered now, and they had proved themselves to be of such sterling cores of concentrated resolve that their Master had laid barely a scuff mark upon their joint machinations all these years. Their labors had born an unthinkable fruit; one it would have doubly shamed him to behold had he been victim to anyone less canny. But no, no. He had harbored his Harkers for a reason. They were uncommon creatures. Singular. Rare pets he’d thought he could tame. And given another century, perhaps he’d have managed it.

But like the fool who mistakes a tiger for a housecat, he had let his guard down too soon. Too quick. A mere two decades. And now his beasts had bitten and torn and robbed him.

His boy, his son, gone inside a day. Shipped away and on toward the teeming masses of England. This alone had been enough to spur him on. Or would have been.

If not for the impetus that the clever sow and her stolen Lessons from the Mountain had brought down on his head. He had fled before the next bolt could strike. Running, running. Just as he had been running since missing the boy’s departure, since realizing he was the only one left in the castle.

What had actually come first? His mind still spun when he tried to concentrate things into a clear order. The entirety of that period was still a swimming blur in the way the events of a nightmare will reach the waking mind as disjointed pieces.

He had awoken to the nettling pressure of the wild rose upon his coffin lid. The annoyance, the struggle, the hard toss and soul-deep agony that had come with booting the thing off. The blossom crushed. A resignation letter crumpled under the cracked ebony of the lid.

He had known his son was missing.

He had thrust his mind throughout the castle and known he was abandoned in full even before he tore away the lid of the woman’s box.

He had seen the glint of Jonathan’s brooch left on her pillow.

He remembered a vision. Sent from her. Brief. Teasing. Baiting.

Jonathan looking upon her with exhaustion and exultation, with relief, with want, with Love. Drinking from her like a man in the desert finding his oasis. Just the two of them in that boxed dark of her coffin. Mere hours before he found them gone. Eloped. So to speak.

She had left a message for him too, though it had come later. The one that came firing out of the roiling sky he’d thought was solely his. Once again the bait had been too much to ignore, even in his hunt.

It had been him.

How long had it been since he’d first tried to claw his way back into the woman’s mind, into her senses? He could not say. Only that he had been shocked to find himself barred except when the moon was high. She had been hardening herself up from within. There was more of a fortress around her will within two decades than his first trio of Loves had built up in centuries. She had been playing lame all this time. Preparing. Working in the shadows cast by her the distraction of her husband. Sharpening herself all along.

What irony, that they had left Jonathan’s old toy behind. The forgotten memento left in its hiding place in favor of being out and away before their Master fell upon them. Before he thought to whip them into the chase after their child. He’d had the kukri on his hip when he came upon the mist. A tell-tale wisp made visible only by the flash of lightning.

You recognized the essence in it. You knew it and you knew what it would lead to. And still, old devil. Still you threw yourself after him, maddened as a Wolf outran too long by his prey.

Only now it was not a Wolf and a hare, a Wolf and a hart. This was the bitch’s dog, her hunting hound, made to race and tear and follow commands—but not his. Not directly. No lashing of his will into Jonathan Harker’s mind would slow him. No order, no threat, no curse found traction upon the spectral rush of him. Cloud and man and spirit and beast flitting away, away, away, a parody of the hunts of old down their hill. It seemed his friend had been playing lame too.

He knew the speed of the Vampire, as was natural. Man or woman, fit or ill before their change, would have roughly the same gait.

But where he and the woman held that equal speed, Jonathan Harker was lightning on the ground. What had he truly been before he was turned? What blight or miracle had he kept hidden under a guise of constant frailness? He had not cared enough to mull it then. It was simply another frustration for the pile. Another nettle, another spur. The whole of it grated to the point of torture as, idle as a child at play, Jonathan had slowed long enough to throw a look back over his shoulder.

Grinning. Mocking. And there, at last, his own internal voice flying back into his ex-Master’s face:

Have you truly grown so slow, Count?

Through trees, over hills, onward, away, steering him off course, away from where the coast waited. The ships. The boy on the other side of the Channel.

Again, you did not care. Once in bliss, now in wrath. You went blindly after. Never learning your Lesson, old devil.

I see you wear my knife. Is it for my head? Or is it just to let you pretend something of me will still hold you against my will?

His own mind had leapt out after the fleeting shape, all champing teeth and thunder. Not in words. There was too much anger to fashion into coherence. Only the intent made its way out. Hate-fury-hate-fury-hunt-catch-punish—

Mine!

It had slipped from him. Flown. Bright and cutting and horribly naked in what was both a craving and a declaration. Had his eyes stung? It did not matter. The thought-snarl came again.

Mine mine mine mine mine mine you are Mine as the boy is Mine as the woman is Mine and you You YOU were Mine first by right by claim MINE and I will not be robbed by her by you thief traitor bastard Delilah—

Here came an echo from the deepness of the past, that cruel Lesson that Jonathan had once taught them all as his preying family warred over the greater claim to him, tugging at his mind like spoiled children over the same plaything, and Jonathan had thought those horrid sharp thoughts, the woman think-scream-ordering…

You can't, Darling, no, no, no, never. Don't you take yourself away, no one can steal my Jonathan, not even you.

But now here he was. Jonathan stealing himself out of reach. Just out of reach. His claws had scraped the back of his shirt, a lock of his hair. Close. So close.

Never yours, Jonathan had thought back. Never. You knew it then, you know it now. If you were ever so oblivious as to think otherwise, my Darling would have been slain the moment the Conqueror became the Coveter. When it stopped amusing you to see us huddled together and instead began to fester. Red eyes turning green. Because you knew. For all you made us do, all you ordered from me, it was only possible because I belonged to my Love. First, foremost, always. While you were only ever the thief stealing from her bed.

A thunderclap above. A pounce upon the quarry below. Just slow enough. Just as they made it to the clearing.

They had tumbled and Jonathan had thrashed until he was pinned in the grass. His grin had curdled then, deforming into an expression barely an inch removed from that of a bat’s grimace. He did not look at his captor, but bared his teeth in feral loathing at the hands locked around his wrists. There was a hiss as the grips tightened; enough to have broken bones had he been human. Jonathan’s face contorted into a horror of twitching muscle, his fangs crowding with the spires of sharp neighbors that jutted out and snapped so close they might have torn a swatch of flesh from his ex-Master’s face.

“Off me,” came a glottal excuse for a voice. The quintessence of revulsion.“Off me get off me off OFF—,”

“No,” he’d grated back, daring the nearness of the rabid jaws simply to press himself nearer. The closeness itself seemed to repel another bite as Jonathan twisted under him. “I am Master of your Mistress, thief. I am lord of your lady. If she is above the Son, I am above All, and the moment I loop my thrall through her blighted skull, I shall make a noose of the collar your soul donned for her and drag you screaming by it.”

Thunder had rolled again. Louder, louder, until it had irritated. He could not hear himself aloud and was barely better in his mind.

Why so coy now, draga mea? You have missed the wedding night and your funeral! Not to worry. I have what you left for me. It will stick so prettily in your throat.

The sky roared. And its Master, its Weathermaker for over four-hundred years, puzzled at that. He was not ordering the tempest to make such a din. Under him, another change. Jonathan was still. The monstrous face smoothed. Still unhappy, but abruptly devoid of any emotion greater than disdain. Perhaps with a hint of disbelief.

“Even now you insist upon the act. I had thought you would finally drop your mask entirely for the sake of rage, but no. Still you insist on pretense as though sincerity were as great an anathema to you as Him.” The grimace shifted briefly to an upturned rictus. In a lilting voice, brittle and musical as tinkling glass, “You yourself never loved. You never love! Ha. Twenty years of playacting fooled me no more than it did them after half a millennium.” Jonathan’s face hardened again, the grin turned to a razor. “I will never return to your stage again, Dracula. No more acts. No more charades. No more using me and the imitation of affection as another thing to steal from her. We are all but finished with you.” His fangs bared to the gums with a smile. “Now comes the denouement, balaurul meu.”

Then, fired into his head:

This is the last time you will touch me.

And like that, Jonathan Harker was gone. Dissolved and slithered away with such speed he might have been a puff of smoke blown away by the storm. The thunder boomed again. Not by his will.

There was a sound almost lost under the noise. An animal’s cry. A bird?

He looked up, feeling the skim of something familiar—

Her, her, the woman, thief, wretched bi—

—and had only a heartbeat in which to notice first the silhouette of a great owl outlined against the clouds, then the bolt of lightning racing down to find him.

He had dodged. Not quite fast enough.

Not before the pain landed and made its home from face to neck to arm to everywhere, everything, every possible niche of being that could feel agony. A blast that would have killed a mortal man. Had it taken both eyes, the second bolt may have landed too. But he was not blind and so outpaced that one. And the next. The woman was trying to track his motion once again, the old reverse turned on her Master, but he threw up the wall of fire between them and shot away toward the waiting coast. Running from his own sky. His own creatures.

Now here he sat in the present. In the gloom and the sea-salt air, crammed hastily away with a bed of thin earth in a stolen crate, hunting after his own son while his subjects herded and hounded him, dancing through the gaps they had found in his grip upon them. The old tricks of his perished Loves who had known that his hold was not as complete upon a mass as he would have wished. Animal minds were simple to coerce. The Vampire was its wants before all else and that very nature could war with a Master or Mistress if the focus was split enough.

And his focus was in splinters now. 

You would have laughed to see another suffer it, wouldn’t you, old devil? You took all that was hers once upon a time. Now she takes away all that is yours. Even your storm. Even the shapes of the animals. And him, of course. But then, he gave himself away. Is it not so?

“Silence,” he hissed to the cold mound of the heart. The blood was already starting to congeal within it. “Silence, damn you.”

If you have resorted to talking to yourself, you may do well to keep a diary of your own. Record your last nights for posterity.

He sat up quick enough to crack his neck.

I do apologize for the interruption, Jonathan hummed on. I can only assume you are terribly preoccupied. Either trying to pry into her head or trying to keep her out of yours. Even now, I remain banished to the outskirts of the conversation.

He felt himself smile for the first time in too many nights.

Oh, dear. His poor unschooled friend, who had not had needs or means to build up the walls as his wife had. Well. Let this be a Lesson for him then.

His own mind sprang upon Jonathan’s like jaws snapping shut. He felt the younger psyche spasm and raise phantom hackles at the intrusion. Scrabbling with an unpracticed grip at the Presence that bulled its way in, clawing, breaking, crushing his way across the waters that he could not pass in flesh, and then they were—

How do you like flying now, my friend? Everything you hoped it would be?

In the theatre of the mindscape he was launching himself and his catch back across water and shore and hill and mountaintop, wind whistling around false bodies. He was the Bat, Jonathan pierced a dozen times in his teeth. They were—

This is enough for me.

In the snow, the sun frozen an inch from setting, dead men watching as Jonathan brought down the kukri. Head, heart, limbs, over and over, carving and splitting. There was no collapse into elemental dust here. Only the mincing of a carcass. Even here, even wearing the skin of the living man he’d been, his eyes ran red. They were—

Ah, for a thief, still you go after too little. Let us at least be comfortable.

In Jonathan’s bed, each bite into his throat another night, and all those nights were his ex-Master’s. Kissing, mauling, drinking, sinking teeth to the gums. Only now his friend fought in his jaws. Jonathan’s teeth and claws tore at him as if he meant to shred him out of existence. To no avail. He was the practiced mind, the greater mind, greater will, and in mind and flesh his will was Law. But now he heard the whistle of air overhead, metal and timber swinging down. They were—

You still feel this one, don’t you? Mina feels the one in her throat on the same day it cut her. Does yours come like a blow at the end of each June? Again, Count, my apologies. You’ll not suffer the headache of me once your head is gone.

In the morning of departure. The shovel was in Jonathan’s hands, the edge bloody. No basilisk gaze pinned him now and his ex-Master’s brow was not merely scratched, but cracked like a grisly egg. The spade came down again. His ex-Master’s hand came up. They were—

But my friend, you know from experience how much I love to suffer you. To suffer for you. Saving—

In the ladies’ chamber, Jonathan torn out of three different suckling jaws as the dead Loves of old shrilled and grasped at him—

and sheltering—

In the grim first night, the woman in a deathly Limbo in Jonathan’s arms, the boy barely more than a twitching thought in her belly, on his knees, knife cast aside, bartering and pleading for the safety of his Loves, thankless and ungrateful already in his traitor heart—

 and supporting you all this time. Even now! Do you think me angry for your little trick? Your theft? Your lies? Why, it is nothing but heartening! To think I ever worried you were too soft for the eternity ahead of you! You, so cunning and patient, laying your tripwire over twenty years’ worth of convincing me—me!—that you were a thing worth trusting. Once we clear up this mess with the boy and your pending penance, I could see you eating holes through whole countries with your sweet venom.

Jonathan was in his hand now. A cursing, struggling mote trapped in a fist the size of a small house. The hand tightened. Jonathan howled. Not with pain, for there was no real sensation here. But the revulsion was true enough. He fought and pried at the knuckles of his ex-Master’s grip as if trying to break free of a cesspit.

The fist broke into other hands. A hundred thousand flashes of as many memories, cold clawed touches finding him wherever they felt like landing. Not injuring, of course. Would he hurt his dear friend? No! Only come closer, draga mea, the better to see you, feel you, count your pulses, that is all.

Jonathan bayed and swung and shuddered in the flurry. Every forced turn of the head with a hand on his jaw. Every talon of a nail tickling along chin and throat. Every idle raking of hair or stroke of his shoulder. Every seized arm, caught hand, grabbed hip, rubbed back. All of these blasted Jonathan’s unvarnished hate and disgust through the shared plane of their mind. And the worst of them all had been—

There.

The window in the library.

Their last night as man and monster. When he had spoken his last lying promise and slipped it into his ex-Master’s mouth like candy. Only hate had been there. Hate, disgust, shame. The weight of it staggered.

He staggered.

Jonathan broke free, but did not run, pausing to bare psychic teeth.

I can feel your scandal from here, Count. Even had you been short all the hundred other evils I had to ignore, I think your hypocrisy alone would have nauseated me. How do you sit there stunned at the obvious? Did you seriously believe my mind so pliant a thing that it would ignore the cruelty you held over our heads at every hour and fool myself into think you capable of love? This, when we both know you only consented to the terms for the sake of my payment in pain. Another performance, meant to last all of eternity, as you reveled over how I sunk to nightly agony behind every measured word, every smile, every taste of me ‘freely given.’ Our precious little summer together made infinite.

Here was the crackling fireside, a client and his solicitor beside it, white hair and dark switched around again. One of the early nights to judge by the healing cut on Jonathan’s cheek, the newness of the shadows under his eyes. Eyes whose fear had been so carefully reined in as he’d goaded his host into talk of the land, of its history, of himself in the guise of ancestors. Rapt young thing. After, he had sat then as he sat now, trapped against the arm of the couch, his host almost crushing him into the tufting as the old devil purred incessant questions about what there was waiting for him in England. Were there others like Jonathan there? Ah, he should not build up his hopes too much, souls such as his young friend were a rarity in any place…

Now the pleasant-pleading eyes flamed. Running red again.

This here. Even before the Weird Sisters laughed the truth in your face and you insisted on a lie of a rebuttal. This game was the core of all the years to follow. And now you complain because I played it too well and ran away while you were having fun? Over four-hundred years old and still a petulant child throwing tantrums over a lost toy.

The castle fell away into the heart of a storm. Veins of lightning wound through the black of it as the ex-Master loomed over his subject, his vassal, his traitor, his—

A toy? This alone?

Jonathan was seized in thunderbolts. Marionette strings that burned scarlet.

This is what you think would earn my interest? My protection?

Jonathan bowed and danced and split his face with grinning as the strings pulled.

I could have that from anyone, Jonathan Harker. I could have had that from you for twenty years, no longer leaving the sword hanging above your head, but walking and talking you through every night while your mind sat bound and mute behind your eyes. I could have laughed in your face that November night after I had twisted your head off your shoulders and burned what was left of your wife on my fire. I would have too. If you were anyone other than yourself.

The strings were a net were a web. Jonathan strangled in it, unable to die, to move, to look away as the parade of that prelude to his life in Castle Dracula came and went before him. The deaths and undeaths, the pains and the promises. Mother and child, Master and vassal with the blood never clean from their hands.

 All of this, my friend. All of this is because of you. You, who came to make the sale of Carfax. You, who refused to stay in your proper place among my lost Loves, waiting for my return and all the future I would bring. You, who set the hunting dogs upon me and so forced my hand with the woman. You, who faced the consequences of going among good men, pretending you were a mere hound instead of a jackal, striking them down for a Love you put above their mandates and their cherished divinity. You, who brought that Love to my door, groveling for the sake of your selfish heart.

You, Jonathan Harker. You are my equal in this ‘game’ you say I played. It is one impossible to play alone. If you had not baited me, not teased and strung me along, not made yourself into a vital thing to my heart rather than a mere curiosity, all would have ended swiftly.

 Something shifted. He couldn’t say what. A tipping, a sliding. The fraying of some final tether left straining in his friend’s mind. Jonathan had despised his touch and shown it well enough. Jonathan had raged on behalf of his Loves and the slain and their life that would never be. Jonathan had even managed to offer wrath on his own behalf.

This was not that.

This was an incandescent, a righteous, a Holy conflagration of fury that turned the clinging threads to ash and boiled away the storm into a flaming void. For a moment, Jonathan was not Jonathan at all. He was only a blistering red light. The fire trailing behind him spread like wings, either those of Eros or one of the Fallen. Whichever he was, he seared in his ex-Master’s mind like a torch.

Your heart? YOUR HEART?

A hand of flame pierced him, cooking the centuries-old heart before it was torn out as a cinder.

Even now! Even in your own skull! Even with the stage forsaken and the audience of our son finally free, still you must shroud yourself in this act!? STILL YOU FEIGN KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE BEYOND USING IT AS COLLAR AND CUDGEL!?

Jonathan fractured then, an inferno of indignation and devotion, flaring with the memory of all he had cherished and loathed in his life. Mother and child for the former. His ex-Master for the latter. All smiled for, all made happy as he could endeavor. Yet only mother and child were given all of himself in earnest, their own love reflected back into him, keeping filaments of joy alive even as he brutalized himself with the conviction of his being a worse monster than they could ever be in potentia, deserving of nothing, of worse than nothing, of—

Flashes of his ex-Master, of his voice and embrace and the steady grinding away of his sanity and will and soul under the lord of the castle’s heel, crushed by the weight of self-loathing, dragged up and eaten again and again by the bottomless pit of his ex-Master’s want, of the threat that he must play the game or leave his family to suffer, of a conviction that all of this, every minute of every night, was no more than entertainment, a distraction to grow bored of and smash to pieces should he fail to cozen and serve and be a good Scheherazade ever-after. His penance for the dead men. For his wife. For their son.

That was all it was. All it ever was to Jonathan Harker.

The shock of it came on too quick and too heavy for its owner to catch before it tumbled into the mindscape. It shattered open as it fell and showed all that had been true behind its owner’s eyes. Twenty years’ worth of truth. What he had taken for truth.

The woman, no longer even dreamt of as a companion, but a brittle-bitter comfort. A sibling he had never asked for, but could not deny for her use in keeping his own barbs sharp and for the guarantee of what she anchored to him.

The boy, so suddenly grown, his love uncomplicated and real and awed, an experiment fostered and festering, burrowing into his Father’s heart as blithely as an insect left to gratefully build its nest in the home of a welcoming corpse.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

The keystone against which the sheltering of mother and child, the performance played for the boy, the willingness even to entertain the farce in the first place, all leaned. Why? Why, when he would not have suffered any other victim, any other enemy, any other dear friend to wring such a feat from him like blood from a stone? Why, unless..?

He could not hide it. Could not bury it. Could not raze or deny or shred it into dust. It was too loud, too vivid, too strong. Too starved.

It lunged at Jonathan like its own living thing, an excited Wolf gone mad with hunger, seeing the only thing it wished to eat. Raced, leapt, pounced, dissolved into a frantically grasping wraith of red tears and a heart, unburned but hanging open and raw in its cleaved chest, coiling around Jonathan’s mind and forcing the reality of itself down his throat. Choking on it, the fire of Jonathan Harker went out. Only the man—what had been a man—was left. Staring.

Now would come the laughter. The insult. The dismay. The sour-mocking questions. Oh dear, old devil. Had he really tripped and fallen so? Had he really dared to think that the feeling was returned?

Jonathan, no longer flame or fury, only stood in the black of their shared mind. Still staring. Still…

The shock was not just his ex-Master’s.

The void cracked and splintered. Now. Now the laughter would come. Now another act. Now a sardonic bat of lashes, a false swoon, a coo of cloying flattery, or else the woman herself would dare to graze his mind with her own, the better to jeer alongside her Love, yes, yes, any moment now. Now. Now.

Count. I did not know.

The laughter did not come. No act. No sneer. Not even a ripple of disgust. Nothing. Nothing but—

I’m sorry.

The sentiment was attacked with a thousand tearing teeth. Shredded down to psychic atoms in the hunt for the disingenuous core, the hidden chuckle, the lie, the trick. But Jonathan was no less bare than himself in this space. There was no more to find in the sensation than the feeling itself. It repeated:

I’m sorry. And, just as sincere: I never intended to break your heart. Only to impale it.

The whole of it saturated with an honesty and apology that cut deeper than any bludgeoning of hate.

Sorry is not good enough, my friend. There is no taking it back.

Jonathan, a pillar against the abyss, nodded.

I know. Not for either side. I did tell you. This will end before the year is out. We shall kill you or you shall kill us. It is all that’s left.

Now came a laugh; a familiar hideous sound that unfolded into a trail of chuckling. Giddy, almost.

No, Jonathan Harker. You misunderstand once again. Yes, you and the woman mean to slay me at last. But I remain nothing but loving in my design. All that is left is that you kill me, or—

The void was gone.

They stood in the castle’s chapel. With the certainty of a dream, they knew that the boy was returned. Their only witness as he clung and wept over his mother’s coffin. She had been willed into paralysis by her Master, moving only to maim herself in the box or to gorge herself. Her meals’ dried carrion lay piled and broken around the coffin. The infants’ heads lined in rows while the tiny hearts were left to shrivel.

‘Please, Papa, you have to, please…’

And Papa was, of course. The woman’s Master had slipped the noose of himself through her at last, and now her orders were his orders, and the order was being carried smilingly out by their dear Jonathan. Pardon, his dear Jonathan. The picture of bliss despite his running eyes. Under his chin, the brooch shined. On his knuckle, the gold band had been replaced with a matching stone and clutching dragon. His vows, leaked through the permanent stamp of his grin:

‘I will never look at her again. I will never respond to any word from her. I will speak of her only as if she were dead. And I will love you as you are owed. I will be yours alone. Always. This I will do, or she shall never leave the box or know a moment without pain again. Te iubesc, balaurul meu.’

‘Te iubesc, draga mea.’

And then they were together, in the snug gloom of the great coffin that had been built and delivered in secret months before, undetected in the same chamber as the kukri. Two Grooms lay within it, one joyous and one merely smiling as he wept a stain into his Master’s breast and eternity finally began.

This is how our game ends and the next begins, draga mea. There are consequences to becoming what a monster loves, by accident or intention. He crushed Jonathan to him in their box, hissing. You stole our son. You stole my heart. You stole yourself. I will have all back in time. And you will never slip free again.

 For just a moment, he felt it. Fear breaking through Jonathan’s miasma of shocked anger and distaste. But it was not the whole of him. Horribly, cruelly, crawling up and out from the center of his friend, was that unbroken condolence.

Again. I am sorry, Dracula. This will not come to pass. And even in the dreams where you paint this future as reality, you will still have my sympathy in this single thing. Your love is only a chain. Never an embrace. Only a noose, not a held hand. Our son is perhaps the first and only soul to love you without coercion, and he does so only because we spent his life hiding the worst of you from him. You will shatter that illusion if you think to steal him back. And then what will be left? Only this?

Jonathan’s hand was on his cheek, sweeping away something damp.

I had thought your pretenses only another knife to twist in us. But the performance was for you as well, wasn’t it? It was as close as you could get.

Jonathan was crushed again. Tighter, closer. Enough to snap an ordinary man in half. The arms, illusory though they were, trembled.

 Do not dwell like this. You have your conquest to think of, don’t you? Your march on the Living? Return to that, if it helps. You are four centuries deep in this existence. Twenty years should be nothing to scrape aside. We were a distraction, all of us. Let us go. Let us be enemies. It will hurt less.

There was no need for breath here. No more than there had been a need for breath for anything but speech since the day he ceased to live as a man. Despite this, he buried his face in Jonathan’s neck, his mouth opened to bite, but releasing only a choked and shaking sound. It was followed by more. Then:

I will—I will conquer. I will slaughter. I will rule. But I will not be alone. If I must have you all on tethers, so it will have to be. You should not have made me happy, draga mea.

There was no true contact in the mindscape. No touch, no sense. He shivered just the same as Jonathan’s arms slipped around him.

I promise to make you very unhappy once we cross paths in person. My hate is rivaled only by my Love’s and her endings for you are as imaginative or worse than my own. In the interim, I shall do my best to gain your hate, Count. But that shall be another time.

There was a change. A softening in the phantasmagoria of the dark as the characters in it began to lose their edges. He grasped at Jonathan all the tighter.

I have not dismissed you. It is a long way to England yet. I hope the woman is satisfied with riding the rest of the way with you in a coma.

The thoughts leered, but the intent begged. It wound around Jonathan in a serpent’s coils, holding, clutching, trapping—

Let me go, Count.

No.

Tighter and tighter on the disintegrating form, becoming a cage, a coffin, a clutching fist, a dragon winding around and around its treasure, no no no, mine mine mine—

Before it’s too late.

No!

Within the mind and above the Persephone, thunder cracked and lightning struck. A great, blinding, devastating bolt. It had her voice and a single message to share.

MINE.

And with that, he was back in the cargo hold. The sailor’s heart had been crushed to pulp in his hands. His fingers and eyes ran with the same scarlet runnels. Above deck, he felt the riot of a storm that was not his battering the ship. He cursed and threw himself out to it, wrestling until dawn to hammer the weather smooth again.

In another patch of water, under the same voyeur moon, the Aurora cruised on under a starlit sky. A girl and her young man stood on the deck, her hand over his as he gripped the railing so hard it bent to the shape of his fingers. The young man’s eyes snapped open, lungs jerkily refilling with a gasp they’d not yet learned was reflex more than need.

 Jonathan?

“I’m fine. …How long was that?”

Less than two minutes.

“It felt longer.”

It’s like that. Even when conscious, it will try to drag things into dreaming. Ever a showman.

“Did you trace him? Do you know which ship?”

Yes. The Persephone. Our ports won’t be far apart.

Her smile curved, red as rose petals, thorn-sharp.

And I believe their vessel has hit some stormy weather just now. Though it is endeavoring to ease the worst of it.

“Do you need..?”

No, Darling. I only press when I feel it slacking. It will be wrung out by the time it reaches shore. I will merely be peckish. 

Her smile dimmed a shade as she searched her husband’s face.

Are you certain you’re alright?

“I am, Mina. Even if I weren’t, we could not risk it being you. Not while he’s still scrabbling to take your reins again.”

It showed you, didn’t it?

“Showed what?” Mina looked at him. Read him. Turned over the stone that her husband had freshly laid over the revelations bled out into his mind. “Ah. That.”

That. Was this what hurt you in there?

“I am not—,” Her hand went to his cheek. A rust-colored drop was swept away. “Oh. I thought I felt lightheaded.”

Do not distract. Was learning it what hurt you?

“It did not hurt. Only shamed me, somewhat. It casts a different light on his pending demise.”

A slaying made into euthanasia?

“…That is certainly a word for it.”

There are few others to choose from. Extermination. Justice. Recompense. Safety. But, in its thinnest terms, yes, euthanasia. I would not be surprised if he welcomed it in the end. I think I would.

His hand seized around hers.

“Why?”

She smiled back. The ghost of the living girl made its edges soft.

You would not understand. You do not know what it is to love and be loved by you, Jonathan. To imagine the latter was a lie? Worse, a lie you assumed was known by the one who loved you? I do not know if I could suffer it. More, you remain Love himself. Coveted and giving and, even for the Thing we hunt, pitying. For you champion the feeling in its own right, even as you did not guess that you were more to the Thing than a trophy.

They were silent for a time. Feeling the creep of dawn coming for the horizon. Jonathan looked to her again. Searching.

“Mina. Did you know?”

The possibility occurred to me. It did not mourn the Weird Sisters for more than a year, despite their time with it. Lucy it was bitter for losing only because she was the first conquest of a new land, slain before she could be enjoyed. I, the supposed new companion, was relegated within months to an afterthought. No more or less than a necessary evil in its mind—the hostage there to keep you there. With it. And it speaks volumes that it kept even a fraction of its word to you at all.

It could have taken you at any time, Jonathan. Pounced and bit and fed and turned, all with no one to stop it. But it didn’t. Not merely to see you suffer through the performance as you had before, but because it wanted to hide in the fact that you had free will. That you were immune to all but the most superficial pulls of the mesmer rather than the permanent leash upon my mind. It wanted you free and human and in its company, ‘of your own choosing.’ Or near enough. I can think of no reason for it beyond the Thing hoping for the act to become real.

“I cannot tell if that’s a mark of insanity or sadness.”

Perhaps both. And you do not have to cover yourself in barbs here, my Love. There are things we do not wish on enemies, even if they are deserved. That being said—,

“My plans have not changed, Darling.” He leaned his face into her palm, smiling. “We will dance on his ashes for what he’s done. For what he means to do.”

When we finish, we can pour what’s left of him upon a garden of wild roses. Perhaps it will carry some peace after him.

The rest of their conversation was not in words. It carried on even as they pressed their lips into the perfect mold of each other’s, the tableau of them spied only by another couple who thought they must be their elders as they went along to their own room.

“Now when was the last time you kissed me like that?”

“Oh, hush. I’m sure it was only yesterday I did. Sometime after the banquet, wasn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“And anyway, it’s not the sort of thing for our age, dear. These young people are growing ever brasher out in the open.”

“Yes, in public, on a boat. Most brazen. Lord knows there’s scads of witnesses…”

Daybreak came and the storm departed with it. The one in the sky, at least.

Down below, in the dark, in the dirt inside a box, a smaller tempest raged. Tried to rage. Tried to hold to thunder and lightning and hail. But the death-sleep melted it down into its truer shape, freed from the whipping of desperation in the guise of anger. The grave earth became rosy mud as new tears rolled. Between this and the toll of keeping back the storm, even nursing from the crushed heart had barely helped in stalling the change. Black hair had turned to iron, iron to ancient white.

Dreaming dragged him down and away from his own will. Through the foam of futures yet unborn, through the penalties and precautions yet to be inflicted, all the way to a moonlit window in the library. His friend stood before him. Alive and undead. Wasted and hale. Blue-eyed and red. Cold lips smiling and pressing into his. Joy frozen in place.

In the world outside his mind, the cadaver of an old man moved just enough in his bed of soil to hold the brooch tighter. Enough so that the clasp split his skin and poured ichor over the golden dragon and its treasure. He did not feel it.

But wept just the same. 

[frvnkcastles]

Hi!! I read that you write for traumatized girlies so here I am, i don’t know if you’d like to write about other people’s experiences but I’ve never read anything about this and it’s sad because I can’t relate to any of the fics I love with Frank. So basically after being sa multiple times I developed sensory issues, specially with touch. Some fabrics feel like I’m being trapped, and specially, and this is the ‘request’ I don’t like how some skins feel like. It’s not about them being dry or soft or oily, I don’t even understand my brains criteria to decide I don’t like how someone’s skin feels on mine, so I don’t touch anyone ever, I wear gloves like that mf Kaz Brekker and that makes me very touch starved, and when I find someone who’s skin feels good, I’m clingy asf. So maybe frank is friends with reader and she realizes she likes how he feels? And he likes her but knows about what happened to her and was waiting for confirmation to finally touch her?

ONE MORE TASTE ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You don’t like being touched… until Frank comes along.

Warnings: MENTIONS OF S*XUAL ASS*ULT, sensory issues, alcohol, language, fluff and TENSIONNN

Word count: 2.1k

Author’s note: I hope you like this anon! I apologize for how long it took me to finish, but I’m really happy with how it turned out. I didn’t follow every detail (gloves aren’t mentioned) but I hope it meets your expectations nonetheless. Thank you so much for sharing your story with me <3

Frank liked to think he was relatively perceptive. Yet, despite inexplicably finding himself in the same room with you more often than he had anticipated, it took him all of 58 days to figure you out.

He could, of course, blame it on the fact that he wasn’t particularly touchy or handsy. Not enough to make you uncomfortable, anyway. When he had first met you through Matt who had insisted on introducing the two loneliest people he knew to one another, he had been holding a beer bottle and you were awkwardly fiddling with your dress — therefore, no handshake ever took place. And if anyone was respectful of personal space, it was Frank.

Still, he began to notice how you leaned away from him whenever he threatened to come closer. How everyone else hugged their friends, gave high-fives, just casually brushed hands… Just the slightest of touches occurred every day, every second, and you seemed to be missing out on all of it.

Get your shit together, Castle, he told himself, why are you obsessin’ over this like some fuckin’ creep? Maybe, he was just overthinking it, imagining things, fixating on how pretty your hands were and how he suddenly regretted not going for that handshake.

Then, one night, you were having a drink with Frank at his favorite bar, and none other than Curtis Hoyle happened to round the corner, slapping a hand on Frank’s shoulder as he greeted the man. ”Hey, man. Missed you at the group yesterday”, Curtis noted with a disapproving look, and chuckling, Frank scratched the back of his neck.

”Yeah, I, uh, I’ll make it to the next one. Promise”, he pursed his lips in a narrow smile before gesturing between you and his friend. ”Oh, this is Curtis”, Frank introduced him before giving your name to Curt, who reached out with his hand.

You nearly flinched, withdrawing into yourself while giving the two men an apologetic smile. ”Sorry”, you spoke in a timid voice, ”I—I have… a thing.” The worst explanation anyone had ever heard, but it was good enough for Curtis to back off, his hands lifted up in defense.

”Hey, that’s cool. I’ll leave you two to it. It was nice to meet you”, he smiled at you, and sheepishly, you returned the favor.

When he was gone, you squeezed your eyes shut and dropped your head against the bar counter. Frank frowned, but held back the urge to place a hand on your back, supposing that while he didn’t quite understand, he could still respect whatever was going on.

”You okay, sweetheart?” he asked quietly, genuine concern on his face as he eyed you up and down. His heart ached for you, and he goddamn hated the uselessness of his presence, the way he didn’t know what to do to make it better.

”I don’t know how to… how to even begin to explain”, you chuckled dryly, casting a look down at your hands, trembling ever-so slightly.

Frank licked his lips and leaned against the counter. ”Hey, I got all night. I ain’t sayin’ you owe me anythin’, but if you wanna talk about it… I got two good ears right here”, he offered, and with a look up at him, you seemed to review just how serious he was. A lot of people claimed to be open and willing to listen, but as soon as you shared, you could feel an irreversible shift in the air. But Frank? He stared right back at you, not faltering under your scrutiny, his hand wrapped around his beer as he waited for you to start.

”Okay, but you asked for it”, you warned him, earning a chuckle from him.

”I can handle it, sweetheart.”

You shrugged. ”Well, I won’t beat around the bush. I was sexually assaulted. Ever since then, I just… don’t experience touching the same way. Sometimes it’s different types of fabrics making me feel… trapped, I guess, but it’s people, too. I can’t tell what it is, why I can’t stand the feeling of some skin types, so I just… don’t touch anyone, ever”, you began to explain, glancing at your hands and then back at Frank to see if he was showing any signs of regret.

But he wasn’t. He was leaning in, listening attentively with his head tilted to the side and his eyes transfixed by you, not an ounce of judgment visible on his rough features. In that moment, he looked only kind and understanding, not even a little bit intimidating. Safe.

”That must be tough”, he muttered, sucking in a breath, ”you need me to take care of anyone, you just say the word.” You could see the clench in his jaw, and you swallowed, supposing that underneath the kindness directed at you was a whole lot of Punisher waiting to be unleashed.

”I’ll consider it”, you pursed your lips together in a weak smile, ”thank you, Frank.”

You waited a moment before speaking up again. ”So, you’re not… weirded out? Think I’m too much trouble than I’m worth?” you queried, unsure if you even wanted the answer, but before you had the chance to regret asking, Frank had spoken up.

”No.” He was direct and honest, not a hint of doubt in his raspy voice. ”Nah, you’re fine, sweetheart. Everyone responds to trauma differently, y’know? I’m a livin’ example. And it ain’t like you can choose to feel a certain way, yeah? It is what it is”, he shrugged before inching his hand towards yours, not enough to close the distance and touch you but enough to imply he wanted to.

”Don’t mean I ain’t a lil’ disappointed, though”, he whispered, and with your heart beating rapidly in your chest, you nodded.

”Me too”, you spoke shakily, wanting so badly to just be like any other person and shake his hand. Caress his cheek. Hug him, kiss him…

Dismissing the tension between you by pulling away and chuckling, you gestured for the bartender and then flashed a smile at Frank. ”Well, I say we get a few more drinks”, you cleared your throat, and lifting an eyebrow, Frank grinned at you.

”That usually work?” he asked before finishing his beer, and well-aware that it usually only amplified the need for human contact, you just gave Frank a smile that spoke on your behalf.

A few drinks turned into many more, and your conversation with Frank didn’t seem to have an ending in sight. Being with him felt so natural, so effortless — maybe it was the fact that there was no elephant in the room anymore, and you opening up got him to do the same for you.

Only when the bar closed, the two of you were practically kicked out, and still refused to leave each other’s side. ”I’mma walk you home. That alright with you?” Frank questioned while shoving his hands in his pockets, and breaking into a grin, you nodded.

It was mostly smooth sailing. But it seemed the drinks you had had were getting to your head, making it sway heavily, and before you knew it, you were stumbling on the sidewalk. You could laugh it off, until you finally tripped over air and flew towards the pavement, your body destined for impact if it wasn’t for Frank.

You found yourself reaching for him instinctively, and he didn’t hesitate to pull his hands out of his pockets and grab yours to keep you upright. Your fingers wrapped around his and he seemed to only be worried about you not falling flat on your face. You, on the other hand, panicked at the contact, and as soon as you were firmly planted on both feet, you withdrew from his touch and shoved your hands into your pockets with wide eyes.

”Oh, fuck”, Frank murmured as soon as he realized, ”hey, ’m sorry—”, but you cut off his apology with a rushed smile.

”It’s okay. It’s fine. Thank you for the help”, you insisted, and with a nod, Frank fell into silence.

In fact, silence was exactly what ensued between the two of you. He was getting wrapped up in guilt, sure that he had messed things up and broken your one very clear boundary. But you… you were trying to figure out why the feeling of his hands didn’t make you want to recoil in disgust. You wanted to touch him again.

You didn’t know how to express that in a way that didn’t sound too weird, though. But as soon as you reached your apartment building, you turned to face him before he could run off.

”Hey, wanna come inside for a while? I know it’s getting late, but…”, you offered, and before you could beat yourself up for the awkward line, Frank was nodding.

”Hell yeah, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

You were painfully aware of his taller frame behind you, making you fumble with your keys and only allowing you to breathe once you made it inside your apartment. You kicked off your shoes and took off your jacket, whereas Frank kept his on and simply wandered about the small space, inspecting all your little knick-knacks and decorations that made it truly you.

”Can I get you something to drink?” you asked with your nerves obvious in your voice, not to mention the fiddling of your fingers, which Frank noticed — just chose not to comment on.

He chuckled, though. ”Pretty sure we’ve drank plenty for the night, huh?” he pointed out while heading for your couch and gesturing for you to join him. ”Lemme clear the air. I didn’t mean to touch you like that, yeah? I apologize”, Frank went on, and with a swallow, you weighed your options. You could accept the apology and pretend like nothing had ever happened… but you knew that you’d always wonder.

”Actually”, you cleared your throat, ”can I do it again?”

It was obvious Frank was taken aback by your words. His eyes widened and his back straightened, but despite the moment of silence, he ended up bobbing his head in a nod. ”Yeah, ’course”, he spoke quietly, holding out his hand for you to take.

You only stared for a second, your stomach full of butterflies at the invitation right before your eyes, but eventually, you placed your smaller hand in his and gently squeezed. A smile broke onto your face as you brushed your thumb across the back of Frank’s hand, and Frank couldn’t help but smile to himself, as well, enamored by the sight of you inspecting his scarred, calloused hand like it was the most fascinating thing you had seen.

Quietly, he moved but only to take off his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his button-up. You met his gaze curiously, and he simply gave you an encouraging nod, which was quite enough for you to trail your hand up his palm and across his strong forearm. He tensed under your touch and you swallowed at the veins protruding from his rough skin, but none of it was unpleasant. In fact, you were loving it.

”Can I touch you?” Frank whispered, husky and low, and quite enough to send a chill down your spine. You considered it for a moment, but agreed with a silent nod, one that wasn’t satisfactory to Frank. ”Need to hear you say it, sweetheart”, he noted, and with a shaky voice, you spoke up.

”Yes, please.”

Gently, Frank squeezed your hand before letting go and lifting his up to your cheek in a tender caress, his fingers soft and steady as he trailed down your jawline and to your neck. You closed your eyes and exhaled heavily, and without another thought, you let the words tumble out of your mouth.

”You feel so nice”, you confessed, and with a soft chuckle, Frank flashed a grin.

”Yeah?” he licked his lips. ”Shit, I’m real flattered, you know that?” he continued, and you could have sworn you could see him blush.

You hummed and took his hand again, choosing to be bold and interlocking your fingers. You sat there for a moment, just reveling in the feeling and the contact you hadn’t had in so long, and as you did, another realization dawned on you.

”You know this means I’m gonna be super clingy, right?” you pointed out, and snorting, Frank gave you a look.

”Pretty girl like you? Don’t sound like a problem to me, sweetheart. You just remember to tell me if it gets too much, aight? We’re doing this on your terms”, he reminded, and with a genuine smile spread across your lips, you nodded in agreement.

”You’ve got yourself a deal, Frankie.”

Mirroring your smile, Frank leaned down to give the back of your hand a careful kiss. ”Deal.”

[everythinglucymaudmontgomery]

A Few Words in Defense of Poor Robin and the Time She Was Living In

It's been really interesting to read everyone's vitriol regarding poor Robin. I remember reading this book through at least twice before and never thinking of Robin as anything other than a fellow prisoner of Jane's. Is she a good mother, by no means, but I've always felt that she's doing the best that she can under the circumstances.

I think that her life is a literal living hell. She has a husband across country that she desperately loves but most likely thinks despises her because I KNOW she despises herself. She is forced to be a social butterfly by her mother and she can't even express her emotions by crying at night in her own room because her mother will be able to tell and will find some new creative way to torture her and, by extension, Jane. Her daughter whom she loves fiercely, evidently looks just like her father and is a constant reminder of what she lost/threw away. She is playing a part in a horrific nightmarish play just to survive because she doesn't know what else to do. At that time, and under those circumstances, I don't doubt that she sees living with her mother's horribleness is her best option for providing for Jane. I can't imagine how many times she has most likely visualized running away with Jane by herself but most likely is more afraid of the two of them starving to death and NO mother ever wants to remotely consider that option.

I'm also pretty sure that the time frame for this book is sometime in the 20s/30s. According to the website for the Canadian Museum of History, Canada was among the most profoundly affected countries. So add that to Robin's fears for their livelihood.

And please let's not forget that, for all of Robin's faults, Jane does not doubt that her mother loves her. I have more to say in defense of her and Jane and their secret ways of expressing love but since I don't want to give away any spoilers to those who haven't read it yet, I will refrain.

Another thing that I have found is very interesting about how Maud wrote both "The Blue Castle" and "Jane of Lantern Hill" is that she writes more strictly from one point of view. As common as that is in many books, one thing I always liked about the Anne books was that you got all of these wonderful insights into the minds of other characters. I have seen it a precious few times so far in Lantern Hill.

The reason I point this out is that most of how we are seeing Jane's life play out is from the perspective of an 11 year old. Don't get me wrong, a very perceptive (at times) and wise beyond her years, 11 year old, but an 11 year old, none the less. They are not known to be the most broad minded of people and have a tendency to color the world with a narrowness that can alter reality to some extent. We do have to take a lot of her experiences and outlooks with a grain of salt giving others the benefit of the doubt at least.

I have often found it very difficult bordering on impossible to read books from other time frames without being influenced by the modern sensibilities and customs I am used to. For example, how could Cinderella's stepmother get away with taking her own house away from her after her father died and treating her like a slave? Oh wait. This was not the 21st century, orphans were not looked at the same. In fact, most people looked at orphans as if it was THEIR own fault that they were orphans, like losing your parents makes you a bad person and not worth time or pity.

Am I excusing Robin's behavior? As a mother, NO. Do I think the grandmother should be excused. HEAVENS NO! But I do try to put myself in their shoes as much as I can and remember that this was a different time and place. Not to mention, as a sufferer of mental health issues and knowing that that was something that was not touched with a ten foot pole back then and good lord knows what genetic predisposition they had in that regards on top of living through WW1 and the Great Depression AND the Spanish Flu Pandemic!!!!

Anyway, I hope this makes some semblance of sense to my dear fellow lovers of L.M.M. It's been so interesting and enlightening getting to hear the different thoughts and outlooks from fresh readers of this little known but wonderful book.

[koreposion]

Horror is still getting settled in as the new "axe" for the group. Given that Killer has a foul mouth he finds that his playfulness triggers a bear trap

Horror always had a routine when he wasn't on missions. Wake up, go to the kitchen, make breakfast, lunch and then dinner. He spent most of his time in the kitchen even if he was doing something else. Most of the time he sat there in the dark his eyelights watching for something.

Killer kept his snacks just about everywhere which oddly included the kitchen. His nature of being a trickster and loving gags gave way to..."jokes". So while keeping his snacks in the kitchen seemed like the norm that certainly wasn't the case. As he walked in he turned on the light and was nearly scared out of his skull.

It didn't take a lot to startle him but Horror's looming and lithe frame made it easy. The red glow of his eyelight trained onto Killer. He...never blinked but he did squint for reasons unknown. Killer found this unsettling but everyone in this castle was by some unit of measurement.

He walked over to the cabinets and opened it up. There wasn't much in them, there never was as usually no one wanted to cook. Since Horror had come that had changed but decisions were still being made. He pulled out a party sized bag of chips and closed the cabinet.

Depending on the time of day, Horror would let Killer do whatever he wanted. This time a day wasn't that, after all he was going to start making dinner soon. He moved from his spot and blocked Killer from the exit. Without another word he snatched the bag of chips away from the skeleton.

"I'll be making dinner soon there is no need for snacks right now. If you really want something you should eat fruit so it doesn't sit poorly in your stomach." Horror spoke words of warning but also advice, there was no need to completely deny Killer.

Killer still took offense, "Look bud, just because you were starving yourself to dust doesn't mean that I can't have a snack. You don't have to ration food like some tyrant." He snickered, knowing that in now way was he actually hurt in any way by Horror's words.

He just took the moment to make joy and merry. It was fun to mess with Horror about his different and odd habits. As he looked into Horror's sockets he clearly didn't share the sentiment.

Pitch black sockets like his own stared back into his and Horror stepped forward. His movements were stiff and odd, he moved like a doll. He leaned down and tilted his head, a soft grinding sound could heard as he did,

"And we all don't have to have our minds corrected by the monster in the castle. You do understand that you are a fool who dances for no one. The emptiness in your words and emotions are real as you slaughtered your own with a murder." Horror's singular eye returned, bright and a sharp red,

"I am a loyal dog and you are lower than the dust filled snow that crunched under your shoes when you were trapped alone." Horror hissed as he spoke before he stood up. His bones cracked and shifted back into place. He walked past Killer and put the chips away as Killer stood in stunned silence.

Not once had Killer had been completely lost for words this was a new experience for him. Horror had never spoken to him in that extent before nor had he been so cruel. Even when Killer had made comments about how he dresses and eats. Something he said must have struck the skeleton deeply.

Sure, Nightmare would be hearing about this but Killer was more amazed than anything. Horror was just so chatty! That was so cute, it was a shame that he had to find out by getting insulted.

He wondered what other things Horror would speak so passionately about.

[squarebracket-trickster]

happy blurbo blursday! I am not familiar with your characters so could you give them a little intro? 👀

Thank you so much for the ask!!! I had a lot of fun with this and it was a great exercise for me in trying to give a spoiler-free synopsis of my plot.

(I really tried to make this spoiler free but if you think about the information I've given here for a minute you'll probably figure the story's big twist. Truth be told, I think the earlier in the story a reader figures it out the funnier the story gets so I am not worried about people guessing it. Still, I refuse to outright say it because that would cheapen the experience.)

The important plot stuff:

Isadred, the main character, is the eldest daughter of a king. She is married -- by proxy, she's never met her husband -- to the crown prince of the neighbouring country (the marriage was intended to ratify a treaty to end the war between their countries) and she is *supposed* to be travelling to her husband's kingdom. But Isadred does NOT want to be married. She escapes from her escort and joins up with some bandits disguised as a boy named Adris, but the plot won't leave her alone. Someone is playing a dangerous game and Isadred realizes that she is it's most valuable pawn -- whoever possesses her wins. It is only a matter of time before she will be forced to either return to her husband or plunge both their kingdoms into war. In the meantime, a bandit named Sorin catches her eye. It will never work out between them because Adris/Isadred has sworn off marriage, and Sorin is saving himself for it, but that does not mean they can't have a bit of fun while it lasts.

Sorin is a talented swordsman of noble birth who became a member of the bandit king's inner circle to protect his family. When a half-starved peasant kid shows up on his doorstep claiming that a certain missing princess is alive and hiding in the forest, the bandit king sends Sorin on her trail. But there is a larger game afoot and Sorin's loyalties lie first with his family. He knows far more than he lets on, including just how valuable Princess Isadred is to his own family and to the bandit king. He will do anything to find her, even if it means getting close to that mysterious peasant boy -- just not too close. He is a married man after all... even if he has never met his wife. Adris respects his decision but being around him/her is hard. He/she reminds him of everything he is missing out on.

Fun facts:

Both characters are in their early twenties but their exact ages are never mentioned in the story. Sorin would have to be old enough to be knighted, so at least 18 but more likely 21 or older. Adris describes herself as being around Sorin's age.

I have not decided what ethnicity these characters are yet. The story is loosely Shakespeare-inspired so, in true Shakespeare fashion, the politics, warfare, and culture of the world is based on English history, specifically that of High Medieval England (1066 - 1327) -- the marriage-by-proxy to ratify a peace treaty arc, castles and trebuchets and longbows, the size of the armies in the story, the lack of canons, the social sensibilities around gender. But it is completely possible that both Isadred and Sorin have a parent from another, more distant country, or several ancestors. Also, my setting is a fictional place so I can do what I want. The physical appearances of the characters have no impact on the actual story. I am on draft 2 and have yet to write a single physical description of a character.

Sorin is bi. He is attracted to Adris when he still thinks he is a boy. He is still attracted to her when he discovers she is a girl.

I have been treating Adris as cis so far but I am considering making her nb or gender fluid. Getting to be anything but a cis man while still having control over her life is a critical part of her story, and that struggle is not exclusive to cis women, but I am cis woman so that is the story that resonates with me most.

Isadred is really good at sewing and horseback riding. She is also a terrible shot but she can use a short bow with a light draw-weight.

Sorin can sew. It's not pretty but his stitches do hold. He is also a very good rider and skilled with a knight's weapons: sword, lance, polearm, mace, sickle, crossbow etc. He cannot use a longbow though--that is a peasant's weapon.

Isadred loves parties and is very fashionable.

Sorin knows Isadred's husband.

I am probably going to change both these characters' names when I finally figure out how I want naming and ethnicity to work in this story.

[hybridcodex]

AI-Inspired Nightmare Tale - Part 1

A friend was playing around with Midjourney v5 AI Discord server, in which you enter code and it creates highly accurate images that "grow" over time at the behest of the a.i.. He threw out a couple very simple, wide-open prompts, with impressive results. Prompts (the AI returned a number of variations for each) :

1) /imagine the Tower of Babel in the style of Salvador Dali 2) /imagine the Tower of Babel in the style of artwork associated with layers of hell in Dante's Inferno

I saw the images it produced on his Facebook page recently, and how the five AI-created towers progressively descended into five variations, each image of the tower and it's landscape darker than the last, ultimately turning into a completely chaotic looking scene, with the fifth and final tower image representing the decay of the land and everything within it. What surprised me even more, though, was what last night had in store for me, directly correlated to the tower(s) the AI had produced, the fifth and last iteration of the tower being the one my brain latched on to most strongly. As I laid into bed and fell into a deep sleep, I couldn't have foreseen how this small experiment of his would effect my brain. The nightmare that would follow, seemingly everlasting but in truth only encapsulated within three hours of sleep, was still vividly fresh in my mind when I awoke in terror. With haste, I flung myself out of bed and rushed to the computer to type this at 3 am last night, posting it on the aforementioned friend's page, and written/directed at him, as he was the master of the tower in my nightmare. I will try to describe this AI-initiated and infused dream to you in the following, dark-apocalyptic written reflection of his image's effect on my mind. I didn't need to think deeply when I typed this, strangely; I just wrote, feeling sickly and sleep deprived, the darkness of my life coming out in this dream and in the piece crafted to retain it.

Here is my post/writing/tale:

I just woke up from the most profoundly dark and nightmarish dream I can recall, and it featured none other than you, and your "dark tower of a.i. Babylon.", as I saw it several days ago.. It is still so fresh in my brain, I couldn't leave it there and return to sleep. I had to share it before it left my conscious forever. Here is my experience. The dream began with a dystopian feel, and it felt routine, as if it had been going for ages…a feeling dreams often instill. I was walking throughout the tower, alone, hoping the 'others', whoever they were, wouldn't find me, or judge me in any way, as I lived a secure and guarded life in comparison to them, one they were uninhibitedly curious about. I shared this curiosity for them, and felt ashamed of it. You lived in the tower with me, as both friend and master of the domain. The others glanced inward from the exterior but could not gain access to us, even though moon-colored, possibly fogged over windows riddled the castle with their large, anxiety inducing holes in the tower presenting a clear security risk. They glared inwards still, day and night, almost like starving hyenas crossed with hateful Bolsheviks. I began to feel the ripe tension of the atmosphere created by these others…or was it me creating it? I could not face this possibility at the time. My responsibility was too great, though I still was not entirely sure of it's magnitude, and this bothered me in depth. I took three trips up to you in the entire dream, where you resided seemingly at the steeple of the tower; one the first night, two the second. The first walk up to what surely seemed the top of the tower held your chambers, with you sitting in the 'master chair', as you did, or rather I saw you doing. so many years ago as teens, in your home. You were casually monitoring the tower via the screen before you with spartan looking computer equipment for any and all threats. As I approached you, I could feel your attention turn to me without you moving a muscle. I thought, "Did I pass the test? Whatever it was, is he content to let me stay?" You said a few words, and though lost to me now, they relieved me; I remember that feeling distinctly. I was still a resident in your tower…our tower. I was safe.

[lured-into-wonderland]

“Oh, what a naughty frog you are!. You can hurt yourself.” – she knelt and gently picked him up again – “I was telling you not to escape from me. If you don’t stop behaving in such a ridiculous way, I’ll have to lock you...in a box!"

“Oh, no worries. It will be the most luxurious box ever. Worth of a king. Of the most powerful man…that is frog that ever existed.” – she patted his head again, trying hard not to chuckle – “You are so beautiful, my beloved husband. I would kiss you right now if I believed it would turn you back into your human form. But these are just fairy tales. Right?” – no, that was a lie. Perhaps a reassuring lie, but still a lie. She wanted to keep him as her little pet (at least for some time), as her little green frog. But then she had that thought that it must be a rather dreadful experience for him. Feeling so powerless. Perhaps he felt like when he was a child.

Her cheeks got dusted with red.

“I am sorry, Regulus. I shouldn't have been laughing because of what…who you became. I am going to try to help you.” – she added seriously. But then she remembered how he hit her with that book. Again and again. With no mercy and just for what…! For her loving him. True, he saved her, but never truly apologized to her. Perhaps he needed a lesson. Yes, Nunnally was going to help him, but not just yet. He'd have to wait. And depended on her.

“You don’t have to thank me. Not yet anyway. Though you could apologize…for treating me badly in the past.”

Keeping him firmly in her hand (yes, she wouldn't give him a chance to try something stupid again), she took out a bowl with fruit and some cakes.

“I should also have some salad and fresh bread. Unfortunately, nothing more is here as I doubt you’d like me to call the cultist to see you in such…a condition. Though perhaps they wouldn’t believe it’s you and then take you away from me…and throw you back to that pond.”

“Oh no! That would be terrible!” – she screamed in a pretended terror – “Imagine yourself being eaten by a snake. Or a lizard. Or a bird. No, no, no! You must stay with your beloved wife, who wants nothing else than your safety. All I dream right now is to be touched by you. To be blessed by your presence. To witness your powers.”

“Oh!” – another pretended exclamation – “And what is they wanted to make an exquisite dish out of you…!? That would be…” – hilarious – “…terrible!” – oh, Nunnally stop mocking him. (But he deserves it.) But he’ll be back in his human form and then you’d stand no chance.

“Do you understand what I am talking? Well, of course you do. You’re my beloved husband in the body of a cute frog.”

She carried him to the table, and still holding him in her hand, she said: --

“Please nod your head if you’d like to eat. I am sure you must be starving. I mean I suppose you are a frog, but judging from how clumsily you jumped, well, I don’t think you can behave as one. You wouldn't be able to catch yourself an insect? Am I right? Oh, my poor thing…you must be so lonely in that pond. Cold and abandoned. You’re so lucky you have me and I was there looking for you. How I wish we could talk. Then you could tell me, where we should go and look for some help…”

“Treasury…?”

“But am I allowed to go there without you?”

“Or perhaps library?”

“Your chambers?”

“I know. Will you promise to be a good frog? Then I will put you on my desk and write the letters of the piece of paper. You can jump from one another and let me know where you want me to carry you.”

“And no worries. I will let you sleep on my pillow. And will get you your very special blanket. I will take care of you as long as you’ll stay…a frog.” - which will be for some time. Everyone in this castle need some rest. Your wives feel much more relaxed with you seemingly not close.

“It must be so hard to be green. Especially for someone as special as you.”

This was a violation against his rights, this is a violation against his humanity, this is a violation against everything he stands for, violation, violation, VIOLATION! Yet all hope was not lost for now, even with the mocking tone, green! He was so green now and that voice, that mocking voice of her own, as he would not stand for it, he could not stand at all, but that was beside the point! This was the highest violation in the history of violations and if she knew what was the best for her, she would do everything within her power to lend him aid, as she managed to see him, hello, he was trapped here in this damn pond, he had been dumped here and left, this was not the way it was meant to be, violation! As she managed to find him and pick him up as he breathed out for the moment, finally a wife with some sense, some class as well, some kindness to know that he was within danger and seek him out and lend him the aid and salvation that he deserved, he was brilliant afterall, the best, the greatest! He was fantastic in each and every single way possible, green as he maybe right now, he was still the strongest living creature within the entire world and she ought to be shaking with fear of being this near to him!

Whatever she was thinking, don’t. She would be wise to take him to the treasury at once and look through all the books, magical items, weapons, everything she can get her hands on and try and lend him aid and undo this damage!

“What!” As he was not sure, she would not understand a single thing he said! “Escape, did you dump me here!” He didn’t know, all he knew was someone got him, a damn witch and he was picked up and tossed within this pond! Escape, he was too tiny, and everything outside of the damn pond wanted to eat him! He did not want to end up like pride! Eaten alive and all that power gone within a creatures stomach!

“Finally!” Salvation was at hand, as he did not move, he would wriggle, but he would not hop away, he was not going back into the pond, he was not going back onto that green lily pad, he was not going back there, that was not happening! “Hurry!” As she needed to get inside and ensure no one else would see him!

“Less of the jests!” As he glared right at her, she was laughing, laughing at him, at this! Nothing was amusing about this! “You cannot mean that!” His voice, was perfection, everyone loved it, everyone needed to hear it, it was to die for.

For most people, well.

It was the last thing they heard before there life ended, brutally.

Wait, wait, where on earth was this idiot going! To the castle, not for a stroll through the gardens, what on earth was she thinking, he did not have the time to go sightseeing, he needed to get back inside and quickly as well, he needed to get back inside and for all of this to be dealt with, if not her, then another wife maybe and he will reward her aid and services, but this one, she was teasing him, mocking him, messing with him and this was just one violation moving onto another violation and building up.

“I am starving!” He was hungry, there was no food in a pond, that he knew about! “What!” Flies, was she joking again, that sounded disgusting, as her hand came down to tap the top of his head! Why did her hand no explode, why was her arm not cut off, why was his powers not protecting him! “How dare you!” In her pocket! He was a king, a king! He did not go into a pocket, he was regal, and he was perfect and he damn well expected the best of everything within the world.

It’s hard to be green!

As she finally got inside, and put him down and he hopped, moving and jumping off the desk as he hit the ground and with a hard thud, just died right there and then, breaking his little body and joints, as he was not used to anything like this, as the snapping could be heard as his powers lingered, he could not die, as they repaired themselves within a blink of an eye. “Ah!” She was not going to aid him, he had to escape then, as he moved, trying to stand up on two legs to make a run for it.

Only to move and fall flat forward onto the ground.

“Kill me, just put your foot on me and squash me.”

[alucarddear]

any headcanons on Alucard being touchstarved?

Note: 💯 See this happening during lonely Alucard szn.

Orphaned young, with no other family to boot, Alucard should have gotten used to a solitary life. Yet for a brief time, he’d experienced banter and conversations—friendship—with Sypha and Trevor.

So when the couple left to pursue a life together, he was hit by devastating loneliness. By the realisation that he didn’t have what they had. That he wanted it. So much so he’d found himself fashioning dolls in their likeness, talking to himself—to his only friends’ doll counterparts—as he ate in his cold and large dining hall.

After them, his companions were Taka and Sumi, who, in their own isolation, had been blinded by mistrust. It didn’t last long.

He told himself then that he was done with humans. That he would sleep in his coffin for a century and forget about his desire to hear voices again in his castle, the touch of warm hands or soft smiles or quiet laughter. That he needed to be by himself for a long while. That time will make him forget any yearning, any desire for connection, even if it took a hundred years.

He told himself that he will one day emerge again—stronger, renewed, with a disdain for touch rather than a sick longing for it. Invincible.

But she shows up in his life in the most unexpected way and turns it upside down—ruining his plans, reigniting his thirst. Yet another human, yet another wretched temptation. And he, like the starved fool that he is, snatches the dangling prize and lets her in. Opening, yet again, the possibility of hurt.

But he wants it so bad. Companionship. To have conversations. To feel warmth. To be held by someone who loves him, be loved. To not only hear of it, but experience it too. It outweighs whatever modicum of self-preservation he has in him.

They eventually fall in love, and he is happy again, but so afraid.

With her around, he creates little excuses to touch the skin of her hands as if she might disappear any minute now. To softly and slowly graze his knuckles against her cheek as she sleeps on his lap. He never wants to be without her.

Sometimes when his fear gets bad, he acts as if every moment is the last he gets to spend with her. As if reminding himself that he is no longer alone, he prolongs her every hug, squeezing her tight, and savours her every kiss—keeping her wrapped up in his arms, safe and sound.

Quick pecks, a hand on her waist as they stroll outside, cuddles in the cold, dark nights, and he is happy.

He loves to run his fingers through her hair, to have her kiss his cheeks good night. As long as she is there to receive his embrace when he reaches his arms out in his sleep, then all is well again. He is content.

He does things like nuzzle his face against hers, draw little figures and shapes onto the skin of her stomach, cuddle with as little clothing as possible—his touch light as a feather. Just that skin-on-skin contact he craves for. And when he holds her, he holds her in his arms as if she’s the most precious thing in the world.

She—who came into his life at his lowest like a beacon of light—is cherished, celebrated, protected and loved by him for as long as she would be willing to have him.

“Undeserving as I am,” he tells her once, a sad smile on his face. “Thank you for loving me.”

[pansy-picnics]

I need more next gen. I am starving. Pls. What are UD/varigo like with their niblings. Is Eugene the fun uncle. Who had a hero crush on Hugo. Stuff like that.

IVE BEEN MEANING TO DO SOME CONTENT OF THIS FOR A WHILE HEHEHE THANK U….. i’ve been collecting sketches for this for a while so it’s gonna be a long one

emery loves their aunties and uncle and rapunzel and her partners all spoil them to DEATH its so fucking cute

they’re very into botanical and herbal sciences, so she does a lot more hands-on and in the moment studies than varian and hugo, who usually stay cooped up in their lab most of the day. rapunzel especially loves going out with her on hikes or nature walks whenever her dads are busy, and they do field journals and stuff…. sometimes others will join them on their little trips but for the most part it’s just something the two of them do together. they garden a lot too, obviously, and raps listens to her infodump for hours on end

em also absolutely ADORES her aunt cassie, as she has dubbed her (it definitely got varian a few death glares at first, but he swears up and down he didn’t teach her anything). she loves hearing all the stories about her adventures and is especially fascinated by her cartography. cass also loves to collect weird things, like feathers, funny looking rocks or crystals, animal/fish bones, reptile skins or wings of insects, various things from deceased creatures she’s come across on her travels. emery finds this stuff incredibly cool, since they love animals

whenever cassandra travels out of corona for a bit she brings home lots of flowers and herbs and things for them to study, along with plenty of pretty trinkets and baubles for both them and the twins <3

that’s jusr like one of her love languages she’s like a crow. just gives people shiny rocks and sticks she found, and sometimes jewels/little hairclips/rings/generally very fancy things she definitely stole. sometimes nobody knows what to do with them but they keep them because they love her

eugene is absolutely the fun uncle but like, only when yong’s not around bc he easily solos eugene any day. no hard feelings it just is what it is

but yeah eugene always does the best storytime voices, especially with the flynn rider books bc hes been doin this for YEARS hes got DECADES of experience bro. sometimes the kids encourage him to act out the scenes in which he tries his best but fails miserably while lamenting about his old man bones

rapunzel and cassandra both laugh at him and sometimes will try to pick up where he left off

and, speaking of flynn, with another kid in the castle eugene finally gets another chance to play his favorite game: how long can i have this child convinced that i am the REAL flynn rider in the flesh

the answer is quite a while and it will eventually lead a very pissed off alchemist to storm into your room ready to beat the shit out of you

eugene definitely helps them get away with shit especially considering he’s trying to get revenge on the years varian and hugo spent being menaces to the twins. it is actually CRUCIAL that hugo and varian stay childless for a good 5-7 years after the twins are born because they get that long to be Goofy Ass Uncles and nothing more

no bc theyd literally be the worst most irresponsible mfs imaginable bc they’re both fucking around the whole time trying to impress the kids but they start getting rlly overly competitive about who they like more and fighting about it while the twins are just along for the ride

so. they DO still end up being the favorite uncles just. not for the reasons they think

they’d be like, showing the kids all sorts of projects they have around the lab but theyre just so much more hyperfocused on one upping each other- varian would do tons of interactive experiments so they can get involved and be hands on with everything. it’s just simple stuff obviously, baby science

but hugo on the other hand is more keen to giving them eye candy. fancy machines with cool lights and noises and the like. he does this with kids in town already, they always know him by name and like to play with olivia so he knows how to get the attention of children, but varian thinks it’s cheating so they get into a really stupid argument about it

varian: HAHAHA hugh you’re KIDDING right. that’s nothing they dont even know what’s going on its just a big machine that makes fancy lights and noises

hugo: ??? ok but that’s all you really need isn’t it?? it’s not like kids are all that hard to impress. plus you cant get on my case when yours is just some vial that changes color. you can at LEAST give them something cooler than that

varian: ??? HUGO I CAN ONLY DO SO MUCH THEYRE LIKE FOUR😭 at least MINE is educational. it teaches them about alchemy while helping them develop critical thinking and motor skills

hugo: oh my gods var it’s not that deep😑 like work smarter not harder you know what i mean?? it’s not like they’re our kids we don’t have to worry about that stuff

varian: IT’S NOT EVEN ABOUT THAT THOUGH it’s about captivation and keeping their attention. kids have really short attention spans, fancy gadgets may look cool but they’ll get boring in like five seconds. if you get them involved with the process and allow them to understand the craft they’ll be WAY more interested and-

varian goes into a rant before hugo cuts him off being all “ok fine well if you’re so confident lets ask what THEY think” and varians like “FINE” and so hugo turns around in a huff and realizes both the toddlers are Gone.

and he’s just “,,,,,hey um. hey var. love….where did the twins go” and varian whips his head around like “YOU FUCKING LOST THEM????”

so obviously they both freak the fuck out and are scouring the entire lab making sure they arent off drinking some dangerous chemicals or some shit but like, both of them are smart as fuck so it turns out they just walked off in the middle of their argument and went to go steal sweets from the kitchen. cass, raps, and eugene all chew them out for it later. they get more responsible when emery comes along but like….yk not that much AUDJSJDHDSNS

on the topic of stupid uncles, i should mention that though they love all of them dearly…lance is kind of the favorite like 90% of the time

cuz see eugene along with hugo still continue to be a bit overprotective and paranoid with the kids at times. varian is usually very laid back but when emery hits her teen years he starts to worry a lot more, while hugo mellows out considering that’s where vars own life went downhill LMAO. if there’s anyone who will indulge them and let them get away with ANYTHING it’s lance.

there’s such a blatant and vast difference between your first time parents who are always overthinking everything and worrying about whether they’re good parents or not and your cool, unmarried uncle who already adopted and raised two teenage kids in his 20s, is in the prime of his life and doesn’t technically have to take responsibility for you at all

granted though, the twins have had everyone wrapped around their little fingers since their birth

immediately after the twins were born, everyone in the castle (and even those who weren’t) all collectively pitched in to help as much as they possibly could. especially considering rapunzel struggled a lot mentally in the first few months of her kids’ life, the whole family was very determined to make the time as stress-free as their abilities would allow

one thing they found out quickly was that the twins absolutely adored varian. which obviously confused the alchemist and left him feeling quite helpless considering 1. kids hardly ever liked him (he usually got bullied by them) and 2. because of this he. didn’t really know what to do with kids. ryder once fell asleep in his arms and he lowkey panicked bc he had NO idea what he was supposed to do

when the anxious new parents were finally able to let people be alone with the babies, varian ended up being a pretty regular sitter. to the point where he would have little baby slings in case he needed to hold them while he was working on small projects or something. people would even frequently assume they were his and he eventually got tired of explaining they were actually his niblings so he just let people think whatever

before theyre born hugo jokes around like “lmaooo i dont even like kids” but he’s lying thru his fucking TEETH. hed die for them.

also alina thinks hugo is SO fucking cool (obviously considering he cut her hair based off of his) but also em admires hugo more than either of the twins could ever possibly comprehend. i havent drawn it enough since most of what i’ve drawn of them is them bullying each other but thats just their love language of course emery picked up on it. past the age of like 10 emery would rather die than admit how much she looks up to her father but hugo Knows <3

its not to say em doesnt admire varian, because she loves both her dads equally!!! but because hugo also came from an orphaned past being with him made emery feel a lot more safe and understood during her first few years at the castle. hugo knew what it was like to suddenly go from having nothing to having Everything and he knew it could be really stressful, especially for a little kid….having someone who understood that was really comforting to emery.

because of this though hugo tended to be the paranoid mother hen type, especially compared to varian who was a LOT more laid back and wanted to give them the freedom to trust their own judgement and make mistakes. it was tough to balance these styles at first but emery genuinely loved them both, even if hugo’s fussiness was a bit annoying sometimes

in fact the reason emery dubbed hugo “mama” in the first few months was not because they could sense his massive amounts of Gender (well like, partially, but it was about a month or so after that before the ‘are you a boy or a girl?’ question finally came up), but instead because hugo’s constant doting on her reminded them of their birth mother

varian and hugo dont know much about emery’s birth family or what happened to them, considering she doesn’t say much in her younger years and eventually forgets most of what she didn’t; but she seems to have cared a lot about her birth mother, and frequently still misses her presence.

whenever those waves of emotion are too much for her to bear, hugo is there to comfort her- and he assures her that despite never even meeting them, he still misses his birth family, too, but that it will get easier, and no matter what, she’ll always have people who love and support her

anyways thats all i have rn *opens my head and puts my brain back in it like the little frankenstien dude from nightmare before christmas* idk when ill have more content of them but the next time i do it’ll probably be that drawing with rapunzel kissing both her partners on the lips and both of them being so romantically in love with her /hj

[princessasmosprincess]

Charmed, I'm Sure

Chapter 5 First Chapter|Previous Chapter|Next Chapter

Summary: No human has ever avoided Asmodeus's charm. Except for you.

Pairing: Asmodeus x GN Reader/MC

Genre: Drama, angst

Warnings: Mild innuendo

***

“I am the best,” Asmo said to himself, “I am the best!” He was surrounded by six mirrors in the middle of his bedroom, enacting the ritual he did whenever he needed a boost of confidence or a little comfort. He blew his reflection a kiss. “Oh Asmo, you are one sexy demon!” he added for good measure, moaning his own name and reveling in the sound.

Feeling himself once more, Asmo got ready to go out for the night. Next to staring at himself in the mirror, clubbing was his favorite pastime. Not only that, he viewed it as a noble duty. How could he not make an appearance at The Fall and let all in attendance feast upon his beauty? It would be better than the other day, he promised himself.

As he got changed, his mind wandered back to you. Asmo had hoped to avoid seeing you all day but you ended up in his art class along with Satan, Solomon, and Simeon. The art professor thought it would be an “enriching” experience for the class to draw a real live human. Since you were the shiny new thing, (Solomon was already well known among the student body and even had pacts with several students and professors) you had been chosen to be the model. Why anyone would want to draw a drab human when an immaculate being like Asmo was standing right there was beyond him, but he acted like any good student would and he sketched you perfectly to completion.

He still avoided your eye whenever he could. It was Asmo who had spread those rumors about you on the first day of class. He heard you had almost been jumped by a few demons within moments of walking through the doors of RAD. The news was gratifying, and a little disappointing since you hadn't actually been hurt. But it also somehow made him feel… guilty? Demons weren't supposed to feel guilt.

That’s why he had taken the time to say his mantras. He wanted to wash away the cares of the day. It was all about him now.

He passed you and Mammon arguing on the stairs.

Typical.

But he didn't care to listen in on the conversation.

“Bye bye, you two,” he waved, making sure his exit was known. He was someone who always demanded attention, even from those he hated.

***

“I want to explore the Devildom.” You said as you watched Asmo pass you on the stairs.

“And?” Said Mammon, “What do I care about that?”

“You’re supposed to be looking after me. I can't very well go by myself.” You almost told Mammon what had happened earlier that day but you stopped yourself. He already thought you were pathetic. No need to give him another reason to tease you. It was already starting to get old.

A mischievous smile stole across your lips. This was the perfect time to practice engaging your pact. “Mammon, take me out and show me around the Devildom.”

“Ah,” his body jolted slightly as the command took hold.

You had only ordered him a few times before now. Yes, the pact made it easier for you to get Mammon’s attention. But you didn't want to abuse the privilege. You just didn't want to be holed up in the House of Lamentation all night. You still didn't know what to make of the brothers. Mammon, especially now that you had a pact with him, was predictable. You liked that about him.

You took in the expression on his face, feeling a little guilty. “Does it hurt… when I command you?”

“Nah, pacts don't hurt. Not usually, anyway. It’s just annoyin’.” Said Mammon.

You were relieved. “Good, I really didn't want to cause you any pain.”

“Like a little thing like you could ever hurt The Great Mammon,” He shifted his gaze to the floor, blushing just a little. “Fine I’ll take ya around the Devildom. Beel’s in charge of dinner tonight so we’d probably starve if we didn't go out,” He sighed. “But you’re payin’ for the night.”

“I think I can do that,” you smiled. An envelope had arrived that morning from Diavolo’s castle containing several thousand Grimm, what would be your weekly allowance. All paid by the Demon prince. It seemed excessive, especially since most of your time would be spent at the House of Lamentation and RAD. But this was the perfect opportunity to spend it.

The two of you got ready to go out. Mammon donning his customary brown and white leather jacket. You hoped your own clothing was acceptable for the Devildom. There hadn't exactly been much time to pack when Diavolo and Lucifer had essentially kidnapped you, but Barbatos had prepared a bag for you of your own belongings.

The Main Street of the Devildom was within walking distance to the House of Lamentation, which was very convenient. Mammon took you to Hell’s Kitchen first, which was apparently a popular eating spot for RAD students. He went over your order twice to make sure there wasn't anything that would accidentally poison you. He had definitely been paying attention to Satan’s little lecture at the breakfast table.

After your meal, he pointed out the popular locations down the street.

“There’s Café Lament. And across the street over here, that’s Majolish,” He indicated a hot pink building shaped like a witch’s hat, “Best clothing line in the Devildom if you ask me. Actually,” Mammon ran a hand through his hair. “I got a modeling gig comin’ up so you might see me on the cover of— MC are you even listenin’?”

“Hm… Oh, yes I was. It’s just… It’s always night time here,” you looked up at the moon. It appeared to be right behind the Demon Lord’s castle now.

“Yup,” said Mammon.

“How am I supposed to get sunlight?” You asked. “Humans need Vitamin D to survive.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?”

“No, why would I?” You stepped behind Mammon as a group of demons walked past.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked your way. “Humans are that fragile, huh?”

“I guess you could say that.”

Mammon shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll just die here.”

You shot him a look.

“I was just kiddin’. Calm down, human.” He slapped you hard on the back. “Ya need Vitamin C that badly–”

“Vitamin D,”

“Semantics. Anyway, I’m sure Goetia up here has tanning beds or somethin’. That’s kinda like the sun, right?” He inclined his head towards the beauty salon you were approaching.

But your eyes wandered to the huge purple building that looked like a wrapped present. Colorful lights pulsed in the windows to music you could hear through the walls.

“What’s that place?” you asked.

“That’s The Fall,” said Mammon. “It’s a nightclub, Asmo practically lives there.”

“The Fall,” you breathed.

“Ya know, come to think of it, it’s kinda messed up that the club is named after the most traumatic event in my family’s– MC where are you goin’?”

You were already walking toward the building. The music was calling to you. Dancing would be the perfect way to unwind after your first few days of classes, you thought.

“Let’s go dancing, Mammon!” you grabbed his hand.

“N-now?” He stammered as he looked down at your interlocked hands.

“Of course! Doesn’t it sound like so much fun?”

The two of you were already inside. You paid the cover charge before Mammon could protest.

***

Cross-posted on AO3

[theanomily]

Continuation, for chapters 7 to end

Chapter Seven

I went from pity (foetal position) to admiration (voice resistance, "Look at me, do I look like someone who doesn't know everything there is to know about pain.") to revolt regarding Anastasia in the span of few pages. Favourite segment so far.

Also, was Anastasia projecting her own desires to revel in the suffering of others, was it an educated guess, or has Dr Nero actually been going to watch her in the flesh? The latter would kind of ruin the whole solitary confinement thing, but it would also make sense to want to have that kind of involvement in her capture given that she is intertwined with the whole Elena and my child situation

Please, please, please explain why block and tackle are being nice. PLEASE

Penny Lancaster. Lancaster. At least she wasn't forgotten?

New favourite setting- Queen of shadows Castle... oh, it's going to get blown up or something by Wright isn't it

So, um. Do only Nero, Diabolus, and Otto get dinner? The girls can starve I guess. Actually, they haven't been mentioned at all in otto's scenes this chapter, but I swear a separation wasn't established? Am I going insane?

OK, give the Queen a megaphone. Got it.

She keeps referring to family, but isn't she the only one? Ghost au, but the ghosts somehow can be destroyed by military attack?

Chapter Eight

Well, Nero and Raven are going to have matching scars now

...Anastasia is going to command Raven to torture Nero, isn't she?

I'd quite forgotten Nero was voice-resistant

Oh, so the Queen used to have whispers as her voice, rather than the roaring otto described. Interesting. I also want to know what this debt is.

ANIMUS :)

Animus-ing Anna are we?

Chapter Nine:

Well, this is embarrassing, but I have no idea what penny is trying to say about putting seven years of bad luck on Ms Leon.

And yes, there's Nero being tortured. Once again, I am cursing h.i.v.e.'s target age audience because I would love a Raven pov here

Wait, did penny not know about ms Leon and the experiment? Like she can't have thought she was born that way or that all cats are intelligent by human standards. Also it's kind of sad that Mr Walden clearly thought og h.i.v.e. fans had all stopped caring during the hiatus with all the little series recaps sprinkled in here. I know the other books aren't devoid of them, and i get why they have to exist, but it feels like there are a lot more in bloodline/they go on for longer

Staff going behind nero's back. I love

Also with how often tabitha has been giving wing shade for trying to escape implies that she's been doing it in class. "So, let's say you had to make your way to a submarine pen, this is how you don't get caught" but make it sound more Ms leon-y

Oh dear lord, it's like a vial of crack fic slipped in here and I am NOT complaining (referring to the Kali-human incident, the Queen commanding Shelby to be poilte, dictionary.com being featured)

And Mr Walden pulled through in that Nigel is at least standing up to his father. Thank god

Chapter Ten:

Coffee shop au but it's Francisco's Footcare

Oh so the queen does have whispers. That being said, with the amount of pages left, I don't think that's quite going to work

I love Anna ("Now, how did Anastasia put it earlier... outworn your usefulness")

And there's going to be more Annas :)

The Colonel dislikes cats confirmed?

BABY BEAR? GOLDILOCKS? please go back to popcorn shelby

Since I'm pretty sure everyone but otto complained about the texture of the suit, I think I can headcanon him as being hyposensitive to touch. I know Laura doesn't complain in the scene, but she's not the one basically telling the others to suck it up

Oh how I love being proven right two for two (suit malfunction, although I did think it would be otto and wing dealing with that to mirror the beginning of the book)

Due to spoilers, I know it won't happen but canon divergence where Anna makes Laura kill shelby and then makes otto torture Laura to death seemingly by his own decision, and then manipulates things such that wing kills otto "to save him from what he's become".

Chapter Eleven

Oh so they commit self-destruct on the volcano. I honestly like that idea more than Anna destroying it

Does Mr Walden have cats? Because he's totally correct, they would manage to bring down armed killer robots single-handedly

I get that there's a lot going on, but considering hive is basically a prison to penny (meaning she has no particular loyalty to it) and Laura was "responsible" for the disaster during the hunt, I was expecting much more of a dramatic reuinion between those two

Interesting that both otto and wing have been confronted with a raven not acting by her own will + somebody threatening to shoot her and otto had the more opposing reaction, despite wing being closer to her in bloodline than otto was to her in zero hour. Obviously, otto had been through animus, but wing's aversion to killing balances that back out.

Incorrect answers only: why has shelby attempted to break into nero's office? What foiled her plans?

I will be able to form coherent thoughts about the rest of this chapter in two to three business days. For now, we read onwards

Chapter Twelve

Now, we all know that Mr Walden only has a character yell out no when an unfavourable event happens towards their love interest (I am hoping so hard right now that I'm correct and am not implying any weird relationships with this statement). So uhh Franz likes Nigel confirmed?

(Rereading this, I realise that otto lets out probably the longest "no" of the series in OP when wing is shot. They are very much just friends. But I'm stubborn, so Franz likes Nigel confirmed).

So diabolus "you don't need to know how something works in order to break it" darkdoom has more destruction potential than his son

Aaand penny wants to abandon her childhood friend who did nothing wrong to her, even in her pov, but is amicable towards Laura. Got it

Otto had already established that Anna would enslave the world, not destroy it, because it's what he would do. In his encounter with her, he basically asks what's the point in taking over a destroyed world. Even seeing what she can do, what she's like, he seems to view himself as worse than her. Ouch.

Not going to lie, I was expecting more of a battle akin to the one against number one/Overlord in escape velocity. How did the animus give otto the voice? If it's intrinsic to the stuff and it was Overlord manipulating it such that only he had its power, it kind of implies that it was developed via using some sinistre descendents, perhaps only loosely related, as lab rats in order to manufacture it to begin with

I'm curious as to what torture Raven inflicted that nero's only reaction was to rub his wrists from the restraints. She had medical equipment, not anything like water to board him with. It's canon that the man was screaming. Obviously he wouldn't want to show pain to Raven given the circumstances, but not even a limp? His shirt sticking to blood? Due to not wanting to ruin this segment for myself, I will headcanon that due to their closeness, she might have been able to fight anna/Anastasia just slightly, just enough to hold back. Nero figured this out, given how he'd know how she'd typically torture (which i believe is confirmed in deadlock), and played up his screams.

RIP H.I.V.E.mind. RIP Elena portrait and Sinistre memorial.

Chapter Thirteen

Straight off the bat, I know this is a catch-up with our protagonists chapter, and in full disclosure, I hate when pieces of media do this. I think it's better to leave it to the imagination where they end up. As such, I don't know how much I'll ever have to say here

Wait. Is that Franz liking Nigel (or at least guys) confirmed? Goddamn, I never thought Mr Walden would have the guts

And it's certainly an... interesting narrative choice to have Nero abandon the fact that he knows damn well when elena died to be a typical father who forgets his child's birthday

Even if shelby left glove behind, let's be honest, she's sneaking off to go get some jewels every now and again

(I turn the page and am proven correct)

And just know that I am internally laughing at the idea of Laura becoming Oxbridge

This is a Bloodline "live react", but also not really because I'm posting my initial thoughts as I read in maybe two goes, depending on the time I can allocate to reading.

Disclaimer: The book has been out for two and a bit years. I hate surprises. Consequently, I know stuff. Specifically, I know that:

Otto "dies" // the volcano explodes. These are somehow linked?

The Queen of Shadows is a Sinistre who... exists // Raven is Nero's daughter. Again, these are somehow linked? Sidenote: hive fantasy au where there's a Nero, furan and sinistre kingdom/royalty

There's a scene in which Nero is tied to a bed?? And I think Anastasia is there?? (*squirts Mr Walden with water*)

There's some Anna kid/super-robot. I assume she wants to kill everyone (mood). Sidenote: given how similar her name is to Anastasia's, there's probably some connection there.

Ms. Leon gets her body back. Her cat's name is Kali.

Pietor has a "lurking heart."

*

Chapter One:

OK, opening with a scene of Nero + brandy into a flashback sequence... very Overlord Protocol. Wonder if that was intentional and if the books may be linked.

Nero is younger than I thought. Much younger.

"There's a fine line between being devoted and pathetic." Oh, I love Elena already.

Clumsy Max. That's all I have to say. See, I thought it was as he was bending to kneel when the shot happened, not bending to retrieve a fallen ring. It's kind of sweet that it's the one time we've seen him display nerves. And it killed his (finace? Girlfriend? Does the proposal count?), generating a Never Again type of instinct and the birth of the max we know and love

KILL ANASTASIA, MAX... oh, you IDIOT. Suppose plot gotta plot, eh?

Dr Higgs... why is that name familiar? Glass tanks. Did he work on Otto back in the day?

Laura seems much more bold than any other book. It's interesting, given that Deadlock has literally just happened.

Shelby's first line is an insult. Now that's the Shelby I love

This is wholesome (barring the implied make outs, of course), but Penny. What has happened to Penny?

Oh no, h.i.v.e.mind is thinking they're having a foursome, isn't he?

Chapter Two:

So Anna is Otto crossed with the Contessa. And the whole initial want to know stuff about her creator? Aka her "parents"? I'm sensing AU potential centred around a more human version of her, yearning for a family to find and slowly being driven into insanity/violence

Oh my god, max on holiday? It's him, he's being controlled by something.

I forget that Raven and diabolus are only friends/kind of close in fanfiction. I have no point to make here. It's just very jarring to read max saying to her that he'll do all the talking as though it's all a political battlefield.

Also, we should actually talk about max's daddy issues

Why is Franz a gym bro now? I suppose he inspired himself to try to attain his ninja alter ego via his newfound shooting skills. Still extremely out the blue. (Oooh, And They Were Study Buddies).

...That better not be the extent of Nigel's self-acceptance arc. Or else I'll have to dust off the old ffn account, and nobody wants that. Mr Walden, my guy, I'm counting on you.

Anna, will you take my hand in marriage?

Ouch, Zero really did just exist to be told "a copy is never as good as the original" and then to have his successor be even better than him.

Chapter Three

Excuse me, I know Otto points it out immediately, but Wing advocating for more aggression? Interesting. Makes sense in context- a simulation, in which he would have been the one getting hurt if they took a more aggressive approach. I wonder if that's going to come into play, perhaps the other way around, in a real situation?

Are they really not going to say what this security flaw is? Damn, poor hive'll never learn

Chapter Four

Why are block and tackle being nice? Wing's right, this is a complete parallel universe

..or perhaps not. Only shelby would dare picture Nero in tights.

Page 66 and hive is already fucked. What I'm hearing is Cypher was a complete amateur

CYPHER BOTS :)

Chapter Six

We are nine books in, and let's be honest. Dr Scott isn't the chief medic, he's the only medic

I forgot to jot down anything for c5, but if I forgot, then I can't have had anything particularily noteworthy to say.

Here, I do find it quite interesting that Anna referred to guns as nasty. Reminds me of those really convoluted family trees in which wing is related to otto (and, by extention, anna) via his parents working on Overlord.

Damn, looks like a united glove isn't good news at all for max right now

Also, I'm still really wondering if Mr Walden just straight up forgot about Penny

[the-insomniac-emporium]

RE8 Ladies + Love Languages

While this isn't terribly long per character, I am putting it under a read-more for the combined length. Some characters have more details than others, partially due to how much I've written for them (and therefore had time to think about how they show their affections). For once the contents are not in alphabetical order. Crazy, right? PS there's a very, very brief implication of NSFW in Daniela's section.

Features the entire Dimitrescu family, Mother Miranda, Donna Beneviento, and as a lil bonus Ava.

Cassandra Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Physical touch

Secondary Love Language: Acts of Service

Examples: Constantly wants to be touching some part of her lover, even if she sometimes pretends otherwise, from hand holding to making them sit in her lap. So goddamn touch starved. Preferably sleeps with her lover sprawled out on top of her, weighing her down, soothed by the constant pressure. Seriously, this woman needs someone to hold her as close as possible, running their fingers through her hair, pressing soft little kisses along her neck + shoulder. And then repeat. Every single day. For life.

Treating her lover’s wounds, or bringing them tea to soothe their nightmares, or monitoring their health when they're sick (see: Bound Blood + We Don’t Talk About That). Cassandra hates feeling like she owes someone, and isn’t fond of others owing her (because when they pay her back, she might end up owing them “the difference”). When it comes to love, however, all debts feel paid as soon as they are incurred. She does things for her beloved because she cares for them, expecting nothing in return. Sure, she’ll complain about the effort, but it doesn’t really bother her, and she truly hopes her lover knows that.

Mother Miranda:

Primary Love Language: Acts of Service

Secondary Love Language: Gift Giving

Examples: Despite the decades she has spent as a Goddess, commanding the willing masses, Miranda doesn’t put much emphasis on words. Instead, she values actions above all else. She doesn't care if someone says that they are devoted to her, she wants to see the effects of that devotion. In turn, she much prefers to show her affection rather than voice it, even if it leaves her lover less sure of her feelings. One must keep in mind that she is the leader of an entire region, and the fact that she chooses to personally take care of something for you means a hell of a lot. Even if it’s just making you a cup of tea whenever she brews some for herself, or something as big as setting up a studio for you and your personal projects, or simply ensuring that your favorite meals are added to the rotation.

Similar, in some aspects, to her preference to showcase her love rather than announce it, Miranda takes pride in her ability to select gifts. She remembers just about everything you ever tell her, easily memorizing things you express interest in. Though she won’t make a big deal out of it, you’ll often find little gifts from her lying around, casual reminders of how much of her attention is devoted to you.

Daniela Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Secondary Love Language: Physical Touch

Examples: What can she say, she loves to be worshipped. Having someone look at her with eyes full of adoration, one hand cupping her cheek, as they list a thousand reasons why they love her? That’s all she wants. Or sitting with her lover’s head in her lap, listening to them recite poetry that reminds them of her, while she runs her fingers through their hair. Ooh, or hearing them cry out her name like something holy as she all but buries her head between their legs. But don’t worry, she’s just as eager to return the favor, singing soft praises dedicated to her beloved. Admittedly, her compliments are sometimes a tad roundabout (so to speak).

“Mmm,” she’ll hum, “I’m the luckiest woman in the world. Living in a castle, my every need catered to, endless life, and, of course, the most darling little pet I could ever ask for. What more could I want?” Then she’ll pull her lover close, a kiss against their pulse point to claim them as her own. It’s impossible for her to determine her favorite place to touch her lover. There are little spots that elicit sweet sounds from them, then there are places where their warmth is a tad fiercer than normal, pure bliss against her own freezing skin. Wherever she touches them, it’s a silent declaration of her love.

Bela Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Quality Time

Secondary Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Examples: It doesn’t matter what she does with her lover, as long as they are together, in the same room if not actively pressed against each other. Any hobby of theirs is one that she’ll instantly take interest in. An academic at heart, she loves to learn, regardless of the subject, and takes endless delight in learning from those close to her. There’s something incredible about the feeling she gets when she gets a chance to show her lover how much she remembers, and she sees that spark of joy in their eyes.

Considering her fondness for classical literature, it’s no surprise that she adores using language to convey the depths of her affection. Whether she’s quoting Sappho or Shakespeare, she often relies on dead poets to express herself. In turn, she cannot even begin to describe the feeling she gets when her lover returns the gesture, especially if they go so far as to write something original for her. More than once she’s tried to craft her own poetry, but has found herself lacking (at least to her own standards). One thing she enjoys is memorizing poetry written by someone from her lover’s home country, assuming that they’re not from Romania.

Alcina Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Gift Giving/Physical Touch

Secondary Love Language: Quality Time

Examples: Considering the era in which she was born, it’s not terribly surprising that Alcina’s affection often manifests in less obvious ways. A hand on her lover’s back, guiding them along, or letting her knee touch theirs when they sit next to each other, or gently reaching out to give one of their hands a soft pat during quiet conversations. On top of that, she gives out gifts almost constantly. Oh, her lover very briefly mentioned enjoying a local artist? Well, Alcina will be certain to purchase several (or most) of their recent work. Did her beloved muse out loud about not having much jewelry? That won’t do! She’ll get them a large assortment, including plenty that bear the crest of House Dimitrescu. Everyone will know who her lover is, if only for the way that they are adorned with her loveliest finery.

Much like her eldest daughter (who likely takes after her mother), Alcina also enjoys the barest of interactions with her darling. With the endless stretch that is her potential lifespan, she knows that she has all the time in the world to learn new skills, or experience all that the village has to offer. Nothing warms her heart quite like the idea of getting to enjoy those things with the people that matter most to her- namely her partner and her children.

Donna Beneviento:

Primary Love Language: Quality Time

Secondary Love Language: Gift Giving

Examples: An odd mix of shy and calculating, Donna Beneviento is not one to rely on words, nor does she often take grand actions where others may observe. Instead, she works (and weaves) within the shadows. When it comes to love, she prefers to let her priorities reveal her feelings. Day after day, she chooses to spend time with her partner, regardless of the activity. If they ask for her company, she gives it without hesitation. She invites them to join her in the garden, or give input on her latest creations, and ensures that they are readily involved in just about every aspect of her life.

Being as talented as she is with crafting (both the overall art of doll-making and the somewhat related ability to sew all sorts of clothing), ‘tis not surprising that she also turns to gifts to express herself. From knitting hats in winter to soft blankets when her partner is sick, she provides for them in the easiest way she knows how.

Avaskian Caldwell:

Primary Love Language: Physical Touch/Words of Affirmation

Secondary Love Language: Quality Time

Examples: Arguably the most touch-starved person ever to exist, xer only possible rival being Cassandra. Struggles to strike a balance between hating being touched unexpectedly and wanting constant physical attention. Will give affectionate shoulder/back pats, loves forehead kisses/bumps, literally cannot sleep without cuddling someone/something (such as a stuffed animal). At the same time, a lifetime of severe anxiety has made it so that xe often relies on verbal encouragement from others to feel good/motivate xerself. Xe craves compliments, and defaults to poetry as a way of expressing love for others. One might think that being selectively mute might put a damper on this. However, if anything, it just furthers the value of xer speech. You know that xe cares about you if xe not only writes you poetry, but reads it aloud for you.

In true introvert/anxiety-riddled-bean fashion, Ava is also more than content to just chill with loved ones. Xe grew up in an admittedly fucked up family, but some of xer happiest childhood memories are of xerself sitting with xer brother, watching while he played through videogame after videogame, or sitting together on the big couch and reading. Years later, xe has a strong instinct to want to recreate those moments with xer new (slightly less fucked up) family.

[old-hyper-super-clover]

For the requests‚ what about a family trip to the beach with Purgatory Hall + the royals and MC? Like Simeon and Barbatos setting up a picnic table meanwhile MC and Luke play around in the sand searching for shiny or strange things to building a sand castle (everything also keeping Solomon and Diavolo far from the preparations for the picnic)‚ playing with water guns or swimming. And after eating maybe playing a match of volleyball sand, admiring the sunset till it's nigth time and before going back‚ playing with fireworks, do a little stargazing or something--

Feel free to ignore this and thanks in advance anyway~

FINALLY I've come to write something for this lovely request. It's packed with so many fun ideas that I kinda went overboard with it xD this means the story is so big I'll have to split it into two posts!

To Bisshitu: I wanted to thank you for your continuous support! I see you in my notifs a lot and I really appreciate it!! (ALSO I AM SO SORRY YOU'VE WAITED SO LONG I HOPE YOU WILL STILL ENJOY THIS CHAOS)

Literally just 13 idiots on a beach trip~

Part 1

MC was leaning against one of the walls in the giant entrance halls of the House of Lamentation. Standing next to them, Solomon handed MC an opened bag of spicy newt chips. "Want some?" He asked and MC gladly took a few while constantly watching the commotion that was going on in the rest of the hallway.

Who would've guessed that going on a vacation with the seven rulers of hell would involve the most panicked, loud and chaotic packing of bags to have ever existed?

Well, let's be real, MC did expect it, but maybe not to the degree that they were in amusement about now.

The oldest brother had called the others for a "luggage check" as he had been sceptical of his brothers' talents in packing reasonable items in an, likewise reasonable, amount of suitcases and bags.

And of course, the first one to show up had to present his luggage in the form of... nothing.

Yes, Beelzebub came up to Lucifer, only the remains of a sandwich in his hand (which didn't last longer than three more seconds), confused when Lucifer mustered him with an angered glance.

"Where's your luggage?" Lucifer asked, to which Beel only gave a shrug.

"We're going to the beach, right? Which means I'll only need my swimming trunks, and I wear those underneath my pants."

Now the confusion has wandered over to rest on Lucifer's face. "But... Won't you need clothes to change into, or at least pyjamas for the night?"

"Hm..." Beel scratched the back of his head while thinking about Lucifer's words. "Nah, I don't need those. I'm planning to stay at the beach all the time, so..." Then suddenly, he gasped as he remembered something. "Wait, I do have something else prepared to bring along!"

Beel reached into his pocket, and when he pulled out a hand-written list that unrolled itself, plonking onto the carpet and rolling all the way to Lucifer's feet, the avatar of Pride knew exactly what said list was going to be.

"There are a few food stands that I'd like to try out..." Beel announced, eyeing the paper. "First of all, there's one selling shaved ice, which I want to compare to the ice-cream from this other stand, but who's also selling parfaits of which I kind of want to try all twenty-five flavours... Also then there's of course-"

"Beel" Lucifer interrupted the avatar of Gluttony in a strict tone. "Go pack a proper bag."

"But-"

"Now."

Letting out a sigh, Lucifer watched as Beel left.

But little did he know, this had only been the beginning of the chaos...

Moments later, Lucifer has found himself explaining to Satan why taking 70 different books with him would be ridiculously much. Also Mammon had taken this opportunity to "lend" some of his brothers possessions, arguing that he "needed those for the beach". This had worked until his swift fingers touched Levi's limited edition Ruri-chan sunscreen.

So, as Lucifer was spam-calling Belphie to wake him up and finally have him start packing, a sudden argument could be heard from upstairs:

"... How dare you steal my precious Hana Ruri 'magical sun ray protective lotion for all blooming heroes of justice'?! This very sunscreen is an homage to the legendary beach episode where Azuki-tan got a sunburn and couldn't help Ruri-chan in the intense battle against the evil kelp-army that was threatening to overgrow the local reef-"

"OKAY OKAY, HERE'S YOUR STUPID CREAM NOW LEAVE ME ALONE"

"S-STUPID CREAM?!?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW PRECIOUS THIS ITEM IS TO A FAN LIKE-"

That was all Lucifer could understand as an awfully annoyed scream Mammon let out was drowning Levi's gibberish. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Lucifer knew this vacation was going to be one intense experience...

An hour later, the group found itself where this little story had started off. The Purgatory Hall crew had already arrived long ago, enjoying the chaos together with MC -- who, btw, had been the only one to pass Lucifer's vibe luggage check right away.

Slowly it felt like most of the brothers were ready to go, only Asmodeus was left in the judgemental glare of the avatar of Pride.

But Lucifer noticed they already were way behind the time they were supposed to meet Diavolo at his castle. So, to Asmo's luck, he let off of trying to see what's inside the pretty boy's suitcase and announced the group's departure.

In enthusiasm shared by almost everyone, they let out a big cheer:

"Off to the beach we go!"

Some of the demons had whined about wanting to visit the human world beach. But as those idiot boys literally couldn't be trusted to act responsibly (which is okay, we love them regardless), Diavolo offered to stay at the beach resort he created in the Devildom.

Looking over the endless ocean, surrounded by the equally large beach and glistening in an artificial sun's light, MC was wondering just how powerful the demon prince must be to have created all this. But they were left only little time to be in awe over the location, as their friends demanded their attention shortly after having arrived.

Without going into much detail -- the day was packed with lots and lots of fun. MC was running around the beach, playing and goofing around with their friends, only to take a collective rest and then go do something silly again. Only a few other demons were to be found at the resort, but those were some acquaintances of Diavolo's family, and the group seemed to have scared them off of the beach after, like, an hour or so. Hence, the whole beach served as their playground for whatever activity they wanted to do, until in the afternoon, most of them were about to collapse from exhaustion and hunger.

"That's right, we didn't really have a proper meal since coming here" Asmo noticed as several tummy grumbles undermined his statement.

"We DID bring a picnic basket..." Satan mumbled. "But some genius had to let Beel carry it."

The culprit gave an immediate pout. "I had to hurry, 'kay?!" Mammon huffed. "MC was already at the beach and I--" he stopped. "... U-uh... I mean..."

Gaining a round of sighs and shaking heads, his brothers however decided to let Mammon's... mammon-ness slide for once. Mostly because, approaching from the distance, Barbatos and Solomon were getting closer, their hands full with bags that seemed to be stuffed with food.

"Y-yoU BroUGhT S-nAcKs?!" Beelzebub was already on his feet running towards them but Barbatos' stare was actually enough to make him stop.

"Not before the dishes are prepared, Beelzebub" Barbatos explained calmly, but with this very weird hidden tone in his voice that gave everyone chills despite the scorching summer heat.

"We figured everyone must be starving by now, so Barbatos suggested we'd make a little picnic party with everyone" Solomon cheered, presenting the bags in his hands.

"That sounds lovely" Simeon could be heard among the general noise of approval. "Let me help you prepare everything, Barbatos."

The demon butler beamed him a smile, thanking the angel for his help.

Then, Solomon spoke up again, and every bit of joy vanished from all their faces: "Thank you, Simeon! With the three of us working together the food will be ready in no time!"

--------------

Barbatos was putting all kinds of spices into a bowl to create a delicious sauce. Right next to him, Simeon prepared mouth-watering sandwiches.

And behind their back, there was this chopping sound. Chop reaching their chop ears in an chop never- chop ending thread, over and chop over again...

Swallowing his tension, Simeon was fighting a frown. "He's only cutting the fruits..." He whispered. "You shouldn't be able to mess up a fruit salad..."

"I know" Barbatos mumbled back. "However I cannot fight this unease that urges me to check if he's really-" He was interrupted by a very unsettling "oops" coming from that certain sorcerer at the cutting board.

In honestly quicker than the blink of an eye Simeon and Barbatos were at Solomon's side, frantically scanning the table for whatever Solomon must've messed up. When all they found were slices of fruit that, well, might have been chopped a bit wonky, they gave Solomon a confused stare.

"I cut off too much of this poor Hellberry's pull" Solomon explained. "Oh well, I'll just cut around the stem and add it to the fruit salad like this."

Both Barbatos and Simeon couldn't help but stare for a moment longer, their brains not really comprehending NOT finding an abomination in Solomon's cooking.

"Can I help you two with anything?" The sorcerer then asked.

"U-uhm, no..." Simeon mumbled. "It's all fine, we just..."

"We wanted to see if there's anything we can help you with" Barbatos jumped in to continue.

"Thanks, but I'm fine. Actually I'm almost finished, so maybe I can help one of you afterw-"

"Nononononono...!" Simeon almost whined. "I-its fine! We're actually almost finished ourselves, so..."

Solomon looked back, raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't look like it to me..."

Suddenly, another voice joined the group.

"I agree! You two are likely just being humble again" Diavolo had walked up to their working station a moment ago, but neither of them seemed to have noticed in their stress. The prince continued: "That's why I decided to lend you a hand as well. This is a vacation for all of us, so I should not burden my loyal butler with all the work."

"That's a commendable attitude for royalty like yourself" Solomon cheered. "Well then, I think Simeon and Barbatos could use a hand."

Diavolo was already squeezing his quite broad body into the tiny cooking space, this certain over-excited sparkle in his eyes as he mustered the food.

Barbatos and Simeon on the other hand were exchanging glances, so immensely stressed that their thoughts were almost audible:

'Barbatos I don't think I can handle any more of this stress' Simeon stared.

'We shouldn't have let Solomon help in the first place, our kindness was foolish' Barbatos stared back.

'What do we do now Barbatos this is the only food we have left, they cannot ruin it'

Thankfully, the perfect butler was not planning to let their "help" threaten the food for any longer. "Young master, I highly appreciate that you thought of my well-being. Which is why I indeed have a request for you and Solomon."

Simeon almost barged in on a frightened impulse, but Barbatos continued before anyone could raise their voice. "There is dessert stored in our hotel's main storage. Would you be so kind and bring enough for our whole group?"

A little surprised, Diavolo agreed. He waited for Solomon to finish cutting the fruits, then they went off to the hotel.

Finally able to catch a breath, Simeon shot Barbatos a last glance. "That was easier than expected. Why didn't we let Solomon bring the desserts earlier?"

Back to mixing spices, Barbatos didn't look up at the question. "What desserts?" He simply asked.

"... Uhm..." Simeon was quite startled. "Are there... Are there no desserts in the storage room...?"

"Oh, I sure hope there are" Barbatos said. "Otherwise I will have some explaining to do..."

-------------

(To be continued...)

Find my summer event Masterlist and Rules for the requests here <3