#this is prime indulgence hours boys

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Domestic

For those keeping tabs on the Blood of My Blood AU, this is currently just a fanfiction of that fanfiction. Also a doorstopper. Only @ibrithir-was-here can call whether this massive sucker is canon or not. But it's out of my head now and I can ice my hand.

Summary: A portrait of a special night for the self-appointed patriarch of Castle Dracula. One of strange intimacies, stranger revelations, and secrets hidden in stone and cemetery earth.

Warning: This contains mature material in the way of profanity, attempted assault, violence, and very dubious consent.

Happy reading.

His first attempt was also his last.

After his good friend had sold himself, after the baffling enigma of the pregnancy, after the boy, child of three bloodlines, was upright enough to not be an anchor in the arms of his parents. After all this, he made his attempt.

Months had crawled past the obvious point of action. Almost a year. Had the caravan with their burden of wagons been there, he knew he would have to laugh along with questions as to how he could hold off so long. She had chosen the airiest of her departed Sisters’ attire to glide in, her face was voluptuous in its venom, and she could not even speak aloud! A blessing, they would laugh, more so for being the spoils of war.

A warlord’s right. Yes, yes, it was so.

Had he a mirror and a reflection to find in it, he would have mocked it. Why this hesitation over a collared pet? Let her bite, let her hiss—her Sisters had done that and worse in their centuries—it would come to the same conclusion. Her will was his property as much as her veins, her teeth, her flesh. What was wanted could be had at the first impulse. Now the impulse was here. Enough of one, at least.

Already took her woman in Whitby. Her groom offered himself on a silver plate. May as well.

He frowned to himself. What was that? ‘May as well?’ As though it were a chore to get on with. He shook his head and wasted another quarter of an hour pretending to care about a choice of oil for the job.

Job?

A curse caught under his tongue and he twisted a coil of hair before his eyes. Black as tar. Black as hers. No, he couldn’t blame this dawdling on a waning prime. Such a thing was hardly a hindrance but a few summers ago. Not with his dear friend who had come willingly, fled fearfully, and slunk so docilely back into his arms.

Perhaps that was it. It was hardly the same affair without Jonathan himself in the scene. Was there any way to make him watch? If he was drained enough, he could be flung back from the bed like a child should he scramble to intervene. Or they could dust off one of the dungeons and drag in a mattress. Or, while the spouses were mid-tryst, the woman could be slipped on like a skin at his will, and Jonathan could look up to find his Master’s eyes in her skull, his grin in her lips…

For he would know. If not in that exact instant, then when their Master used the whole of the woman as his personal apparatus. Such games had been played before, once upon a time. Back when his Loves had excited anything from him. The idea held the same potential as the tableau of the three of them as a chain of warming skin, playing as adults do once children were tucked away in their dreaming. A notion that nettled something giddy awake in him.

Finally.

This time he cursed aloud and wished there was something at hand to break.

No, no, it wouldn’t do to herd them all into such games ahead of the rightful order of things. He was Count. He was Master. He was owed his claim. The Bridegroom had that particular flag planted in him years ago. Now for the Bride.

…The baptism was near enough, no? You claimed her that night in October. You collected in November. You told her yourself after your little indulgence that there was nothing you truly wanted of her. All that was wanted was the ownership of her, which you have. She is beaten. Can that not be enough?

On second thought, he no longer wished for a reflection. He wanted a doppelgänger whose throat he could wring like a chicken’s. Such whining! Such foot-dragging laxness! The ghosts of a thousand grumbling wives seemed to reach out as one to sneer at him. They had gone into their grim arrangements with less fuss than he put up now.

And why is that?

In lieu of answering himself, he pocketed a bottle at random and tore out of the room to find her. There was no need to fret over Jonathan or the boy. Both were out in the courtyard, enjoying the late spring night. Doting, Jonathan had brought home chalk for the child to scratch at the flagstones with. New words and prancing little figures. A cloying scene he was happy to leave them to.

To his surprise, the woman had left them to it as well. She was nowhere to be seen in the great moonlit square.

Instead, he found her at one of the furthest ends of the castle. Skulking around the chambers that had ostensibly belonged to her Sisters between daylit drowses. In all her time here, he had yet to see her paw over the littered jewelry and gowns left behind. Once or twice he had borrowed her eyes and seen her glance dully at the English books. Relics of the time when Castle Dracula had turned into a grammar school in preparation for a time of travel that would now never come for their lot. Beside these were glimpses of the trio’s pastimes. Unfinished paintings, a dust-caked violin, a frayed bit of tapestry with its threaded demons left half-made in Hell. Nothing had interested her bar the change of clothes.

Again, he thought of what he would have to grin along with the next time Old Danil and his men were beckoned. Did he tell them he had ordered her into the flimsy falls of silk and sheer? Or would it be better to tell the truth, that she slipped them on herself? The latter might earn some words of congratulation. They did not have to know she wore it for her husband and herself; for where had she to go out smothered in layers for strangers? What difference was there now between a nightgown and the full raiment of human decorum her useless career in etiquette had primed her for? What, beyond the allowance or removal of comfort?

Throw one of the heavier dresses at her, the internal voice tried to chuckle. Dress and shawl and cloak and all. Bury her in it. Ha. Ha.

The humor of the thought was so shallow as to be vapor. Yet he truly would prefer that she go about in the same elaborate cover as her Sisters. Her Sisters, who had chosen the dresses themselves from their fashion plates. Her Sisters, who he had foisted the scantier costumes on in younger centuries, back when they’d interested him. What was this in interest’s place now?

Later. He would answer his own nonsensical queries later. For now, conquest and consummation. He craned his head over his shoulder, eyeing the distant windows over the courtyard—

How long must he play nanny out there?

—before forcing himself to stroll rather than storm up to the room she hid in. She didn’t hide all that well, of course. There was no point when he could follow the thread between them or yank her to him with a tug. Most conveniently, she had chosen an area clotted with bedchambers for her den.

Less conveniently, she had let herself into a room he had forbidden her Sisters from on pain of punishment. Had he ever warned her against it? It did not matter, naturally, for he had not given her permission, but he wondered. He sighed. Pandora will always open what she’s not meant to. Such a pair, his Harkers.

He peeked through her senses and into the room as his stroll turned into a quicker stalk. Relief hit him first upon seeing that the space was unmarred. No more than he had left it, anyway. He had moved out the broken or burnt furnishings, leaving only bed, wardrobe, and portrait behind. The latter was the only one left of that likeness and he preferred to have it around for the occasional glare. Any further intrusion was cut short when her line of sight flicked down.

His mind snapped back into itself with a flinch. That it was a flinch made him want to laugh and strike himself at the same time. As if he had not seen flashes of her bare hide before!

When she is with him. When her skin is an inch from being a costume.

Even so. He had seen it all before. Worlds more with her Sisters. What a child he had become to grow skittish at seeing the woman below, gasp, a bit of décolletage. The gawping shame of the Englishmen had infected him on his single visit. He grinned it away. And why not?

She was out of tonight’s white dress and donning something else. He’d caught a glimpse of rich black. Odd, for he recalled nothing but heaps of white and red in the Sisters’ wardrobe. Blood on snow. He must have gotten them a splash of night to go with it once upon a time and forgotten. Ah, well. She would not have it on long.

He did not waste the gesture of a knock. Jonathan might bristle at the sound, his limited senses allowing him to occasionally be taken by surprise. Not so here. He let himself into the room and settled for clicking it firmly behind him. And, if only for punctuation, bolted the lock.

She did not move from her place behind the folding screen, only paused to slide the garnets of her eyes to him. A withering thing that might have stopped a mortal intruder’s heart. It pleased him to see.

It confused him when the glare caught on the brandished oil and, rather than flare in rage or horror, simply rolled away from the sight of it and him. She resumed her fumbling behind the screen, either shedding or fastening. An unplanned silence unfolded as he kept his back to the door and she kept her back to him. The oil sloshed in its bottle as he turned it.

Well?

The word fell in his head like a jabbing hand against a stuttering understudy on the stage.

“Well,” he bit back, “you take me by surprise. I had thought there would be more theatrics when we came to this.”

I have not come to this. Given even an atom of free will, I shall certainly not come to you.

He thought of and discarded a particularly juvenile rebuttal. It was something he might have reserved for Jonathan, but it felt cold and unctuous in trying to fling it at her. At least to say it out loud. He flicked it at her like a psychic worm instead. Another roll of the garnets.

Aloud, “You have only as much will as my will allows.”

So you love to remind us. Which is why the larger share of surprise is my own. You are so adamant in your role as Master of the Castle that even you cannot avoid bowing and scraping to it.

The oil froze mid-twist in his fingers.

“You have a gift for talking fluent nonsense. No doubt something you took from the Dutchman.” His gaze leapt to the crescent scar that still blazed in echo of the Eucharist. “Prior to the parting blessing, I expect.” Her ruddy lip curled like a warning wolf’s. His own curled back in delight. Better, better. “Do you think it would be him or the fawning doctor who swooned more at the state of you? We know already the lordling and the American would simply have killed you outright, but the supposed men of medicine would have a sermon apiece to wail out before grabbing the saw and stake.” He feigned a pondering stance. “I believe, if we think in volume of wasted breath, it would be the Dutchman who languished more. But his pet student would likely have an actual point to it, being so wrapped up in the effort to cry demon while also struggling not to play with his tool at the same time. His blade as well.”

Are you four-hundred or fourteen?

There was less ire than annoyance in the words. The mental equivalent of shooing a fly. More fabric shifted. She had gone through the formality of lighting a lamp for the room rather than trusting her vision alone. Its glow revealed the shadow puppet of her silhouette in the screen. Yes, she was dressing. But there was no bell of a dress as yet. Not even a chemise.

He withheld a sulk. Half the fun of the act was the prelude and half the fun in that was the peeling away of layers or circumventing them entirely. There was a certain pleasure in opening and shedding the frail shields of an ensemble—he admitted to some strange internal leap that equated it with the old work of skinning and dressing one’s kill in the forest—and almost as much in proving those shields protected nothing. A hand slipped under a hem was child’s play. Working that and other anatomy into place when making a mist of himself was a unique treat.

Had Jonathan told her so yet? If so, he likely needn’t have bothered. Not when such memories might be dropped neatly in her head as she paced and hissed. At last, she could experience it firsthand!

Ha. Ha.

The oil was fidgeted with again.

I cannot imagine this was the ‘charm’ you dragged out for her.

Her?

Ah.

Unbidden, his head craned to face the faded portrait. The figure in it was now all but a ghost on the canvas. A representation not too many brushstrokes removed from how she had been in life. Considering her appearance in the mausoleum, it remained an ironically perfect likeness.

A maiden of snow, alive and dead, with the artist’s dancing ice seeming to radiate from her rather than the backdrop of a leaden sky. Behind her loomed the Mountain where they had learned so many Lessons and taken their parting forms. Strigoi had held no appeal for her, even with its many gifts. Instead she’d chased the hardy vourdalak with its wan corpse-skin and its eternal voracious passions. Chased it and wore more names through the ages than even he had invented to wear the guise of his own descendants.

She who had spread love like a disease until settling on her resting place in 1801. Her precious little nothing-village, all turned. All free from mortal ills. All asleep and dreaming into each other in their graves. Content to be confined. With love.

For them.

Doting fool of a Countess.

How much a fool, really? She burned from the lightning. She once suffered the stake to her heart, the blade through her throat. And then she was up again. Unmarred and unbothered without a drop of blood upon her tongue. Bloodless and unbound to you, she stood whole after you’d shooed Jonathan’s idiot predecessor on his way. She would not have a scar from a spade still on her brow.

 Her painted eyes found his as he mulled this. That impossible glacial blue. His gaze shied from it and trailed down the flax fall of her hair, braided away to show the throat where his kiss ought to have gone. Up again to her lips. The only point of color that blazed on her, turned down in perpetual sorrow. This or disappointment.

All this woolgathering passed in an instant. He shrugged out of it with his own dismissing glance.

“There is a difference between you and her. One is maiden of noble blood, who was once worthy of courtship. The other is a trophy long overdue to be enjoyed.”

Where is she?

In a graveyard in a pauper’s village that dragged her down like a colony of filthy feeble vermin.

“Not here. If you wish to play comparison to my women of old, it should please you to know that none are of your particular measure. None of my bedmates thus far have been at once the downed enemy and the stolen wife. It—,”

In the painting.

As if he had not spoken. It was not even the pitch of one trying to distract from the topic. He followed her stare back to the portrait and its grim setting. The Mountain. An obsidian peak that seemed at once a mouth and an eye over her fair shoulders.

That peak isn’t one in this range.

Ah, fishing. The Dutchman had mentioned the Scholomance, he recalled. Tricky thing. But not by enough.

“Says the Englishwoman.” He clicked his tongue. “You know nothing of the land that holds you. You shall not for very long yet. What good fortune you have, you and your clever mind, to now have so much time in which to learn. I think by the end of the next century you shall know a third of the crags in the Carpathians. Maybe half!”

At the rate you dawdle, it will take twice as long before you get around to the same epiphany I have had to reconcile with since I first climbed out of the box. The same revelation that has been sitting out in the open, free for your voyeurism to trip over at any opportunity, only for you to go on strutting and preening at yourself. As though you still had a reflection to impress.

She had ceased dressing behind the screen. The outline of her did show the fall of a cloak, but still no dress. He found he did not much care. Not for her choice of attire or her tone.

“Do forgive me then. As you are suddenly consort and counsel, please, do enlighten me. What grand epiphany am I overlooking?” Then, in a moment of inspiration, he capped with, “Feel free to lecture between positions.”

Finally, a wave of disgust radiated from her. Hate. Wrath. Check, check, check. But buried under it all was an uninterrupted core of exasperation. Even disbelief. As if she had handed him an apple and he’d declared it was a grape. Indeed, though he couldn’t know it, she was kneading at her brow the way she had in private when a particularly dense group of girls was foisted on her to teach. There was a very clear and grousing sensation from her that spoke of desire for the ability to enjoy liquor again.

A lecture? Fine. You do so love hearing yourself talk.

Before he could grasp her meaning, she shoved the screen aside. Everything in him crashed against a stone wall as he recognized her ensemble.

You never brought them anything in black, piped the inane inner voice.

She wore the proof head to toe. If only because she was wearing one of his own suits. Being almost as long-boned as Jonathan, it needed only a few folds of the cuffs to fit and his stolen cloak masked whatever else begged for tailoring. On the whole it was…it was like…

Ah, see? You do still have a reflection.

His mind scrambled in something near to panic for salvation. He dug up memories of his Loves in nights long gone, when he had let one or another wrap herself in one of his capes in lieu of cover. That had carried some fine thrill once. But the fresher, the brighter thought, was of Jonathan in their private summer.

Back when his dear friend found his few English pieces disappearing one after the other until his courteous host began slipping his own clothes into the wardrobe. How well they’d suited him then. Better still today, when the rules of the house dictated he peel away the set of modern tailoring he kept for the town errands and sheathed himself in his Master’s uniform. White. Red. Black.

Once, in an older age, the red was swapped for blue. The death shades of necrosis, of walking winter. Their velvet was worn with the ease of cold Morena awaiting her yearly demise at the birth of spring.

He clung to all of these connections for a blink before the overwhelming memory tipped them over. A memory made precious only by its rarity in the murky sea of his human recollection rather than sentiment. Chiefly because it was one of the first times he began seriously considering murdering his brother. His little brother, who had snuck into his quarters, shrugged on his best raiment, and laughed as he was caught en route to some infantile play at the daughter of their father’s guest. At her.

This was not that. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t, he should be flattered, should be enticed, should be—

“You thieving bitch.”

If I am such, it is only because you set such a fine example in both the action and the role, O Kin of my Kin. On top of all the rest of your aggravations, you have even soured the daydream I once had of proving my former students wrong. My poor girls who swore up and down that to have siblings was a curse. I almost had a brother in spirit, once. It was a nice thing of sentiment and foam. But now here you are, smashing the fantasy and proving the girls right all along. What have you done since entering my life but steal what is rightfully Mine?

Something horrid was curdling in his stomach. A sensation he’d thought was outgrown centuries ago. What was this? What was this? In answer, a scrap of inspiration drifted to him. He nailed up a grin.

“Oh dear,” through teeth clamped so tight the words had to squeeze through, “you do take our boy’s idle talk too seriously. If dark hair and rosy eyes were all it took to make one a relative—,”

Three years. Three years ago, my son made that guess of brother and sister. You did laugh then. Laughed as if you might choke. But you have remembered it too.

“Hardly an effort when I can recall the last four centuries.” More or less.

And the last four years, no doubt. Years in which the nearest you have willingly gotten to me are when we lay down in our boxes or when you want to turn my Jonathan’s head.

 “Our Jonathan.”

So you delude yourself. Just as you thought Lucy was yours. Just as you think to welcome yourself to all that is Mine.

“Have we not gone over this Lesson before? Does it not follow that if one owns a dog, they own the creature’s toys? Its pups?”

She had been resting her hand atop the folding screen. The hand snapped shut and sent fragments flying. A reflex that he himself had needed to train himself out of lest he shatter or crush every bauble under his roof. For her part, she seemed not to notice the runnels of blood escaping the healing palm.

“Such a temper,” he chided. “Shall I kiss it better?”

Immediate bile rippled into him at the words.

Yet the bile did not belong to her.

Shall you?

She flapped her hand at him, streaked with dark coagulation. Her claws had grown out and the knuckles bunched up into a talon. The nails holding up his grin loosened.

Ah, but that is just the hand! Surely this is what you want?

As he watched, her face changed. Muscle and bone shifted like clay until a bestial deformation replaced the sharp beauty. A product of his own form of vampirism. While those he conscripted could not assume an animal’s full form, his efforts in the Scholomance bled down into them, filtered into countenances that overtook in a rage. Here was rigid and stretched flesh, a bristling forest of fangs in a beartrap maw, the huge and hating pits of the eyes. A bat’s face stretched into grotesquerie.

Now let us get on with the craved rendezvous! Come, where is my kiss? This is what you came for! What you have, with so much anticipation, withheld yourself from all these days and weeks and months and years! Delayed gratification must be the sole reason, no other.

Then, in a tone that did not carry her soul’s voice, but another’s he had known all his life, whispering up from his own mind:

Is it not so?

In asking, she had taken a step forward.

The back of his heel struck the locked door as he started back.

Enough.

He had initially thought to order her to the bed. His Loves of the past had needed the Lesson. An example as to how strong the chain their Master held was, as much as the rightful collection of that treasure that rests between a maiden’s legs no matter their surplus or absence of appeal in other regards. Now he had no patience for such puppet strings. His spare hand took her by her cravat and shirtfront—

Mine, these are MINE—

—and stopped just short of taking her by the neck as he had done to soldiers and subordinates in ages past. That much would be injury. And he did recall the laughable conditions his dear friend had laid out. So careful, his Jonathan. In all but his choice of spouses.

He thrust the latter on the postered bed along with himself, pinning her the way the wolves wrestled over each other to get at the throat. Before she could get tooth or claw into him, he brought down an anvil of his will onto hers.

“Take off that face. Now.”

The monstrous face twitched, half-smoothed.

You are squeamish over such a thing? I had not realized you were so delicate!

Her mouth, still jutting with spire teeth, managed to grin.

I wore the whole of that face before Jonathan once. Brandished it like Medusa’s head. The proof under the husk that passes for subsumed humanity. I wanted him. I want him. He was, he is, he shall ever be Mine. But the Vampire is made only of extremes. In that mood, I was at the extreme of self-loathing for what I had reduced his wife to. For the thing I had allowed myself to be. Yes, you were the infection. Yes, the others warned me against taking my own life even as I cozened them to take it in my stead. So quick they were, seeing none of my terror at their quickness, the same mercy wielded for my Lucy. They made their killing oath while Jonathan swore his own.

“He did. He killed to see you whored rather than dead. Such is the loving loyal gallantry of our—,”

We both know I lied when I baited him with tales of old. When I spoke of the men who would kill their womenfolk to save them the indignity of the enemy’s touch. A clumsy hook. One I only half-believed. But I wanted him to have an out, you see. We have known each other to the soul for almost half our lives. Just as he permitted me to know what was not written in the diary. Those gaps.

Her face hardened again, the abominable ridges stretching into a demon’s mask.

It was all but code. Something I could say before the others. And while I do not doubt he feared a grain of truth in that requisite threat—of this pantomime we are limping through now—the reality was always there at the top. No matter how I might have begged, might have entreated, bribed, or gnashed my teeth.

Her fangs clicked together once. Hard.

For all that you took me for my brain, for my senses, for the petty vengeance over your spoiled earth, for the cliché of a hundred other despots who prey upon a woman to attack her men, these were mere filigree. You took me to take him. Is it not so?

“Fix. Your. Face.”

Her face resumed smoothing…slowly. All the while her mind ran like a broken spigot.

Yes, of course it was. It did work out so prettily for you in the end. Not because of the blood on his hands and mine, not even because of our child. It has happened because I was as great a coward as you. You, who ran from my Jonathan when you saw he meant to cleave you in a crowded street. You, who fled back to this roost when the first wrinkle came into your plans after centuries of sitting idle on your laurels. And I? I spoke aloud of suicide before them all. Baiting their worry, their oath.

‘No no, Madam Mina, it is too soon to think such things! And worse, risks rising as the Un-Dead!’

Ha. Ha.

I did not do as Jonathan had, who makes his resolutions in silence. He held out as long as he was able, until the only option was escape or undeath. At that point he trusted himself to be broken on the cliff or torn by the wolves rather than risk eternity with the Sisters, waiting for you to come back and collect. A death that would have ruined him past the point that vampirism, still a mystery then, could have saved him. All for the chance to come back to me. Me, now a thing almost as unworthy as you, who clung to hope of life without the excuse of ignorance.

Obviously I could have ended it before he ever set foot on your mountains again. I could have burned. I could have shattered myself after a long fall. I could have found a dozen ways to destroy myself past your intended use for me. And I didn’t. I was not even a Vampire by more than an ounce, yet there I was. Shying from my own destruction when it could have saved them all—when it could have stopped him from putting himself on your altar.

And because I shied, because I lived to follow the thread you left behind, this is where we are.

He is Mine. Our child is Mine. But because you hold my chain—this reason and no other—you can imagine they are yours. That he is yours. So I showed my Jonathan what was left of his wife. The monster he sold himself to Hell for, a thing not worth the love he gave or being mother to the son they’d made, a thing who would lose hold of her martyr-mood soon, so go, Love, go and take our boy, run from the Pit.

Instead, he kissed me.

And to this night he stays and plays your games, does your work, keeps the dust from gathering on your child-brain. For me. For our son. But any reason would have done it for you, wouldn’t it? Any lure or collar. Anyone you knew had hold of his heart. You’d have turned his grandmother if that was what it took.

Her face was at last reset. Still his dead stomach did not settle.

If it were half a millennium ago, all of us wearing the roles we are in spirit, you really would have held a knife to your own kin if it meant—

A flash.

Little brother, teeth bare in glee, talking of how sad a state it was to have the younger son find his bride first.

‘Do not fret, you have your books and your bloodshed and your future under the Mountain to keep you busy! Ah, you will be missed. Perhaps even by her, tender thing that she is. You have addled her, Brother, with your talk of the Powers under the Earth. A shame to draw along some poor maiden with your occult fairy stories, wasting her canniness on war and drivel. But her interest will pass and I shall take care of her while you go try not to die to your Devil’s Lessons. Best of luck.’

A lie, of course. It had to be a lie. He was eldest, he was the ruler-to-be, Weathermaker, rider of the Dragon, Dracula, of course their father would promise her to him. Union would come into it, the wisdom of the move was undeniable, but more, it was his right. It was his due.

It was her.

Under the titles and the trades and, yes, even the teasing thought that she too wished to brave the Mountain, to grasp its Lessons and bring home its gifts to guard those she loved, whatever the cost.

To the enemy or to her. Prepared for any altar, in marriage or blood. Pliant as the snow, cutting as the ice. The chill of her like the breaking of fever. An impeccable spur to the mind, forever turning me towards joy as she parried wrath with her tongue or talent; occasionally in unison. Even in fear, in our play, recognizing the monster before I ever ceased to be a man, she kept herself a gag in my teeth. Oh, I was no fool, Countess. How many lives were spared because you blocked my way in word and flesh? The idiot chattel will never know.

You did love me once. When our hearts beat with our own blood. When we bowed our heads under the Mountain. When we crawled from it, half-mad, damned in our own directions, cold hands clinging together as revenants of different breeds. Yes, I think you must have loved me. Why else would you think to chase the form of your homeland’s vourdalak? I joked that you did not trust me and my kiss.

We laughed and I was not bitter. You had chosen Love and I had chosen Conquest and so I thought I had you forever. Vourdalaks can only Love or Hate. And you loved. And I loved. And it was well. Until it wasn’t. Until the coin of extremes flipped in you, seeing all that I had become. Love to Hate in a single night. I could not hold you when my chains were not in your soul. I could not break you when your dead flesh shrugged every wound. I could only heal from the mauling you left me with, losing you in the fall of hail and sleet. Gone to throw yourself to mortal maggots. A quest that took you to the rotting village and its endearing diseased cattle, weeping for fear of loss of each other.

The cattle who you chose to turn and dream with in the dirt.

Like you nearly chose…

Thunder snarled outside.

Under him, the woman bared her teeth in a grin he would swear he had seen elsewhere. In a looking glass or on the whelp he called a brother?

Enough!

He dropped himself upon her, willing her mouth to pucker and part for him. Doing so, he thought wildly of sieged buildings, of broken windows, of smashed doors, of barriers sundered, wood, glass, stone, iron, that was all, that was all, he would break in and be gone and—and—

His eyes were closed. Why?

You know why.

Something was wrong. Her lips were there, but also not. It was another’s mouth, heavy and coarse with hair. He opened his eyes.

And saw himself.

Himself, seen and felt through her senses, now crouched and crushing his own face with graceless gnawing.  

Shall I turn you over first? We can oil a stake if you’re so eager to bow for yourself.

So saying, she pressed her knee up between his legs.

He threw himself away from her as if she’d turned to sewage. A ball of coagulation and bile even managed to lurch up his throat. It coughed out of him with a retch, splattering on the faded rug. Thunder was joined by lines of lightning. 

“Disgusting witch!”

I take after my kin.

He spat again. The taste of her was the taste of himself. And, as though she were somehow in his head despite the burning wall he’d laid between them:

We are monsters, both of us, and neither has a preference for themselves. A point you have been trying not to know as you fought to convince yourself that you wanted anything more out of me than a sentient shackle to keep on my husband. This, when you once so happily crowed about my cleverness and fate as a companion-to-be. How much was in earnest versus mere theatre for me to pass on? Do you even know?

“Caveat emptor. Is that your supposed Lesson here?”

I am a teacher by trade and I would claim such a Lesson if it were mine. But it isn’t. I am merely trying to spare us all the collateral of your pride.

She twisted herself on the bed until she sat straight and crisp in her stolen garb, the pose of a queen on an invisible throne.

Order her on the ground. Have her bay like a jackal on hands and knees, lick the bile from the rug, claw off her own damned face—

What do you think would happen after he found out, O Lord of the Castle? You would have kept to the letter of the agreement, I’m sure. I would not have bled, I would wear no injury. If you were feeling especially needy you might have had me mouth mute words of worship. But after? What of him?

“What of him, witch?”

There wasn’t as much vitriol in the words as he wished. It was too fair a question. One he had only turned over briefly that evening as he resolved to get on with this belated task.

Task. That really is the word for it. Was the word.

In his brisk consideration of the aftermath to the afterglow, he had thought of Jonathan’s face. The revelation there. Not merely of despair and impotent fury, but the far end of acceptance. Acknowledgment of what could be done to his woman—their woman—on an impulse. A single Lesson for his friend on what could and would be done if he thought himself unburdened enough to leave them, to cut his leash and run before the period of agreed respite ran out. Twenty years. That was the most there would be. Enough for the boy to reach his prime without taking a life.

Jonathan, their precious fountain, their boy’s nursemaid. The gag in all their mouths to play at penance while shielding the mountain people from their thirst. A lesser soul would have broken a year after the child’s birth. Broken and run, with or without the babe. Without the wife-thing he had damned himself for. But love held him pinned in delicious Purgatory between life and death, not merely chained, but a willing servant. Willing in so many ways.

Yes, Sir, of course, Sir, if Sir pleases. That professional veil that let him hide in the veneer of mere servitude. A series of duties performed for a client.

Still so shy, his Jonathan.

Less than twenty years left of this charade. And then?

The white down of the hair, the marble throat, spectral blue bruised to violet to red to bed and now there is no leaving, no running, never again, I will watch you drink from the weeping cattle whose names and pity you will have learned after twenty years, oh yes, you will gorge yourself, we will all indulge, and you will feed yourself back and back to now, to here, to youth, to my friend, my Jonathan, my Bri—

It was a winter night when she’d left. When they’d warred. Lightning and ice. He had tried to goad as much as wrestle her. Hanging the lives of thousands of bleating human sheep over her head. A slaughter to paint the continent red in her absence. Had she been human, perhaps this would have worked. But the creature in her place was only Love or Hate. It was this very threat and a thousand other proofs of his monstrosity before it that had locked her into the latter.

Hate. Hate.

It had struck him deeper than the ice that speared him like a great thrashing insect. Boulders of hail had fallen that same night, hammering the edges of his castle into crumbling stone and mortar. He had driven his hand through her chest and twisted out her heart. In retaliation, she had slapped him. The print of her hand went black with frostbite. Eating. Cracking. Shards of his face breaking as his castle broke. So much blood it had taken to mend!

But he had not thought of it then. Only of the blinding black-white of the storms, of how even his winds could not hold her as she cut back and away from him. A ghost in the snow. Gone.

Gone, because she was not his. Not in a way that could be trusted, that could not be broken. Love was a chain and that chain needed strength. He wound that chain around every throat he kissed and fed the ichor of his heart. His, his, his.

Even the wretched thing in her stolen suit would someday bend as the Sisters had; centuries, that had taken, but it had happened. At least enough to smile for him. Even to laugh with him. His Loves, been and gone, like infuriating and cherished cats.

And is it an accident you hunted for a fair girl first? She, with her white-gold waves and spring sky stare? No, old devil. You know better. How hastily you threw yourself at two dark ones after! As if you could hide your own weakness from yourself by overbalancing the collection against that first desperate theft. Then came the surprise in Piccadilly. The one that nearly froze you so long the kukri all but gutted you where you stood gaping.

The surprise of his Jonathan. His hair was dark as earth the night before, but the morning had left it white. His eyes were bright and cold and dead in their living sockets. That same cold had scarred the air around him as he lunged out of his pack of Cross-wavers, he and the blade coming to kill him for the Love and Hate that made up all that he was then.

That he was now.

He is here out of love, she thought at him.

He almost jumped. His mind was walled off, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

There is something like peace under this roof and endless hateful play for you because of him. Because you hold the safety of his family hostage. Because he is himself, and because you are yourself, he is prepared to take a thousand blows to his dignity and well-being. This you know. But you have forgotten the cost that comes with endangering what he loves.

“Hardly. He buried the corpses of that cost, did he not? He is paying his own price ad infinitum.” A fee that had come with the forsaking of the kukri. Such a fine toy. It was still whetted and gleaming in its scabbard for the night it was returned to him, the better to watch him split a few squealing targets open with it. But until then, confiscated. “Or do you mean to imply he shall again come at me with a shovel? Do you truly believe he can do me any harm, by day or night, that I could not immediately shield myself with using your mobile carcass?” At last, an opportunity to leer back at her: “Or little Quincey?” An absurd name on the tongue. The American was a curse even now.

Her face rippled in that hideous shape again. Then settled as she thought a truth she hated to offer almost as much as he hated to hear it:

I do not know. No more than I know whether you are justified or not in thinking you can pounce and turn him before he strikes a blow. The only guarantee is that everyone in this castle, bar Quincey, is damned. For our sins, for our Nature, we are hellbound. The only thing we have left to lose is…

She gestured dully at the room, the castle, the entire imperceptible trappings of a stage. A grimace of almost comical dissatisfaction rested on her.

…this. A penny dreadful satire of the family home. One held together because my son is owed a life that Jonathan and I have forfeited for ourselves. We are all living in a balance that is maintained by the chain on me, by a child’s needs, and by the ability of my husband to cater to all of us by a strength of will you would not find out of a million men. This he does because no one has broken the fragile eggshell of his faith that you can be trusted not to kick a hornet’s nest.

 If that eggshell breaks, everything breaks.

The agreement. Truce. Relative peace. Whatever you wish to call this. Whoever is left to survive after, the only certainty is that those parties will be in a state of constant misery and war. A generally unpleasant prospect to most. Unless you were the sort to consider a permanent state of trying to hold back an opposing will from sundown to sunup, unable to budge lest you be mauled or worse, for the rest of eternity, a positive outcome.

A silent sigh gusted from her.

Understand this: If I thought it would spare him, no matter how he protested, I would play concubine as best I could. Being bereft of the ability to lie or to act on anything but my own wants, it would be a feat. But you could rut and pretend you were enjoying yourself all you liked, supposing it meant he would be left out of that particular chore. Except we both know that wouldn’t happen.

There is no contract with us. No consent. And, let us be honest while we can, you have not cared about me since you scurried back to the castle in that blighted old November. I have nothing to barter with to keep you from abusing my husband’s willingness to be a barrier between you and what he loves. By any means.

“I need no reminder,” he hummed. And, unable to help himself, “His means do so sweetly justify the ends.”

Her teeth bared again.

Pig.

His bared back.

“Bitch.”

Imbecile. Or do you have another name for a man who would throw a brick through his own window to prove he can? Neither of us wants to bed the equivalent of a twin. Neither of us wants to risk the discovering what would happen if Jonathan discovers what you attempted to force on me tonight, and each for the same reason—we do not know what comes after. Who lives? Who dies? Who suffers? I truly cannot guess. Can you?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scraped his tongue across his fangs.

In his mind’s eye, he wandered through the most probable outcomes:

Here was Jonathan returning to that uncanny rage upon finding his wife was preyed on. Even unharmed, he sees the contract as broken. Fine. He attacks.

His Master uses mother and child as shields. Perhaps he has her hold Jonathan down while the bawling boy is held at the window, ready to be dropped and splattered. A loss of an experiment, if need be. But no need! The woman holds her husband. The Master pries the man’s mouth open and, already pocked with years’ worth of kisses, the ichor turns him quickly. Then what?

Does he keep them all? Can he keep them all? Even the Sisters settled enough that he did not have to be on guard at all waking hours.

A coin toss between mother and child. At least one must go.

If the child, an immediate spur to the parents. An even worse strain. No.

Mother, then. Slain or preserved? Blood was necessary only for health, not existence. It would be an arduous process, but he wagered he could manage sealing her in her box and encasing it in concrete. No route for her mist through that. Let her rot in there a few decades while he wrangled the rest of the family.

But the boy himself would grow and be untethered. His Papa would strain like a rabid beast at every hour. A nuisance.

Fine. Dead mother, dead child. Put Jonathan in the sealed box. Wait. Talk to him through the concrete, the wood, the silk lining. Think at him. Check and check until he was ready to behave. Starved, insane, he would be broken out as a broken thing. Something to sculpt into proper form, into a companion who knew better, who would be a good boy, good Bridegroom.

Unless he really did find some way to end himself despite the grip on him. A Vampire was all want and Jonathan had wanted to die too many times as a human being to banish the notion, even with the undead form’s predilection for self-preservation. If anyone could, Jonathan would find a way.

And there he would be again. Alone.

Assuming other scenarios didn’t overtake these entirely. He had suffered much from results he was too sure of himself to even entertain. Now the potential outcomes included some which ended with him slain or abandoned. He couldn’t say which rankled more to contemplate.

The bed creaked. He looked up to see she was unlocking the door. She was in no especial hurry as one garnet eye regarded him blandly over her shoulder.

Your storm frightened my son, if you care. Jonathan has brought him inside. I will do us both the courtesy of not mentioning this farce to him.

‘This time,’ hung unmentioned between them.

She did already think herself living in Hell. There was little more to do besides count the hours or gamble. And if she truly thought this was a sword to hang over his head?

Well. That wouldn’t do.

His eye fell on a heap of white left behind the folding screen. The discarded dress. He hooked it with his boot, kicking up and catching it in a gnarled ball to toss at her.

“Do another courtesy and dress in a way that does not insult and sicken to behold. And, if you will humor me, bestow some clarification. The heart of the issue is, to you, the assumption of assault, yes?” Her eyes narrowed, but she gave no answer. He beamed at her. “If that is the case, you have my sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding. When I turn myself to acts of affection, I never dream of gifting them without consent. That much you should know from your husband. He is a selfless soul, so willing to accommodate. I shall be sure to make clear all intentions in our future together and to not make any advances without all parties’ allowance.”

He dropped a wink and sent a nettle her way. A hazy phantasm of the three of them, their spectacle condensed upon a single bed. Two bodies willing to trade themselves over the other. Only one being forfeit, lest horror and violence break him at the sight of his wife’s breaking. Him. It would always be him.

‘No, no, take me!’

‘If you insist.’

A loving wall between them. The living shield keeping their teeth away from each other. Their dear, dear Jonathan, knowing his wife would play out the scene expected of all martyr-maidens, trading their one universal coin for their beloveds’ sake. Knowing he would go mad to see her folded under their Master, the mechanics of the display made worse for it being an attempt to protect him. Their Jonathan would weep, would beg, would claw them apart and straddle their Master like a horse just to spare the woman the touch of him.

In contrast, she would be only too happy to wrench said Master’s head off. But she and her will could be held at bay. This he could do while she clung to her husband’s back, weeping precious red tracks as her Love loved another. For her.

A new storm roiled across the woman’s face. Claws ripped into the pale silk. Before she could linger for another mental barb, he willed a gust to rush from a window and down the corridor to suck the door shut on her.  

Good riddance.

He pondered the oil bottle still in his hand.

…Not an entirely mediocre play.

It wasn’t dissimilar from what he’d try in her position. Her grasp on the psychic angles of vampirism was also advancing at a pace that put her Sisters’ dabbling with the trance state to shame.

Ah-ah. She is not their Sister, is she? Surely we have established that by now.

His smile soured at the thought. What a waste to lose a harem and gain a relative. He wanted to spit again. Still, he could not grouse too much. She was a small price to pay for the prizes to be gained. He was Master of the lot, however much she might rankle at the notion. It was early nights yet and centuries enough would defang her.

In the meantime, there was the present to deal with. A little punishment for biting the hand and for the purloining of that particular costume. A theft that echoed days long gone. Perhaps he could deliver her a dream during the day, featuring all the many places one would have to dig around the castle to find the pieces of his covetous little brother. Just so she knew where he stood with regard to sticky-fingered siblings. But clothes were not the greater concern, much as he would prefer she think so.

Let her think it only a matter of pride and property. While she thought it, he would have to scour his room and be certain there was no breach of the hidden place where his souvenirs from the Scholomance rested. He hardly feared that the woman would decipher the texts within, let alone be able to limp through even their most basic instructions. But she was clever and ‘kin of his kin.’ She was therefore petty enough to set the ancient parchment ablaze in a fit of retribution.

Yes, it would need checking. Yes, she would need a crack of the whip in some way.

But first.

“Did that amuse you?” he asked of the portrait. “I’m sure it would have were you here. Would it serve your mood to know how many times I have failed to fill the hollow you left behind? You see I am never satisfied. Whereas you were content enough to settle for a village of half-dead bootlickers. It is a better thing to be gratified by only the best rather than to lower oneself to preen over scraps, don’t you think?”

The portrait did not say. Only stared on in that melancholy gleam of blue. So hard to think a creature like her had ever bloodied her hands. Out of love, of course. Always out of love. Such stories she had told under the Mountain, away from the eyes of a God who gave His flock mere trinkets to ward off the thousand monstrous and manmade evils of the world, the caring sins she had beggared her soul for already. Loved ones threatened. Loved ones rescued. Loved ones alternately grateful or aghast, but ultimately saved by her knife, her poison, or the lure of her chilled flesh.

Always there had been a chill to her. Even when her heart was alive.

The thought tugged him to the wall above the titanic bed’s headboard. His fingers traced the loose mortar around one stone. He thrice-checked that his senses were blocked from interlopers before moving it out. Three treasures waited inside.

The closest was a skull. Final resting place for a waste of time. Such a churlish solicitor he had first invited to his home! Had he ever introduced him to Jonathan? He had already thrown out the man’s name and redubbed him Yorick after his Loves and the wolves finished with his carrion. Were there less sentiment attached to it, he might have already gifted the lump of ivory to his dear friend, who so loved the Bard. It would make a fine paperweight as he bent over his myriad books and forms.

But the sentiment was there because she was there. She had seen the opportunity with the idiot wandering so close and had tried to herd him into her tearing hands. Love and Hate. She could not love a stranger, but she could hate that he was marked by the stamp of her Count, proof that he was intended for a task. There would have been no teeth in the man, no kiss. Just a disassembling of anatomy long before the wildlife tore him. With how poorly he’d received his host’s hospitality, perhaps all of them would have been better off if Yorick had never been rescued by the thunderbolt or the Wolf.

“You did tell me so, didn’t you?” Again he turned to the portrait. The skull turned over in his hands. “You told me not to go forward. Do not play Alexander, you said. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same. You knew already how it was back here. How I had not begun a true march upon the world, had not drowned it in its own blood.”

How he had stormed and slaughtered for only as long as the emptiness of the scarred castle could be ignored. This he did longer than any of the squealing countryside preferred. But not long enough. It had seemed only a blink. The frustrated lashing of a butcher mutilating the livestock until their fine cuts were mere pulp under his blades and teeth. And no gladder for the mess. He had stolen the first fair girl away before closing himself back in the high stone walls. A girl like sun on snow, who’d made her family laugh and her village swoon. With her collection the great conquest was brought to a halt.

Yorick’s skull gained a new crack where he gripped it. He tossed it on the bed in favor of the second treasure. Still shut in its jewelry box like a fairy tale’s secret.

Opening the ruby-pocked lid revealed a lump of stained linen. It swaddled the heart he had stolen from her chest. The meat had never rotted. Never attracted the vandals of fly and maggot. Simply sat there in the cloth, a dark red mound of muscle and dried blood. He remembered the hole that had closed up before his eyes as she vanished into the sleet. Had a new heart grown in her breast or had her form shed the anatomy forever? He still wondered. There were times when he thought of pricking it with the tip of a dagger. Vourdalaks were immune to a pierced heart. A cleaved head. One of their few advantages compared to the strigoi. It would feel good to halve the heart, he was sure.

But it went uncut. His thumb dragged over its curves as he convinced himself the pressure was felt all the way in that lightning-struck pit she still hibernated in. Bloodless and cold. Dreaming.

The heart was rewrapped and set in its box before the last treasure was perused. It too was still in its proper place. He caught himself close to a chuckle as he removed it.

How strange that his lifetimes before and after undeath had drawn so many little scholars to him, all with a penchant for bloating a journal with their personal scrawling. His Harkers seemed to have glumly hung up the pastime, refusing to pen anything which their Master would, naturally, have the right to peruse. A shame. There were blank volumes enough to fill another library with their prose if they wished. He had so enjoyed the few excerpts gleaned from their little manuscript that he’d tossed them a bejeweled book apiece to fill. Books that had found their way into the child’s eager hands, doomed to be ruined with crayon.

The book in his own hands had been a gift as well. A volume bound in dense old leather, the pages all thick leaves. Something to last through ages. He peered at the inner cover where her name was gouged. The one she had worn before the Lessons under the Mountain and after their vows were broken. She had given that name away to the worthless peasants of her necropolis to chisel in the marble. Not even another pseudonym, but her own maiden name, as though his title was a gangrenous limb to hack off.

“You do grow maudlin,” he sighed to the pages. The book returned to its place, the box after, the skull last. Back went the stone. Grudgingly, he resigned himself against forbidding entrance to the room. His own chambers were understandably forbidden, but this space would appear senseless to prohibit. Especially when it had been breached already and left unbothered with for nigh half a decade. It might be taken as an arbitrary thing—or worse, evidence to the woman that she had landed a blow with her act—but ultimately she might come sniffing around again. He would have to relocate the mementos soon.

But for now, there was more pressing work.

He found said work waiting for him in the library.

Out of all the cavernous rooms in the castle, it remained the nearest their strange brood had to a shared familial space. When it was allowed. He lingered a moment outside their perception as a shadow at the door.

The boy was tucked between his parents, insisting on reading to them from one of the books of fables and fairy tales. His Papa had brought home a version in every language he could find some while back. Mama had once tried to play go-between, fishing innocuous knowledge from their Master’s head to be secondhand tutor of the land’s many tongues. But it was a childish ploy and he had found them out with the ease of one kicking over a stone to watch the beetles scurry.

Jonathan, for his part, had made a more than admirable leap after his ‘brain fever’ left him in the care of strangers. The language barrier was one he had no intention of tripping over again, and so he had juggled his dead master’s business affairs and his first prodding at the Carpathians’ voices years ago. Now he was sharp enough to not only comprehend his paperwork and the talk of the townspeople without struggling on a given word, but to know exactly what he heard when his Master called:

“Draga mea. What has our little devil learned tonight?”

Jonathan showed no bristling of posture, no gooseflesh. Only the barest flicker of composure pulling its laces tight across the wan face. Even the smile refused to falter. The boy’s eyes flew up from the pages and bounced between fathers. He knew the term too, for it was one reserved only for his Papa.

“Father!” he chirped, holding up the book. It showed a painted girl in red walking through a wood with a smiling Wolf. “I have almost all of it! English and Hungarian and—,”

“Diavol.” His voice like a snap of fingers. The boy winced. His mother shot a look like a knife through his head. Jonathan spared a hand each for their shoulders. The boy’s back was to him now and so his eyes could flare in that grim crystalline way. Frozen lakes framed in whorls of snow. “Did I speak to you or your Papa?”

The child hung his head over the book.

“Please forgive me, Father.”

For I have sinned, the voice in him sing-songed. He swallowed an unbidden laugh.

“He has reason to be excited,” Jonathan’s offered. A soft roll of sound that now weighed almost as much as his Master’s in a room. “He has conquered the English, the Hungarian, half of the French and—,”

“The French?”

“Sweetheart,” Jonathan spoke lightly to the top of the boy’s head. “Show him.”

Sheepish but eager, the child brandished his new victory. Genuine surprise tumbled through his Father as he recognized the woodcut illustration. A view that stunned as much as tickled.

“So many of the best ones began in French writing,” the boy declared. “Charles Perrault wrote this one, Bluebeard,” he enunciated carefully, “Barbe bleue, forever and ever ago. It’s so scary! Like Mama’s ghost stories and your histories, Father. See?”

“I see,” he told the boy. And he did. The illustrator had done a fine job depicting the grisly chamber and its bounty of prying wives’ heads. “It is a good story to learn and a better one to take to heart.”

Like Pandora’s Box. 

Another surprise, hearing her tone chime through the mindscape. The surprise withered upon seeing the honed edge of her gaze. A warning that did not quite slip into the mental currents shared in the room:

Who here is Pandora? Who must mind the loose lid over the box of miseries?

Jonathan looked at her with only a mildly concerned curiosity.

Her word was kept. For now.

Fine, fine.

“Exactly so,” he said aloud. “And what is the Lesson in these tales, child? Do tell.”

The boy straightened where he sat, beaming, “Trick question! I know there is more than one. The first is that when you are told not to open a thing, it is for good reason. The second is that the terrible things inside are put there by a villain, who really does want the door or the box to be opened so that they can have something awful happen after. Third is that what’s scary does not last forever. Hope is in the box and heroes slay the villain in the end. And,” he wrinkled his nose at the book, somewhere between humor and annoyance, “it seems like people who made old stories really wanted girls to think they would only have an awful time to look forward to once they marry.”

“It can happen that way, Sweetheart,” from Jonathan, before Master or wife could jump to comment. There was no erasing the somber angles of his look for the boy this time. Even the smile he mustered was a solemn curve. “Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. Sometimes people find themselves with spouses they do not love or who do not love them. It is…uncommon to enter something so terrible as these storybook marriages. Most spouses are not monsters. But some are callous, some are dull, and some only wed at all because they see it as a chore.”

“A chore?” Another wrinkle of the nose. “Like putting playtime away?” Jonathan nodded, the smile an increment lighter.

“Or doing Father’s papers or minding the horses. Something like that, yes.” The boy sat up scandalized at this. He looked from his Papa to his Mama and Father as if hoping for one of them to tell him this was a joke. The scandal deepened as he saw, for one of the few times in his small life, that Mama and Father’s expressions were an utter match. Both on their faces and in their minds.

Still, he tried, “That can’t be true, can it?”

It is, from her.

“It is,” from him.

Each answer flat as a coin. Again, he had to tamp down bitter laughter.

The boy’s mouth dropped open on a glimpse of pearly needle teeth. A fever dream’s vision of a cherub being told by Cupid himself that all the arrows had been burned and they weren’t to make any more.

“That’s horrible! You mean there are families who just pick a mama and a papa and a father and just—just—,” A thunderhead came and went on the little brow. “Just sit there? Not caring about each other?”

“Child,” his Father hummed as he finally idled from the entryway, “you seem more distraught at this than the dead brides.”

“Because it’s different! Barbe bleue, he’s just a monster in a book! And even if—,” ah, how sickish he turned, “—if there are real villains like him in the world, they are rare! But you speak as if the whole rest of the world is out there,” he waved a frantic hand as if to encompass everything beyond the castle, “making families of each other and not enjoying it. Not loving each other at all.”

“Not the entire world,” Jonathan began. Before he could go on, his Master finished for him:

“But not a small portion either. Love does exist, but it is a precious thing like gold or blood. Many wish to have it for their own, but not everyone may claim it as theirs, let alone find it. Sometimes not even those who have died for it.”

He stood before the three of them on the couch now. His dear Harkers. Fire from the woman, wonder from the boy, a wary stillness from Jonathan. All braced, all listening for the lecture’s Lesson. He knelt until his eye was level with the child’s. The child sat forward, his mind at full attention while the spades of his ears pricked like a pup’s. He really was a good boy.

“Your Papa is right. Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. There are unhappy homes where mothers and fathers battle with each other and do worse to their children. There are homes where bones are broken, where there are tears every night and day, where there is only toil and hate and, yes, even death. For you are right too. There are villains in the world who slay the ones they should love, out of madness or for sport.”

He watched the boy’s eyes first widen and then well. Bright red beads balanced on the edge of spilling. If they ran, he would go to bed with hunger and then grouse all the more as he waited for their feeding night. So he laid the wide white spider of his own hand upon the child’s other shoulder. Jonathan gripped his side tighter. The woman grasped the boy’s small fingers.

“But this home is safe from that. We would none of us have come together were it not for love. Your Papa, your Mama, myself, we are all creatures of singular will. We do not do what we do not wish to do, and so we would not be here if we did not desire it, if there was no love in these walls. You are the proof. We made you together.”

The boy sniffled. His scarlet tears did not roll, but settled back with a blink.

“Like Pandora? She was made out of lots of pieces from lots of gods.”

“That she was. And like Pandora,” his hand drifted from the boy’s shoulder to drum his fingers on the book, “you have gone and opened something which brought you to tears. But there is Hope yet. You shall not lack for your own Loves when the time comes, diavol. For now, know that you need not weep for others and their clumsy pairing. Your heart will bleed forever once you start. And if that should happen? Why, your poor Papa will never have blood enough to satisfy you again.”

The boy’s expression squirmed for a moment, uncertain.

“…Really?”

Jonathan bowed over him, smiling, “Your Father jests. I will always have enough for you.” In his shift, more of the mottled throat was laid bare while his hair hung in a silver-white curtain. Through it peeked those strange sapphire eyes; melting ice set in soot lashes and a cadaver’s sockets. The mollifying mien of a living corpse.

An image passed behind his eyes of that pale smile daubed with blood.

The oil bottle dug against him in its trouser pocket.

“But not tonight,” he intoned. His palm moved from the book of fairy tales and up to the hand Jonathan still had on his son. The man barely tensed as he was pulled up alongside his Master. “Feeding is not for another dusk and your Papa has work waiting. Your Mama shall hear out the rest of your progress.” He flicked a glance her way. “Perhaps she could introduce you to one of Papa’s own favorites. I believe it was, One Thousand and One Nights.”

This time he could not stave off at least half a chuckle as his Harkers all seemed to jolt as one. Loathing here, curiosity there, and, laughably, a prickle of incensed decorum from Jonathan himself. There was even a flush in his pallid cheek.

“Would that not be best to reserve until he’s older?”

“My friend, he is reading of murder already. What harm could your little adventures do?”

“Sir—,”

“What’s it about? What happens in the Nights?” from the boy. His gaze now bounced eagerly among his herd of parents. There were few things his Papa would deny him and so to hear of something even he would try to hold out of his son’s reach was more tantalizing than any forbidden chamber or pretty dowry box. “Papa, I’m old enough, you can tell me!”

I can tell you, came the woman’s rescue. The parts you are old enough to hear.

“But Father said!” If Father said, the family Did. That was one of the rules. A good Lesson to hold above all others. But Jonathan’s eyes pleaded with both the promise of bribery for mercy and, again, that absurd flame of parental dismay. Very well.

“Father said perhaps,” he corrected. “And I said introduce. You do grow fast, child, but not fast enough. There are secrets meant for men and women that you must wait to learn before you can access all there is to consume. Until then, you can see what you can wheedle from your mother on the matter. But first, give Papa your good-day.”

Another shocked descent for the boy, another raising of hackles for his Mama.

“Papa’s working all night?”

“Ah-ah, not all night. You took him up for half of it, did you not?”

The boy shrank guiltily against his pillow, mumbling, “Maybe…”

A third, from the woman. At most.

Her eyes and scars seemed to blaze as he knew his own to do. Now it truly was an effort not to think of her as kin and shudder for it. The air in the room seemed abruptly charged as her line of sight refused to drop from his.

You could make her. Walk her off to the bookcases, even. See if she cannot accidentally smash her fingers under a leaden tome. Maybe—

Jonathan’s hand gripped his. Cold against colder. Then he was on his knee, cupping the child’s face.

“It is my fault, Sweetheart. I should have kept better track of the time. There is something that needs working out tonight, very important for your Father’s own affairs.” Another smile for the boy. Spring come to thaw. “Now please, can I have your good-day? I should not like to head to bed without it.”

And just like that, the boy was up and folded in his free arm, squeezing back like he could pin the man there to stay and read of Scheherazade and her Sultan until the sun rose. But his Father was watching and so he consoled himself with the embrace and the good-days and their bloodless kisses to each other’s cheek.

“Mama’s turn!”

Jonathan scarcely had time to repeat him, nodding—“Mama’s turn,”—before the woman had snatched him to her. Not a common display, this. At most they knew their Master would suffer only some saccharine peck and a pining stare in his presence. Let the woman rut while he at least had some distance and a turned back. Now she seemed on the edge of eating him. Not that Jonathan appeared to mind.

His eyes were shut far more lightly than his Master’s had been not an hour ago. A gesture of bliss rather than nausea. Because his eyes were closed, he did not see his wife’s eye crack open and shoot a line of mingled hate and joy into her Master’s skull. Over Jonathan’s psyche and masked from the boy’s questing mind, he dragged a mental dagger and spill of salt over hers.

This he punctuated with a very clear, Curvă.

She winced under the twist of the spectral blade in her brain, but did not let her nails become claws in Jonathan’s cheek. Her eye narrowed. Another blade was sent back to him.

There was even a dimpled hint of a smile as she enunciated, oh so lightly, Încornorat.

Jonathan bit back a yelp as he was hauled to the door with barely time enough to call back a, “Good-day, Darling.”

He no longer had his hand in his Master’s, for his Master held him by the wrist. So it remained until three long halls were between them and the library. Then another hall after that. Stairs. Hall. Stairs. Towards the tower.

Where all dragons keep their maidens.

The thought’s attempted humor died before it even drew breath. Kin of his goddamned kin, indeed. He could hear his little brother cackling up at him from Hell. Who did the contemptible sow think she was to dare? To even conceive of vomiting such a label at his feet? She, the one with the wedding band!

Yes, the same plain ring as his. While you, barehanded, claim to own them both. You are Master, you are Groom. And yet…

Jonathan sucked a breath over his teeth.

Their pace halted in the moonlight of a window-loaded wall. A glance at the trapped wrist showed it was connected to a hand going blue as the mortal bones grinded and creaked. The white hand curled open to reveal a hint of the bruise to come. Jonathan kneaded the spot without recoiling from his Master’s side.

The man’s smile had fallen away like a veil. Here was only his face as it was. The sweet-bitter mark of surrender that was the mournful turn of the lips, the frozen dew under the hoods of his lashes. Tired but waiting for the next scene. Wisely keeping the obvious question tucked in his throat: What’s wrong?

Instead his Master heard, “I received correspondence from Vidor today. He says the delay is due to losing one of the horses. They had to comb two villages for a replacement, but he thinks they can make it by mid-July.”

So casual, so ironed out into the cadence of Agent and Client. Anything else, Sir? Anything we might discuss in arid tones before the inevitable, Sir?

There was such talk available, if his Master felt like bothering with it. Stony talk of setting stone. A long-belated repair of the old damage to the castle’s crumbled edges. He knew there were also pamphlets and science journals waiting tidily on the ebon desk with the usual bureaucratic flotsam. Dreary things about the advancements of pipes and electric wires that would be an arduous and superfluous hell to weave into the grand old stonework. Especially when, in fifteen years’ time, there would be no humans left to want them under Castle Dracula’s roof.

Still, it was a good sign, these tries at what the English called ‘homemaking.’ Renovating his cage kept him busy between bleeding and writing. More, it gave an excuse to be allowed out of the tower. The same tower where his life might have gone on even to this night, with only the hungry visits of wife and child to prove they still existed. 

His Master had daydreamed about it more than once. How it would be the dance of that distant summer intensified and expanded when Jonathan Harker found he was locked permanently in. There would not be so much as the meager freedom of the office, where he could scratch and type and imagine he was far away in his snug English firm. No, in his dreams, he’d left Jonathan only the tower and the bedchamber at its top. Only what food his Master brought, what clothes his Master offered, what sundry supple tasks his Master put to him in that narrow box in which the spoils of war lived and bowed. Unable to dare so much as the thought of escape, even with a will that was all his own.

But no, no. Better to leave that sword hanging. A punishment threatened did more work than the punishment itself. Really, for all the savory misery it might wring from him, all the placations that might be offered for release, it would hardly satisfy in the long term. Not unless he wanted a repeat of his missteps with his prior Loves, turned idle and useless but for proving the castle was not his dwelling alone.

All this musing passed within a heartbeat he did not have. In the present, he crossed his arms.

“A lost horse, he says. And how did they lose it?”

A calculating flicker of the blue. Careful, careful.

“A broken leg, Sir. It had to be put down.”

“A broken leg. On what mountains? In what ditch between here and the mason?”

“He didn’t say.” No quaver in the voice. No dropping of his gaze. But there was a hairline crack in what should have been the calm of one delivering dull news. Small, but there. Then, the fatal line: “Why does it matter?”

Ah, my friend. Sometimes I do wonder if you enjoy dangling raw meat before my nose.      

“It matters because you are hiding something.” His hand landed light and immovable on the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not lying, Sir.” Yes, that much his Master could tell. Except.

“We both know there are worlds of difference between speaking the truth and choosing not to lie. Even the boy knows that.” The hand did not tighten, but claws now scraped against the shoulder. “So. What was it that Vidor blamed for his poor lost horse?” Jonathan opened his mouth. What could have been a word was cut off as he was suddenly wrenched around and marched toward the office. “No, let us not exhaust you with recital. Surely you still have the letter. I shall see it myself.”

“Sir—,”

But they were already at the door and the door had already opened on a handy gust. The same breeze tugged the heavy wood shut and, in passing out a different crack in the office’s window, skirted between the man’s legs. Jonathan hardly had time enough to flinch before he was thrust in the tufted chair that stood facing the desk. His Master was already thumbing cheerily through the immaculate filing; here was another reason to neglect his little fantasy of the tower. Mr. Harker really was an artful organizer. Never a paper out of place. Even the ones he wished he might get away with tossing on the fire.

But such liberties were only for his client to enjoy.

Case in point, here was Vidor’s letter, folded back into its envelope, neatly slotted in the Pending drawer. He kept his attention halved evenly between the note and his wincing friend in the chair. My, but the latter’s intuition had honed well with the years.

“He writes to me and says wolves attacked and ruined the stallion’s leg. Wolves cause him to be late.” He refolded the letter until its edges could slit a lying courier’s throat. “Wolves. Along the route I mapped for him.” His eyes leveled at Jonathan’s head like twin pistols. “You would hide this from me?”

“No, Sir. Only—,”

“Only what? You wish to see me deceived? To see these vermin get away with wasting my time as they drink and chase the slatterns along the road? By all means, explain.”

“I thought only that he must have made an error. That what he thought were wolves were merely dogs. There are few small breeds here and some are bred to outweigh their lupine cousins. More to the point, I do not see the why of purposefully delaying your delivery, even for a drink or a dalliance. Vidor and his men know they’ll not wring more money from you in losing time. The trek to and from all the destinations involved takes up days and energy all of them would rather spend at his home or some attractive holiday.” The closing statement: “He is not a liar, Sir, only mistaken.”

‘Please do not kill them.’ If only you had a violin to play as you grovel.

Out loud he sighed and shook his head.

“Do you never grow tired of covering for the ineptitude of others?”

It wasn’t an unfair question. Jonathan and his woman had been the key to dredging up the exact methods by which his Master’s web around England was forming and been instrumental in tearing them away. The Dutchman had led the lordling, the doctor, and the American along in slaying his poor Lucy, his fetching first claim planted upon the land. But the pack of them would have been running in circles without his dear Harkers. Too quick, too canny, and all the while shouldering the brunt of the effort in the hunt. There was some chiding of kismet in that, he knew.

He recalled that nascent night’s exact words.

You dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.

Words from an unsuspecting old thing who’d had to run for his unlife for the first time in ages as Jonathan Harker slithered out the window of the Piccadilly house, steel thirsty and flashing. Coming to slay him. To pierce his heart and sever his head in the middle of a screaming street. Prepared for a cell or his own death as the chattel shrilled, not knowing there would be only dust where a carcass should fall. Yes, yes. He would have. He could have.

Once.

But Fate ensured he reserved that knife for his friends, who had sinned even worse against his woman. If Jonathan marked his Master as a thief, then the stalwart dogs who had dared to turn on the sole bitch in their midst were worse for daring her destruction. Such was the price of not recognizing a Jackal while busy hunting a Wolf. In fact…

“You say Vidor is mistaken? That he lost his horse not to wolves, but other beasts? If this is so, I would not wager it was a dog that did the work, but a jackal.” He folded his hands and smiled. “You wish him to be spared the punishment of a liar. Why not assure that the reality matches his words? It need not be done with the kukri. In fact, it need not be you at all. Dear Mina, she so regrets depleting you. Perhaps she would appreciate the sport of her own hunt.”

Jonathan did not blink. The fear remained in its careful place, the fatigue alongside it. But there, lurking just under the membrane of the willing prey, was something else. Cold and sharp.

“Even if such were not against our arrangement, Sir, there would be a dilemma.” There was no tremble as he said it.

“Oh dear. What dilemma is that?”

“The waste. Leaving aside the concern of relatives and friends raising an alarm about a group of missing workers, it will be counted as another strike against this place’s stability.”

It was an effort not to clap. Good boy, Jonathan. Follow the trail.

“Stability?” he pressed, doing what he could to drip with pompous ignorance. Jonathan did not crack.

“Yes,” he told his Master. “The stability of this place’s image as the home of a respected Count and not a guaranteed death trap. The people of the Carpathians live in the center of your influence. They understand what it is to risk angering you. But you know firsthand that this place exists inside a shrinking circle. More information flies faster, more straight lines are drawn that whittle the world down into maps that mark every dark corner down to its smallest inch. Which means that if Castle Dracula, to say nothing of its Master or those he controls, gain a reputation for erasing visitors in bloody fashion, people will just stop coming here. 

“Unless those people are in uniform and hail from tiers of governance above the one you choose to wear rather than frighten the human gentry with the reality of you. I know I say nothing you do not know. You have not kept these mountains under your thumb by being careless. That you would suggest the idea of Mina or I casually murdering innocent strangers as either their punishment for tardiness or to simply tug our respective chains to have us do a trick you already know we are capable of suggests only two things to my mind.

“The first, that you have more important issues on your mind than the delivery of a commissioned pile of rocks. The latter is an easier annoyance to deal with than the former, so you have laid it on the chopping block first.”

The white hands remained folded, but their claws grew again. His fangs ached. What blood he had left in his veins was all very busy rushing to a single extremity.

“How very astute, my friend. And the second thing?”

“The second thing,” Jonathan said with a precise note of exhaustion thrown like a comforter over his riskier patter, “is that you don’t know how difficult it is to convince anyone other than novice solicitors or loyal caravans to march up the mountains, even with what you’re paying. Modern men don’t need to be superstitious when they’re already skittish about known threats. Like the wildlife. Or the cliffs so high you cannot see the foot of them.”

“Or murderers?” The word was a purr and a knife. In answer, a whisper:

“Or us. Yes.” With this boulder pushed up the proverbial hill, Jonathan folded his own hands and stared back at his Master. Not to see whether the boulder would roll back down to crush him, but how best to lay in its path and cause the least amount of damage to those behind him. To that end, “I do not seek to belittle what you truly deem important, Sir. But Vidor and his troubles seem too small a thing to earn your genuine ire. If something more is wrong, I should like to help.” His eyes gleamed. His Master wondered if they might draw moths. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

The same pitch. The exact same. One echoed from back and back to—

‘Balaurul meu, you cherish your wrath more than your joy. You rage over having nothing to rage at. You rave only for the sake of baring teeth, tearing after whatever happens to be nearest. It is no good for you. You should devour only what is worth consuming. Tell me what that is, if you can name it.’

The chill of her hand on his. Her eyes deep and killing as the sudden crack of ice over a lake. Drowning him.

‘What is it you want to eat?’

He looked to Jonathan. The look tried to be a glare. A threat. A promise.

Jonathan’s look—

The lake, the freezing, pulling lake, drowning again—

—did not falter. An invitation to anything. To be and endure whatever his Master demanded.

The office had seen plenty of use before. A fine backdrop for the cliché of the mishandled secretary tucked under the desk on hands and knees or, the better to see him, said secretary bent and spread across the ebony. Other rooms had their turns, of course. Many others. Sometimes his own chambers, the ban lifted for such special occasions. But most often it happened in the tower.

Somehow he felt it would not be enough tonight. Even if he took his friend on a tour of the entire castle, every room and turret, even into the obsidian walls of his own coffin, it would not be enough, yet he could not place the why of it. There was the woman’s provocation to consider. Then the abrupt haunting from the ghosts his traitor mind had conjured to harangue him. The undead could not produce their own ghosts, he knew. Not counting those of the imagination.

That much would explain the leering vision of his brother.

Not so for her.

A wife whose unhallowed chamber was all her own while the dead brides in her wake were left to wander elsewhere. Bluebeard would balk. But Bluebeard had never had his Countess.

Perhaps the imagined whisper of her was right.

Perhaps he was only angry for want of something to pounce upon and feed his wrath. Something to overtake, to conquer, to crack a relieving fissure into the ever-denser callus growing over him and his unlife. Such restraint he lived under for the sake of a charade! For all that his subjects mewled over their lot, there was not a single devil in Hell who did not know how he now chafed under his friend’s ‘contract.’

So many ages he had spent withering himself, finding less and less point in the ownership of his genius loci and its shivering cattle, less and less point to the study and toil and terror of his manifestation. A Limbo broken only by his desperate planning for the taking of England, the modern Rome with its gluttonous hands sunk deep into the refined world and its culling colonies. It had been something to wake and drink and think for. A purpose to the infinity he had bought so eagerly only to grow listless with it like a cagey child bored of his gift.

Then had come his Harkers.

Jonathan, his blessed, blighted, bloodstained Jonathan, had come to show his belly and his throat to ransom his loved ones to his enemy’s mercy. A bargain made for the sake of the stolen woman who could not go from him, the raw newborn that she was. A newborn with a newborn; their impossible babe.

Oh, how fast it could have ended then.

How quickly he might have torn the Madonna and Child to ribbons—Better! Have her tear the latter apart in her arms first! Let his friend watch!—and fallen on the sweet screaming fool who had cast aside his blade. His friend might have been baptized against the red pool that had been the bride and brat he damned himself for with the slaying of innocent men. Then dragged down and away into his Master’s tomb to await the beginning of their new eternity together.

But he had done the wise thing instead. He had accepted the terms, had let them into the space once filled by his slain Loves. This he did not regret. Nor would he ever, for the sake of his mind. Oh, O, his mind! Damn them for a hundred little scratches as he bit into their throats, but the Harkers had saved and salved that much. Every night was freshly riddled with the promise of performance and pained fealty, of the warring of wills, of the crushing fist, of the rapid wheeling mental clockwork that he once chased so feebly while he rotted among his harpy Loves.

True, true. Except you have now grown too content in this little circuit you now walk. Walk, not run. Fed, not slaked. You became the nightmare of these mountains for a reason. The women had their helpings from the children’s sweetmeat veins. But you? You were the hungry shadow to watch for in the forest. In the roads. In the secret dark of the mountains. You were a horror who could be avoided when full, but brought death down on the unwary of any age when it came time to feed. Now here you sit. A pampered boyar like the rest, waiting on your helpings of flesh and succor while a Child is somewhere being tutored and a Woman makes a nuisance of herself and the only one carrying the whole thing is a Vassal playing duped and dutiful Atlas.

So much power. So much of him awake and thrumming. So much left caged.

A Wolf turned to a Dog.

Back in the office, time had passed only by another heartbeat. Plus the cracking of an armrest in the talon of his hand.

Jonathan did not react to the flying splinters, but did slowly, carefully, crane his head enough to steal a glimpse of the window. To his Master’s surprise, a twinkle of hope fell across his face. If not hope, enterprise. He faced the glowering shape of his Master behind the desk.

“The moon is full tonight.”

“What of it?” Each word a thorn. But this seemed only to draw Jonathan up another inch.

“How many hours are left until sunrise?”

“My friend, I am stung.” When he grinned it showed his teeth to the gums. “You wish to be rid of me so soon?”

“That is half my thought, Sir.” Jonathan leaned forward, gripping his hands so they couldn’t quake. “The other half being that you might benefit from a hunt.”

Tonight was a parade of surprises. Shock ruled his face while an agonizing ache struck him at the chest and groin.

“A hunt,” he parroted, already scenting the condition of the thing.

“Yes,” Jonathan nodded. “Though I am hardly a winning stag, I have not forgotten what it is to run from the demons of this place. Nor have I forgotten that my escape was built on luck rather than Providence.”

“My Loves were long since spoiled by then. Ravenous, yes, but comfort so often won out over craving. If it were not so, I should have returned to find half the Carpathians drained in their greed. Even here, our own home, they tried so many times to pin you rather than exert the effort of a chase. They could have pounced while you rested on the couch or at the window, but no. The trance came first. Lazy, lazy.” He clicked his tongue against a fang. “That in mind, I fear you would make a poor quarry. You escaped through lax claws and slow jaws, my friend. I would have you within the minute.”

Within this one, perhaps.

Jonathan risked a small shrug and looked again at the risen moon. Past midnight now.

“Perhaps.” A hard swallow. Then: “Or perhaps you are too used to easy meals to bother. I understand, of course, if you worry you cannot outpace me—,”

The chair slammed into the rug as Jonathan slammed into the tufting. A hand like a noose was locked around his throat. He neither gasped nor gagged. Only waited for his Master’s decision. His eyes drowning, freezing.

The oil bottle weighed more than a mountain now.

 ‘What is it you wish to eat?’

“You will have five minutes, stag.”

Out the window, down castle and cliffside, into the fringe of the forest. He willed the film of sparse clouds away to further free up the moon.

No lantern. No compass. There had been no pause to change shoes. Jonathan didn’t even wait to be asked before unlinking his pocket watch and passing it into his Master’s hand. This he did placidly enough. But his eyes gave him away, so wide and lambent in the gloom.

A wariness radiated from him now. The belated fear of one who has only just realized a foolish wager was made. It was not a fear of death—that particular aroma had lasted only so long even in their first faraway summer—but that unmapped dread of consequence which can make fatality seem a reprieve. His Master was happy not to relieve him of it.

“Five minutes, Sir?”

“Four and three quarters now.”

The last word had barely hit the air before Jonathan Harker dashed into the dark. A healthy pace for a trim young man. Remarkable, his Master knew, for one so routinely exsanguinated. It was almost precious to watch how his speed changed once the shadows grew dense under the canopy. As if the poor stag truly thought such a thing could mask his trick. But the hunter’s eyes were far keener than his prey’s and so he could tell at once when the healthy pace broke into the expected gait. From a mere quick jog to a fired arrow.

He had puzzled over the timeline of his friend’s escape from the castle more than once. Even among the plainer signs of that surreal metamorphosis, this aberration deserved attention. Such speed in a body that he himself drained the night before! Athletes of every era would have blanched at the idea of cutting across the Carpathians in their prime, let alone in the solicitor’s state. And that would come only after descending the towering face of castle and cliff without so much as a rope. Yet down and away his friend had flown. A powerful proof of the extraordinary.

One that went on to seem miniscule beside the scene of the men returning his soil.

The matter should have been equal parts tedious and amusing.

It had been the same men who had dug and boxed the earth in the first place, just as content to take his money and goodwill to reverse the process once the movers in England saw to collecting and shipping the crates. The Eucharists’ polluting presence had been ordered removed upon request. Jonathan himself had invented a delightful excuse that had been a joy to read:

‘In addition to a personal tragedy cutting short his intended transferal to London, my client has had the misfortune to discover an English variant of his homeland’s superstitious parties in the form of a band of modern-day zealots. They are apparently of a sort who regard Matthew Hopkins as an idol. While my client has not suffered overmuch from what he believes were failed attempts on his life by these individuals, they have taken pains to track the cargo that was delivered from a rich deposit of Transylvanian soil.

‘Irony seems to haunt my client, for his unwell hunting party seemed to regard this collection of scientific fodder as bewitched graveyard earth and so heaped—and, I may add, shamefully wasted—a loaf’s worth of the holy Eucharist onto the loam. My client requests that the movers sent to reseal and ship the abandoned crates do him the courtesy of removing the Wafers from his samples to the best of their ability. If the Wafers have attracted pests in the meantime or if any granules have scattered in the topsoil, feel free to clear these out as well. He sends his gratitude in advance.’

Words and money enough to reverse the shipment had brought the earth back home. A bitter victory for both sides, admittedly. Here was proof that Count Dracula had officially taken his bootheel off of England’s throat for the moment. But here too was the return of those men who had not only moved the earth to begin with, but had rushed their boyar out of reach. With their speed and aid, the woman was lost. The kukri had drunk. And all of this had come in the wake of their seeing the poor Englishman bleating and pleading in the window.

A sight that had rightly spurred them to laughter.

They had laughed again as they returned with the wagons, knowing what Jonathan was to their boyar now. Jonathan had already begun gleaning the language and so knew what commentary they had to share as he oversaw the arrival of the boxes and their unburdening. His Master had hidden to oversee him in turn. To watch his face and inhale the despair. Alas, there was too much dead in him for their jeering to stir much of anything in the way of insult. Jonathan Harker seemed a soul built for subservience and the polite receival of abuse. Even the caravan’s head, resplendent Old Danil, had frowned at his men the way a father scowls at his boys for kicking at a lame dog.

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? Seeing only a dog. A leashed dog, collared until he choked, crippled and toothless. Go on, laugh. They are safe.

Really, they had wasted much of their breath and time on laughter. Their boyar’s own grin had faded with the ticking of the watch as they lazed and drank and nudged the boxes only as breaks between the taunting chatter Jonathan appeared so deaf to.

Until they spoke of his wife.

The woman had not been present, needing to cradle her infant in the chapel to quiet his fit. But her Master had spoken of her in the correspondence with Old Danil. It was to be expected that she would leak into the men’s talk. Her scars, her silence, her beauty, how she had been ‘taken in bed’ as her husband slept through it all, how perhaps her Master would be good enough to have her share her hospitality with them, ha ha.

Jonathan’s stillness had changed. The late spring warmth had curdled around him as his head turned to those who spoke. They were clustered at the end of their wagon, two thirds of the boxes still stacked behind them. Jonathan had stared. The laughter had dwindled. Bluster had simmered in their tongue.

‘What, dog? Don’t like us talking about your bitch?’

Jonathan had not answered.

Jonathan, his Master knew, was silent as a flurry when there was a task at hand. Swift as a hailstone too. Between one blink and the next, the men had been hurled aside like flour sacks and Jonathan was on the wagon. A blink after this saw the men shouting and scattering as the earth-boxes were hurled off one after the other. The same boxes it had taken up to three men apiece to hoist. More shouts, more scurrying as the next wagon was emptied. Again, again.

Jonathan had turned to Old Danil, unmoved from his chosen post at the courtyard gate. A single iron brow had managed to rise over the whole scene. Jonathan had held up the purse full of pay his Master had given him for services rendered. His back was to one of those who had spoken of touching his wife. The man had his knife was out. The man took a step forward.

The purse of gold had flown back and cracked that man’s teeth. Then Jonathan himself fell on him as the man’s curse turned to a shrill. Other knives and pistols were scrambled for.

At the height of this, thunder had cracked in the clear night sky.

The Master of the castle emerged.

The men had jumped. Old Danil had craned his head. The man under Jonathan changed to a tone that ordered as much as begged through his bloodied mouth.

‘Get it off! Off off get it off me my hands please my hands damn you cowards get it OFF—!’

Jonathan had remained set upon his task. His Master could hear the crunch of it trapped in his fists.

‘Jonathan. Up.’

Jonathan had gotten to his feet, but without releasing the squealing man’s hands. It was a fascinating thing to observe now that he was not the one on the receiving end of…ah, but he still did not have a name for it. The enigma of Jonathan Harker, a man with a monster lurking in the chambers of his heart. A poet might call him a creature of Eros. Damned, empowered, and possessed by the weight of Love. But his Master was no poet and so admitted he had only his own title for the thing.

Jonathan, his Jackal. Obedient in all things—anything—but for the border of his Love.

When his eyes lifted, they had burned cold.

‘You heard,’ he’d grated in the men’s own tongue. ‘You heard.’

 ‘I did.’ Calm. Even. Easy, easy. Good boy.

Oh, the delicious balance of that moment. Did he dare shred the contract just to see if his friend would go mad at the rescinding of his one and only caveat while strangers lined up to have their turns in his wife’s coffin?

He had paused long enough to make dear Jonathan wonder. Just long enough to see his face harden to a full rictus. The unlucky fool in his friend’s hands let out a fresh shriek as something new broke and other bones crackled. Around them, the men had stood paralyzed in uncertainty, weapons half-drawn. Old Danil had checked his watch.

‘Let him go, Jonathan. Wait for me inside.’ He’d had to fling his will out at him. Hard. ‘Now. I shall see to the rest.’ Jonathan had released the man as if invisible fingers were fighting to pry up his own. Which was not too far from the truth. The man had scrambled away on knees and elbows, his head permanently turned to keep an eye on Jonathan—only to freeze again as his boyar clapped a white hand onto his shoulder. The courtyard had sucked in a collective breath. Every grip turned limp as jelly on their scabbards and holsters.

Jonathan had gone in.

His Master had chuckled, walking the broken-handed man to his wagon. To the blood-dewed pouch of gold abandoned on the ground.

‘You are to be envied, my friend. He left you with only a warning.’

‘Envied! Look at my hands!’

‘I see them. And you are lucky to have them still attached. As well as your head. He was being polite, you see.’ The hand on the man had tightened until the print of it bruised. ‘The last men to talk of laying hands on her did not get to live long enough to regret it. I do not know for certain what he did with the bodies, but I think they are buried. Wolves and jackals do so love to save their bones.’ Tighter. More than sweat had run on the man’s face. ‘He is such a loyal creature now. I have made him so. I have made him much more. And, like his Master, he does not take kindly to jokes made of touching what is his. What is ours. But perhaps he merely misunderstood, yes? Perhaps you and your brothers spoke of trying to bed another boyar’s property? Surely this is so. If it were otherwise…’

He had let his teeth show in full.

And the men had risen up in an assuring chorus that sang yes, yes, of course, they spoke of another castle’s woman, not his, never his. And the broken-handed man had scooped up the fallen gold with mangled fingers. And Old Danil, moved at last from his sedate constant enough to imitate curiosity, had approached him as the men fled back onto their wagons.

‘The Englishman. What is he really?’

‘Mine.’

Which was what mattered in the end.

Mostly.

He could possess so much without effort. Take where and what he liked. But that his friend, his Jonathan, was so alien a thing among the mortal flock made both the victory of his surrender and the temporary loss of England all the sweeter. For he had not run merely from the clamoring of the Dutchman and his pups or the waving of the Cross. Whatever Jonathan was in body and soul was as rare as…as…

Remember the sight of her in her loving throes? Before she was vourdalak, before you had ever whispered of the Mountain together, you had watched her at work. A favored serving girl left bloody after a visit from a soldier taking his due. An invitation to a dark room, unrecognized in her stolen serf’s guise. And then! Then! The art of it! The speed, the hush, the fruit of the harvested Adam’s apple! With this you saw her color her lips for the first time. And you had crept from your hiding place, offering to aid her in disposing of the corpse with the same tone as a courting youth offering his lady a rose.

Rare as a white stag, perhaps.

The initial defeat would have burned a thousand times more had it been the work of a lesser creature. The consolation—the whole concept of the contract—would have been cackled at before he gutted the wretched couple with his own hand. But his Harkers were worthy, curse and bless them for it. And Jonathan, his prize, his spoils, his quarry darting through the night for his pleasure, felt more worth the delay of conquest with each passing night.

He checked the watch.

The five minutes were gone.

In a blur, so was he.

It was easy enough work catching up. His poor friend had not thought to disguise his route by darting in new directions or taking pauses to steady his drumming heart. Every breath was a harsh pant. But for all this, he did not make the capture itself simple.

New bursts of speed came whenever he felt his Master’s presence press close. Each was a helpful lunge that would have left an ordinary predator snapping his jaws shut on air. It hardly hurt that his Master was enjoying the run too much to end it with a mere leap. Instead, he lingered over swiping his fingertips at the bare throat. A hand was pawed through the white cloud of hair. The teeth of a great bounding Wolf caught and tore the billowing shirt.

On and on down the slope they went, children at play.

He was at play, at least. Jonathan seemed to have found no fun in the game. Whenever his Master drew parallel there was always a look of anxiety bordering on terror waiting on his face. The eyes, like trailing ghost-light, stayed planted firmly on the terrain before him. Almost as though he were trying to outrun more than his hunter. It was when the latter politely allowed him another little lead that it became clear where the man was heading.

A chide and a chuckle rose up in him as he heard the rushing stream. The one meager haven the forest had to offer. Of course.

He let his friend leap down into the water, smiling at the muffled gasp that followed his splash. A sound that stopped short of becoming a curse. As if the noise would be what gave him away. Feigning a tutting posture, his Master idled to the ledge and let himself sprawl. He was halfway into his mist form and was not disappointed when Jonathan peered up at the effect with a shudder. Hovering between flesh and fog made a roiling giant of him, as though a great shadow cast by a candle were made solid.

Letting his eyes flare and his smile curl past the point where ordinary muscle should have permitted it, he shook the haze of his head down at the frozen figure in the water.

“Ah, now, now, my friend. That’s cheating.”

“Just…” Jonathan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “…endeavoring to give you a challenge, Sir.”

“Ah, of course. Always so considerate.” He let the smile become a maw as his arm unfurled down, down, down, the hand at its end wider than a man’s head. “My dear friend, Jonathan.” He solidified back into himself as Jonathan was snatched up onto land, the illusion of safety snapped neatly in two. “I believe that is you captured, stag.”

“It seems so.” The words were thin. His wide eyes seemed to both see and dismiss him. He actually shook in his Master’s hold. Taking notice, Jonathan forcibly settled himself by grasping his own arms. His head hung until the sodden hair could mask him. “Forgive me, Sir. I had hoped the water would be warmer.”

“Transylvania is sparing with her warmth, my friend. Even in spring.” His own gaze had ducked lower as he examined his catch. No, the stream had done no favors for the fish, but plenty for the fisherman.

He wears white far better than his wife.

Aloud, “But the nights are mild when hunter and quarry are wise enough to avoid such tricks. When the boy has grown out with a few years more, perhaps he should join us. He cannot subsist on you forever. Once our lovely family dinners are at an end, we shall all of us have to seek our fill…”

Jonathan stilled entirely. His hands gripped tight a last time before relaxing. Somewhat.

His head didn’t raise as he asked, “…You are certain you wish to invite him?”

“What reason is there that I shouldn’t?”

“There is none, I suppose. Nothing but my own mistaken assumption.” Jonathan moved to stand. His Master’s hand jerked him back down on his haunches. Still his head stayed bowed behind the pale curtain of hair.

“What assumption was this?”

“It is nothing, Sir. Please, forget I mentioned it.”

“What assumption, Jonathan? I am listening.” He heard silence. Sighing and smiling he whipped a mesmer hook into his friend’s will. “Jonathan. Speak.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched apart with a grimace.

“I had thought…that we might make use of this for something else…something private.” Finally, the head rose. The ice chip eyes had gone dark. “Where neither of us would have to be mindful of others.” He had bitten his lip in the effort not to speak. The skin had broken and painted him there. “My apologies for misunderstanding.” At ‘My’ the blood smeared without Jonathan appearing to notice, still dripping from the stream. His whole mouth was glazed red.

Looking back at the stream in what was either shame or—

No. No, it can’t be.

—disappointment, Jonathan did not see his Master’s eyes turn to lanterns.

“I love them. You know I love them. It’s why we’re here. Why I am here. And every night…” His fists balled into stones in his lap. The wedding band caught a sliver of moonlight. “Every night I must smile for them. For Mina. For Quincey. Sometimes for you. But it isn’t what it was between us in that summer, is it? When I thought I was acting only for my life and not my humanity. When you were seeing how far I could bend until I broke. Two months of pretending wasn’t bad back then. But that is old ground now. It feels ancient already. If you order a smile from me now, you order it. You couch it in pretense occasionally, but that much has been tainted by the comparison we live with every night.

“The playacting of it all. That’s for our son alone. A sweet theatre too cloying for the adults in the room to perform when his back is turned. And even with Mina I must—,” The lump of his throat leapt and choked him. “I have to give her something. Something we can both pretend is worth what we’ve given. So I smile for her too and she smiles back and I must try to bury so much under the bedrock of my mind to keep her from tripping over it in horror. Which leaves you. This.

“You can believe me when I say this or not. That doesn’t matter. I keep no diary to purge myself into and I have no doubt that if you show this memory to her, she will take it as a cruel joke you invented to hurt her with like so many others. Or else she’ll see it and know her husband has finally gone mad.” New wet tracks rolled over his cheeks. Clear as the stream. “You are the last refuge I have for admitting the worst of myself. The tower is no more than a box to rot in. My Mina, my Darling, how much worse would I become in her eyes if I were to be anything less than the Love paying his reparation for being too selfish to let her wishes be honored and have our friends live? And our boy. Our son. He will never know.

“There are only two monsters in your castle. Mina does not believe me when I tell her both of them strain under their performances. I cannot blame her. There is a slim line between the Count I first met and the one I serve now, but it is there. And for one who has spent lifetimes untethered by anything other than his own caprices, I understand this means much. I am grateful. I hate that I am grateful. I hate that I have just run from that great stone stage of a prison we call our home, and thrilled at the distance, knowing I was not merely dashing to a town in which to put on another act. I recognized my thrill and feared it and that fear did not stop it.

“Nothing is left, you see. Hope is out of the box and burned over a candle and there is nothing left that is sane or good to reach for but the safety of my Loves. Always, always that external greater good, never my own, and knowing such is deserved for what I’ve done doesnothing to soften my want of something, anything not nailed down to catering to the entire mess—to the fantasy that I’m anything other than what I am. Even if it is this. Two monsters in the dark with nothing good to intrude upon their abuses.”

Jonathan kneaded his eyes. Bloodshot blue.

“Ha. But I’ve ruined it already, haven’t I? Now that I’ve said I enjoyed it, it will be taken away. Perhaps that is best. This whole thing was foolish start to end.” Jonathan turned to look at his Master. “Perhaps we should…”

Jonathan saw his Master. Seeing him, there might have been an instant in which he realized he had said too much. Discarded some invisible ward without thinking or else let the current of his babble pull him into deep water. For something had happened during the pour of his words. Something which could not be taken back. Something that regarded him with a starving avarice that had been nurtured since the night two students clambered cackling and screaming from the Mountain, lightning and ice welcoming them back to the sight of a sky.

A new thunderhead rolled overhead. Abrupt and sultry as a tropic tide washing across the stars.

“You talk of monsters and their abuses as if you comprehend both. I fear you are acquainted only with one.”

One hand gripped the damp shirtfront.

The other thumbed open a glass bottle, spilling oil.

“Allow me to educate you on the other.”

Jonathan Harker was taught his Lessons.

He learned them on the thin bed made of his Master’s cape, with cadaver skin finally thawing in the tangle and grasp of each other, the only pause for words or breath allowed between the sealing of a nursing mouth on bloody lips. The castle had never housed a thing like this for them. Not under any command, any tugging of trance, any handful or taste stolen with the idleness of a man stroking his pet. Under the storm and worn by its maker, Jonathan seemed either to shed a husk or shut himself into an armor.

Whichever it was, it gave credence to his phrasing. Two monsters. They loved—

Hands, his hands are still cold, always, always her hands were cold, locked into my skin arms back can feel the lines drag there no matter no matter you can drink it away or let them stay a banner-badge-brand to bring home to the chapel do you see do you see little Sister you lose like the brother who came before and knew it when he died and oh oh it is the Mountain again out in the open after the years of work of horror of being Horror and here we are against the rocks and filth and grass again under the rain but oh O so soon so fresh from it all we could not be tender yet not yet and so we loved

—like they fought.

Jonathan turned them over first. The shock and strength of it let him manage it, the same curt motion as hefting an earth-box. He sat bent and digging his fingers into the undead hide as if to shred or cling. For a moment the view was enough to paralyze. Here was the white head thrown back against the marbled night, eyes bright as the lightning, howling a sound that could have been a shout in pleasure or fury or the harsh note of a lunatic that lost itself in the next thunderclap. His lip was bleeding again. The rain carried it over his chin and down a teasing line along his throat.

The moment passed and Jonathan was crushed on his back again. Still holding. Still held. He tried to rise again, that mystery of power straining against the pressure of his better, his Master, his Lord above God, his—

“Balaurul meu. Say it.” Had his voice shaken? No, a trick of the noise. So much thunder, so much drumming rain, so much balmy wind moaning in the trees.

“What?” A thrust. A cry and clutch.

“These are your Lessons. Now say it.” Another jolt, a snap of lightning. “Say it.”

“Balaurul meu,” in a gasp. “Balaurul meu. Balaurul meu.”

Good. Good. More.

“Eu sunt al tău. Now!”

“Eu sunt al tău.”

More.

“Sunt al tău pentru totdeauna.”

Jonathan repeated this and every line after, echoing and reechoing so that the two of them might only have been the ghosts of lovers reverberating in a cave. On and on, every oath that could be thought of, every line left branded in the walls of memory was poured out and engraved on the learning tongue. And his friend would keep to every word. Oh, yes. That was certain.

There would be no running beyond his reach, no raising of will he could not break, no leaving him injured and roaring a name out into the sleet, or begging the same name at the threshold of a cemetery where Hating eyes crawled like insects upon him, no, no, no. Not with him. Not with them. Not with the beginning of a new eternity here in the dark with his monster, his maiden, his victim vassal jackal bridegroom—

“What are you doing?”

—who fed him his draught of blood and drowned him in a lake of freezing eyes—

“Sir.”

—his Scheherazade who was prey and play and predator and anything everything all things with the magic of her talent on the altar of her Sultan’s lethal loneliness—

“Master. …Count.”

—and no, no, how could he waste such a thing, risk it slipping away—

“Stop!”

—over the stream and into a rotting future in a pauper’s graveyard, no no no, never, not him, no— 

“Dracula!”

He came back to himself as if slapped.

Perhaps Jonathan might have dared it if only his hands weren’t so preoccupied. The man still sat where he was slotted, but now with both palms flat against his Master’s chest while the pair sat upright under the rain.

The left side had been split open by a claw and now dribbled its dark fountain down his ribs. Its wound welcomed like a smile as Jonathan strained an inch from having his mouth crushed against the blood as his wife’s had been, two implacable hands clamped at his head and back. Pantomime of an embrace. If he snatched the man’s wrists up, if he took his hair for a handle and forced him down…

There’s still time. What say you, Count?

“Please,” Jonathan huffed through locked teeth. As if it would be barrier enough. “Please, not yet. They still need me as I am. Please.” The Arctic eyes slid up to the hellfire of his. “Please.”

The dead hands ceased their slow press, but did not move. Fingers twined and stroked in the wet snow of his hair.

“Draga mea. You know you only prolong your Purgatory as you are. I and my Loves, your ‘Weird Sisters,’ we were not without our pains at the start. Lifetimes as men count them came and went. It all turns to less than a heartbeat eventually. Even Mina,” a name he was proud to make sound like several other four-letter words, “for all her lovely vitriol, even she will someday match me in passing out of this shadow. Hate grows stale. Tiring. So too does despair. Do you think I laughed with my Loves outside your door because I ordered it? Do you think I let them get away with going behind my back to take what was mine, with mocking me to my face, because I remain forever in one mode?

“We three, we are in the middle of a long Lesson. The boy is a happy surprise, but even without the curiosity of him, it would still be us. Me and my Harkers, so hard-won. You and I in our sea of wonders. Whether or not you wish to hold onto guilt once you are free of humanity, time will still march, and you will still be mine. A moment will find you, despite how you drag your feet and cling to the miseries of an unclean Good Samaritan, where you will break as you broke tonight—and you will laugh and love as I do.” 

It was fascinating to see how responses rose, fell, and faltered at the edge of his friend’s tongue. Negations all, and all of them caught on the tightrope between lie or truth, both saturated with shame. Catharsis and comfort dangled out of reach only because he refused to crawl from the Pit he chose to burn in.

For his Love.

“You say it is inevitable?” Jonathan’s voice was now a croak. Gone raw with baying.

“I know it is.” 

“…Then it shall wait.” Four words made heavy with regret. The sheer weight of the latter, the dread of the hanging sword and the ached-for release of finally being free of waiting, were almost enough to stir another round. But even with the red taste lapped again and again from the torn lip, the well nearly ran dry. The bulk of remaining vitality was already going toward mending his split chest. A sight that made Jonathan sigh with what could have been relief or sorrow. “It must wait.”

“If that is what you will.”

“It is.” So saying, Jonathan paused. Then, so quiet it was almost less than breath, “Thank you for this.” Jonathan tried to stand. The white hands gripped again and threatened to shove him back in place. It was just a single day from the evening the family dined. The hunt could end with the intended meal and so provide the fuel for yet another gauntlet.

Or.

“Thank you, who?”

Jonathan’s tongue curled at the start of a Sir. But a creeping thread of mesmer reached out and prodded the proper response from him almost before he knew he was speaking:

“Balaurul meu, my thanks for the hunt. I look forward to being broken again. Te iubesc.” Jonathan leapt in his own skin as he heard himself. “That isn’t funny.”

“Of course not, my friend. Merely practice ahead of the inevitable. This is funny.” Jonathan had wobbled up to his feet and left himself open to a swat that made him yelp and stagger. The monster was asleep again, it seemed. Just as well. The fair maiden needed returning to the tower and some rest before the dragon broke his fast with the other suckling mouths.

It was as he mused on this and admired the view of his friend stretching and bowing to retrieve their clothes from the trees’ shelter that a stone broke against the back of his skull. Others pelted his shoulders. Wrath came to an immediate boil and just as quickly froze as he regarded the falling pellets. This freeze expanded until gooseflesh spotted him from the neck down. Jonathan’s voice reached him as if from the other side of the world.

“What is it?”

“Ice.” Then, because he needed to hear it said, “Hail.” He had unmoored his mind from controlling the sky and Nature had taken her reins back. Rain swept too high in the gale would freeze with or without orders. Fool. “It is only—,”

Looking up, he forgot what he meant to say. He forgot language. He forgot he knelt naked on his cape in the muck as he had once knelt before Powers older than any name for what Man called God. He forgot time and he forgot space and kept on forgetting until the only memory left was the one standing in front of him.

No, not memory.

Her.

She stood under the canopy of the boughs, her ice cascading by her as it did within the portrait. In lieu of the painted gown, she stood before him half-dressed. The garb she’d worn on the bier hung lightning-burned on her still. She looked as she’d been the night of the tug-of-war with the failed solicitor, Yorick saved from her rending, the thunderbolt thrown blind. He’d run as the Wolf. Slunk back as a Dog. He had dropped words of mockery and anger and hate and want and threat at the edge of her necropolis like a heap of bones, all of them amounting to the same frail skeleton of a plea as he pressed it into her mind.

Come back. Leave these chattel to their dreaming. Do not sully yourself in their earth. Come back. Come back. Te iubesc.

Și te-am iubit, balaurul meu, had come her answer. Her head bowed until the ice chip eyes whetted to points. But you broke that Love when you tried to break me. Your love is too much like war. Your cherished Conquest. You would have had me as a bound Bride. A partner made a prisoner. This I could not allow. No more than I could stay to help you march upon the world and slit its throat simply to exercise the ability to do so.

Lightning and hail had snapped at each other again. Tempest tempers raging.

Why, then? Why the Mountain? Why the peddling of your soul and self for what it offered just to consign yourself to this waste!?

The hail had softened to an almost gentle patter.

Certainty. Proof to myself that those I Love will be safe with my protection. Even if I must endure their Hate in the how of it, my Loves will never suffer while I stand guard. That is all. I need no more. Go back to your castle, Dragon, but know that it is better you kill your little Englishman or turn him away.

She had frowned then as she frowned in the portrait and as she frowned down at him here, now, stripped bare upon the earth.

Do not play Alexander. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same.

She moved toward him in the present. The hail did not touch her as she walked.

A dream! Yes, of course! Only a dream! It must be, she must be, do not fool yourself, old devil. Get up. Wake up. Now. Now!

But he didn’t. He was awake. And if he wasn’t, he would have snapped Morpheus’ neck if he dared to rob him now.

Close. Closer. Yet he remained on his knees, gawking up. Afraid that any motion might erase her like smoke in a breeze. His mouth was the only part of him that dared move. Not that he could hear himself. He didn’t dare speak so loud that he might miss something from her lips. But she came silently until his head was level with her skirts. A single hand reached for him, white and blue and grey with the pallor of her kind, cool as snow against the cheek she once rotted from his jaw.

But he felt her.

He felt her.

His arm snapped around the back of her like a vise while his free hand clapped against the fingers still resting on his face. She was not mist, could not be mist, for her kind were too solid, and this time, this time, she would not be gone, would not leave him, let her cut and freeze and skin him, but she would not go again.

Draga mea. Draga mea. How are you here?

You forget the time, balaurul meu.

Her trapped hand lifted his face from where he crushed it against her stomach. The eyes that met his were no longer ice or ghost-light. Only coins. The Ferryman’s toll.

Tonight is mine as it is yours. As it belongs to all our kin. The graves are open and the dead come forth to walk. And talk.

The scarlet sickle of her frown turned up.

Enjoy your Walpurgisnacht, my Dragon. I have enjoyed mine.

She was gone.

In her place stood Jonathan, caught and confused. Concerned. His mouth opened.

Do not ask me what is wrong, Jonathan Harker. Do not dare.

His mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. Then, carefully, he offered the folded black bundle of his Master’s clothes. These were snatched away and their courier almost thrown more than released. Around them the hail thinned away. The rain ceased after it. Jonathan kept himself very busy with peeling up the muddied cape and snapping what muck he could from the exterior, doubtlessly wishing it had not been the velvet one that needed cleaning. But when he could help the cloth no more, he turned to his Master, still fighting with his buttons.

“Sir?”

“What?” No answer. His Master turned to bark the word again and stopped. Jonathan had rolled up his sleeve. Here was the tiny map of his son’s feeding. Kisses ringed with white and blue and grey.

“If—If you want it.” Jonathan gestured his gaze and his head at his Master’s face. “You have lost some. Sir.”

The meaning was lost to him for a moment. Then he realized his cheeks were wet with more than rain. In the same instant he took note of Jonathan’s right hand, the one that had been flattened and trapped against the bearded cheek. He’d fussed with the cape because he did so one-handed, trying not to lay the bloodstain on it too. The same was smeared onto the white of his shirt where his Master had set his head.

Even knowing what he would find, a white hand rose up and swiped under his eyes. Bloody tears came away on his fingers.

“Sir? Do you want it?”

‘What is it you want to eat?’

Jonathan was captured for a second time that night. This time the hunter feasted. Not from the wrist, but the bend between neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of the nape. He was filled with heat and ache and when his teeth slipped back behind the sheath of his lips, the mouth stayed planted where it was. The same went for the cage of his arms, binding their catch for a moment that might have been a minute or an hour.

“…Are you sick?”

“No,” Jonathan breathed with what tried and failed to be a steady tone. The voice of someone trying not to sound as if they were scrambling for comprehension. “No, Sir. I feel well. Not ill, that is.”

“So you say. But I must have caught something from you to act so against myself. Perhaps it was something from your mouth.” A mouth finally scabbing. It left the bluish lips a mottled violet. “Or else the night itself is playing tricks. Too much lightning in my eyes. Do you disagree?”

“I don’t, Sir.”

“Yet you are not ill.”

“I do not believe so. But I could be mistaken.”

“Wrap yourself, then.” He stepped away and plucked the cape from Jonathan’s hold before twisting it into a cord tauter than steel. Rainwater fled it until it was all but dry. “Transylvania’s seasons are so very fickle. It would not do to have you unwell for tomorrow.” Before the requisite agreement could leave him, Jonathan found himself both swaddled and off his feet. His Master pondered the image of the hunter hauling home his quarry, his friend flopped over his shoulder like an indignant piece of game. But that would leave only one hand holding him.

That in mind, Jonathan was bundled up into the snare of both arms while remaining supremely unclear as to why. 

“This isn’t necessary, Sir. I am fine to walk.”

“Sunrise approaches. You are not up for a race back.” He said while dawn could be felt two hours away and his own pace merely ambled. “Rest, my friend.”

“I—,”

Rest.

An order that took his friend’s mind by the scruff and dragged it to bed. Jonathan furrowed his brow against the mesmer, squirming like a child even as his eyes drooped shut. The lakes iced over.

“I just…just wanted to ask what you meant…before…”

“What I meant?”

“Called to me… Didn’t know. Don’t know. What was the word? You never taught me…”

Sinking, sinking. Almost gone. He whispered down at him now, light as far-off thunder.

“What word?”

“Thought it must mean, ‘Come to me…’ So I came.” The lashes fluttered and fought with gravity. Lost again, showing only slivers of frost. “What does Dolingen mean, Sir?” He was asleep before he got an answer. Still, his carrier whispered.

“You misheard, my friend. That is all.”

Up to the tower, stripped and dressed, tucked into bed.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

A far more fruitful occasion for the term than the debacle of battling trances. Such a bleak little comedy. The thought brought him back to the boy and that inciting matter of the snared wolf, his would-be pet. Something near to mirth made him grin. He knew he was to blame for the child’s initial fascination with the creatures. A seed planted in infancy when, as a taunt, he had willingly cradled the babe as his parents stiffened mid-kiss. He had stood teasingly close to the window.

As he did, the wolves had started to sing of their own volition. The boy had perked up at once despite his hunger.

‘Rrooo, rrroooo. Fah-rr. Rrooo!’

In his head, a muddled but excited impression of wolves traipsed back and forth across the shared mindscape. The pack outside had howled again.

‘Rrooo!’ 

His Father had opened his mouth on jaws of changed teeth. No longer a man’s neat rows and the hanging fangs, but the jagged mountain range of the Wolf’s. He’d howled lightly as the child all but glowed with recognition.

‘Roo? Fah-rr roo!’

As his Harkers watched, their Master had entertained the child in a way that would have left any other parents in the mountains squealing prayers. For he had changed first his jaws, then his eyes, then the whole of his head to mirror those fantastical Folk of the picture books where Herr Wolf could knock at his victim’s door with a paw in a glove. The boy had shrilled delight and scrabbled merrily at his fur, even tucking his head into the open muzzle to see if it was really just a trick. But the proof had been offered as his Father lost his arms and legs to be a Wolf in full. One the size of a small bear.

In his defense—as if it were necessary—it had kept the boy from pestering his Mama to hurry so Papa could feed him. Ah, how he’d sulked upon looking in his Papa’s mouth and finding no signs of the Wolf there.

‘No, diavol. I am the only Wolf here. Wolf. Lup.’

‘Wohll. Luhp.’

 ‘Very good. Now take your kiss.’

It had sprinted along from there. Now the boy had graduated from attempting to trance a wolf into permanent residence to trying to coax the entire pack into natural obedience. A friendship to span three generations. He really did have his head too deep in the fairy tales. Perhaps there was a Lesson waiting in that. A small one to assure he did not idolize the softness of things overmuch…

But that could come later.

For now, the night still lingered with, fine, he could admit it, a wisp of the fairy tale. Here rested a beauty, living and dead, the only color resting across the mouth. Gently, he pricked the scab of the bottom lip open again, smearing red. Jonathan slept on.

There was no witness as the man collected a last kiss in ignorance before his dragon skulked down from the tower.

Down and deep and into the dark of the chapel. He did not stop to change and so was pointed out at once by the boy, always so eager to stay awake. His current project, a lopsided schematic in charcoal, was abandoned.

“Father, why are you all wet?”

“I was out hunting. Your Papa nearly got away, diavol.”

The boy gasped while his mother, still sitting with him and his palette, narrowed her eyes.

“You were hunting Papa?”

“I was. He almost got across the river. But he was caught in time, not to worry.”

“But why were you hunting him? Papa isn’t a,” the boy tried to think of hunted things, “a rabbit or deer.”

“No, he is not. Your Papa is many things, but not such meager creatures.” He looked over the child’s head and through his mother’s skull. “We were merely at play, diavol.” This came as an even greater shock to the boy.

“Grownups play? I thought all you did was work. You and Papa were supposed to be working all night.” A statement that carried all children’s dread; the fear that age came with a great dull void where enjoyment used to be.

“Grownups do work a great deal. Sometimes too much. Your Papa and I had such a problem and so we went out to play. You and your mother are free to do far more play than work, of course, so such things are outside your needs.”

The woman smiled and hummed into the shared mindscape:

Our play has turned to work, as it happens. Rather, it is work he wishes to try.

A hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

Show him.

Bolstered, the child gathered up his drawings and stacked them as neatly as he’d seen his Papa’s papers. As he did this, his mother sent a private message to Father:

What did you do?

He thought of showing her. He’d been thinking of it since first stealing her husband out of his clothes. But tonight was dense with secrets even as the Veil had turned to gossamer. Moreover, it was important that a man held some things out of reach of his woman. For everyone’s good. Especially when it left the imagination free to conjure up far more creative possibilities than a collection of curious wives’ heads.

So the answer he tossed back was merely that of a closed door, a key thrown into the abyss, and a fraction of truth.

Nothing that concerns you, ‘Sister.’

The boy rushed him before anything more could be said. He offered his drawings with a small flourish.

“See?”

His Father flipped through the sheets.

“I see a book in the process of being torn apart.”

“No, no! Being made!” He pointed to what was, to him, a clear depiction of himself and his mother piecing books together with nebulous arms. There was also a wolf sitting on a crescent moon and a bat flying in the dotted outline of a star. “I want to try bookbinding with Mama.”

“Child, there is a grove’s worth of blank pages in spare volumes for you to use. Why would you bother?”

“Oh. Just—,” the boy flicked his line of sight briskly from his Father’s face. The cobwebs and stonework were suddenly enthralling. Likewise the state of his own toes. “Just to make something. A fun kind of work. That’s all.”

It was all his Father could do not to sigh. The boy still could not lie to save his unlife, let alone duck a punishment for the attempt at lying in the first place. But before he could form the beginnings of a sentence, the woman came into his head, away from her son’s reach. This time with a uniquely acidic edge.

He wishes to surprise you and Jonathan with a gift. He’s realized he missed an important date and wants to make up for it.

Walpurgisnacht—this night, her night—almost rose to the surface of his mind. He buried and burned it behind a wall of fire. Casually.

What date is this? His day of birth has been and gone.

The woman glared at him with a perfect blend of loathing and disbelief. When he continued not to guess, perhaps partially to watch how much her ire would grow, she handed him the answer as one might hand over a chamber pot.

Yes. But he posed a question to me and I did not give him a lie. St. George’s Day has two meanings for this family. The eve before, anyway.

For a moment the answer was as baffling as the question. But epiphany quickly fell in place. He almost laughed aloud.

The first solicitor he’d beckoned had his useless life saved from the undead on Walpurgisnacht.

Jonathan had been delivered to him almost a year later, just short by a week. This had been on the eve of St. George’s Day with the glimmer of the blue flames lining the mountain road like a wedding procession. The night the boy’s fathers had first met. A magic alignment of dates to a child’s mind. Shame on his Harkers, letting the date go unrecognized by half for so long.

He smiled for the boy and stroked his hair, declaring, “Child, I am merely the bank vault to loot in such a request. You must convince your Papa to bring you materials, not me. Ah-ah!” He hooked the boy’s nightshirt before he could dash for the stairs. “Not now. Your Papa is asleep already. Wait for evening.”

For once the boy did not sulk over the coming of morning. He flitted as excitedly to his coffin as he had aimed for the steps, taking his art supplies and another book to wait for sleep with. The poor silk within would be ruined with charcoal and crayon before the year was out.

Having deposited his treasure inside, the boy whirled around and rushed back to his Father who stood waiting on the tomb steps.

“Can you do it all the way this time?” He feigned interest in the dirt and coagulation still under his nails. “I do not know that you have enough blood in you…”

The goading was small, but enough. He watched the boy shift from flesh to fog mid-step and surge up to his Father’s shoulders. His Father clapped once. It echoed against the chapel walls.

“There you are.” And, because the boy had earned it, he opened his arms. The child-mist became a child again, dropping as a proud little weight into his hands. He let the boy hug tight around his shoulders while the fragile curve of the head nuzzled his neck. “Good-day, diavol. Well done.”

“Good-day, Father.” A moment later he’d leapt down and circled around to his mother who stayed low enough to let him simply crash into her arms. They exchanged a bloodless kiss apiece to the other’s cheek. “Good-day, Mama!”

Good-day, Dearest. Please don’t sleep on your palette.

The boy notably made no promises as he climbed into his box and moved to close the lid. He paused before it could shut, looking out at them from the gap with eyes like expectant rubies.

Neither Father nor Mama could tell when the child had decided there was a ritual to complete before he could allow himself to begin trying for sleep, but it was one of the few points of their coexistence which they agreed upon in their distaste. The effect was doubled on her Master’s side, what with the final thread of any nuptial framing so grimly torn away since that evening’s confrontation.

Still, they smiled and closed the distance between them.

Good-day.

She laid her hand inside his and sent a vision of him thrashing and howling in a bonfire.

“Good-day.”

He skimmed her knuckle with his lips and sent back the sight of her abandoned on a mountaintop, the Dutchman having successfully removed her head and staked her heart, leaving her to the wolves and flies.

Finally, the boy shut his lid.

Yet there was no parting of ways. The woman gripped his hand.

Is he hurt?

“Of course not.” The pinned-up smile curled to a more natural state as he twitched his fingers out of hers. “We were only playing.”

You—

“I,” he hissed, still through a grin, “am tired. Many things more, many clever epithets, yes, but mostly tired. Whatever lecture you think is worth droning at me, it will wait for moonrise. Now go.” He leveled a finger at her coffin. “To bed.” If she had any more venom to spit at him, he made himself deaf to it. The wall of fire around his mind was turned up to a full conflagration as his will forcibly shoved her back to her box. The most she could spare him was another glower before the lid shut. Peace at last.

Of a sort.

He carried that feeling into his crypt and his coffin. Settling into that familiar dark, he would have called the feeling wholly new if not for the certainty that he had experienced it before, so many ages ago. Not a mere settling, not a tallying of little victories. It was peace. Peace as it counted to him. Even with the brief rattling of his foundations in the wake of Walpurgisnacht. Of women endured or women craved. Even with that.

There was peace. There was thrill. There was Hope drowsing in his box.

Look at yourself. Scrape this saccharine filth out of your head at once.

He didn’t. Though he was happy to build over it. Scenes of a future that may not be centuries into the future, but mere decades. Perhaps less. A future of ruling night and bled oceans. A future that bowed its head and bared its throat to him. A future where he laughed and the sound was not alone.

Like music and crystal. Like thunder and ice. Like broken things ecstatic to finally be pieced together in his image.

His future.

Their future.

That was the core of it, he knew. Thinking and enjoying in a plural shape rather than solely his own. Such was the dulcet trap of the domestic life.

In this vein his thoughts turned to the evening’s waiting kisses, the cozening of the boy before his pliant Papa, a trading of barbs with the woman, and, since they both could use it, perhaps an overdue bath for himself and his friend. Exsanguination tended to make a body languid, whether from the loss or indulgence of blood. A sweet-sluggish cleaning away of last night’s evidences would be most welcome. Even if his friend went and did something silly, like washing ahead of time to save the trouble.

No, no, my friend, I insist…

From that thought he leapt to others and others, descending down the trail of implausibility until he found himself somehow on a balcony of the English’s gaudy confection of a palace. He knew with the certainty of a dream that the boy was grown and flashing the winsome lie of his smile at a pack of hunters who’d thought themselves safe behind the Cross and Wafer just before they began to lose pieces. Elsewhere, his Sister was watching her former ‘brother’ of a lordling writhe upon the lance she had pierced him with, the sweet logic of fantasy refusing to let him die quickly as he paid at last for the theft of their Lucy. And with him? With him were his Loves. Both folded into the sides of him, painted red from the lips down with feasting. Ice chip eyes soft against his basilisk gaze. Two heads of snowdrift hair resting over his heart.

Yes, yes.

Peace at last.

She felt the Dragon slip into sleep.

Felt the Scarred Love stir carefully in her box. Testing the psychic waters. Wait, wait, but not too long. Yes, she could wall her thoughts off better than he knew. No, she did not dare risk anything but perfect ignorance either way. Up traveled the line like a wisp on a breeze. Brushing the mind of her living Love.

Darling, from her.

Darling, from him.

Their minds spilled up and down to each other. It was one of many secrets the Dragon did not know. This secret was as simple as it was vital: There were no secrets between them.

They gave the Dragon hollow prizes in the night. Pandora’s Box was empty. Bluebeard’s chamber left unoccupied. Even as the scenes they endured for the other, for their child, for their Love, all conspired to raise a fury that would blister the sun in both their hearts, there was no doubt in them. No accusation. The only tears shed were for the other, as ever.

I should have been closer! Should have at least stayed inside, in earshot! Mina, he could have—he was really going to—

He didn’t. He never will now. Nor will he think the room ever mattered to me. Not when he frets over his master’s chamber being plundered. All was as he left it. As I left it.

It was a thin respite she’d had before the Dragon made his attempt on her. Time was too short for more than confirmation. The work had to come after. While the boy was busy in his books and his mother was busy in her own and his fathers were out and away and lost to anything else. On that note.

You did not have to give so much of yourself to him. To let him do worse than he already has and preen over it. As if he deserved more from us, from you, than what he was content with before tonight. Oh, my husband, my Love, he will expect the same and more from you now! You cannot—

I can because I must. I must because it worked. It will work again. Just give the date and it will happen.

Jonathan.

Wilhelmina. We must not merely hope, but know he is distracted for you to do what’s needed. We must have the guarantee that his eyes will not look through yours and see what you’ve found. What you have already learned. Or was the hailstorm truly an accident?

It was not. Only an experiment. One made at too dear a cost—

Then she did not lie?

She had not.

The key was in her book?

The key that was written in blood from her own hand. It penned the details of translation from the Scholomance’s text. This had not been part of the Lessons, but her own precaution. She had split the key across the borders of the journal’s pages, hiding them in the illuminated ink. Her blood was the dullest part of the lush illustrations and carried a chill when traced. She had not made them easy to parse.

Yet the pieces were found tonight. Once they were arranged into the whole, it allowed the reader, the Scarred Love, the one whose mind had carried in it a grain of Sight long before she was bitten by the Dragon, to make sense of the first scraps of knowledge left waiting in old pages.

True, the Dragon had his hoard to go over, given the chance.

Given the time that one Love would sell himself to buy for the other.

But there had been early prizes waiting in the book behind the stone. One whose theatre had aligned so beautifully with her own small addition to the show. It had taken much, stretching the vision so far. Not in blood, for she craved none when there was no Love to carry it in their veins, but in focus. In keeping her pressure subtle as she pulled ghosts through the Dragon’s mind like a haunted sieve.

Walpurgisnacht had helped, insomuch as the forces that surged behind the night could be said to acknowledge anything like a human calendar. Such things moved more like a tide or a season. All one could do was ride the crest of them when possible. It might have been possible earlier. One, two, three, four years ago.

Except the child would be too young then. Not old enough to be left alone, with his reading and play and the practice of howls at the window while his Mama drifted off to do whatever mothers did. This year he was old enough. This year he could be trusted not to be an innocent witness, there to mention to the Dragon that his Mama had found the strangest things waiting for her inside a wall.

It was this year that she’d come to the Scarred Love by a daylit dream. Explaining what the Dragon had planned for her. What might be planned for him in turn. They had walked the labyrinth of the castle and into the abandoned room that was so Hated and Loved with its mementos still resting where the Dragon left them. The Dragon would move them as soon as he could once he found the Scarred Love there. Perhaps somewhere no prying eye or misty figure could reach. If she was to take advantage, to piece the key, to note and save and use it again, it had to be done within Walpurgisnacht. And the Dragon could not know.

All this was delivered up to her Love in the tower. How to parry the Dragon’s advances? How to hold his body and mind at a distance?

Each Love had given their answer.

Each answer had been Hated.

Each answer had worked.

Now they were a step closer. A foothold in the side of the Mountain. Good, good.

She was already retreating with the coming sun when she felt the brush of that entreating mind again.

They stood beyond the mindscape now. The dreamscape allowed for more Sight. Here the Scarred Love was not scarred, nor of the undead. Only what she remembered of herself. A living woman, scarcely more than a girl, clasping a journal that no longer existed as if it were a rosary.

She, the visitor, stood only as she was. Still corpse-wan, fair hair left in a fall as eyes of frost stared on unblinking. But she was not the ragged thing the Dragon saw. Her friends had come up from the ground for her, finding a dress to change for what was burned, their hands mingling with her own as they rebuilt the mausoleum stone by stone. Their kind was immune to the wild rose and to the garlic blossom, and so they’d planted them in abundance for good measure. The ash sapling grew higher each year. Such they knew, even as they settled easily back into their rest. Into the vourdalaks’ serene torpor and its mingling of souls, their Loved and Loving phantasmagoria.  

You are going? from the Scarred Love. 

I am. I must. from her visitor. The year brings few hours where we are allowed even more than the lot that Supernature grants us. My will and Self can only hold here so long before it snaps home.

Where is your home? How far? The question buried underneath, too important to leave unsaid: Can you help us?

Her visitor showed her the waiting home. The dead village laced with its history of disease and suicide and so much cruel decay born of Nature at her most callous. A village whose people had huddled within their scant borders, refusing to carry their ills out to their neighbors. Who had seen her ride to them and pleaded with her to stay back unless she sought death.

I told them I did. My heart ached with want of Love. With the burden of Hate. I left the Dragon to seek reprieve from both. You know yourself how difficult the strigoi are to end. It is far harder for the vourdalak. Yet I was prepared to try for such a miracle if I could not sate my nature. Satiation came when I found home with them. My friends. My Loves. It is a place not far as we would reckon it. Horse or train, perhaps, but not us.

The Scarred Love swallowed a breath she did not have.

Then..?

Her visitor shook her head.

I cannot help you as you would wish it, Mina Harker. It would mean leaving my Loves. It would mean the Dragon warring with me, which would mean warring with you. Or do you think he would not sacrifice you as insulation against my frost? No, you know he would, contract or no. Just as he would endeavor once more to cage and break me, as he endeavors with your Love. The Dragon is the best student of the Scholomance. I can battle him, I can escape him, I can parry and dance around him. But I will not be what destroys him.

You are a student too! from the Scarred Love. Vivid and livid with the unvarnished core of herself. Her dreamscape bled. You have your numbers! Your storm! We live in his chains, with our child and my own mind at his mercy, with my Jonathan a slave and worse to him! Please! Please… In her coffin, the Scarred Love wept precious scarlet lines down her cheek. Please do not go. Do not leave us with him.

Her visitor ached. Of course she did. She had combed through the entirety of the Harkers’ souls at a glance like Psyche herself filtering Charon’s harvest. There was much to pity in them and more to Love. But.

Would you like to see what he did to me when last we crossed paths, Mina Harker?

She did not wait for an answer. Only showed the Scarred Love how wise she had been in choosing the vourdalak and its endurance as her shape of undeath. She could not scar, could not crumble from an injury. But pain came in its plenty. Especially when a lightning bolt powerful enough to shatter stone and set her ablaze came firing down.

The Scarred Love watched in horror as her visitor keened and roasted and died.

And stood.

And healed.

And scoured the burnt flesh off the new skin, dead though it remained.

That he did by folly. A bolt with intent would have done worse. As for my storm, I mastered only enough to slay the living, who are the far more industrious and plentiful villain. I once shattered half the Dragon’s face off with my cold. Yet it mended with blood and time enough. Meanwhile, the only scars I have seen on himself and his kind amount to three marks.

The Son left a brand with His forsaking of you.

You kept the muting cut upon your throat, made before you had changed.

And then there is the Dragon’s only unhealed wound. A scar left by a spade in your Love’s hand. Why is that, Mina Harker? More, why is it your mind has suffered his petty puppeteer strings, yet rebuffed the transformation’s inebriating influence? You have not dulled in the years since you turned. You have not diminished to the state of the ‘Weird Sisters’ or your lost Lucy. If the Dragon were not so preoccupied with himself and his Conquest, he might know to worry.

A student of the Scholomance is admitted only once, Mina Harker. The Lessons are not easy. Triply so if not given access to them beneath the Mountain. But you have seen it is possible. That you were able to use the key at all marks you as a student. ‘Studying abroad,’ you would call it. You have the freedom to learn and to master all that you can bring yourself to dare. Which means you can master what the Dragon has. The will of the Weathermaker, the Speaker and Wearer of Beasts. It can be done.

Worst of all for the Dragon, he does not remember that what is sacred is not always the property of an Abrahamic hand.

You and your Love possess a holy strength that is innate. It does not hail from any church. The gods who bless and burden you, who have gifted you souls so tightly knit, are as old and steeped in sacrifice as the tutors in the Mountain. Some have even taught there.

Here, the visitor smiled.

It was one of them who made the first vourdalaks. The Passionate Dead who exist in only Love and Hate. Our Loves are made prey and protected forever, those Hated are marked for destruction. Love and Hate are your whetstones, Mina Harker, as they are Jonathan’s. Whatever weapon you wield, it will be sharpened to an edge the Dragon cannot heal from. Do you understand?

The smile broadened into a bitter curl of sharp ivory.

The Scarred Love thought she recognized the look. Her husband had worn it once as he whetted the kukri and listened to yet another announcement of doom in their hunt for the Dragon.

 I am not leaving you with him. I am leaving him with you.

The sun was coming now. Her phantom grip loosened. Almost time.

Almost time. Is there anything more you wish to ask?

The Scarred Love thought. Her answer came fast.

…What side of his face was it?

 Her visitor’s eyes burned white-blue, ice and flame at once. There was no tinkling crystal to her laugh. Only joyful madness.

The left, Mina Harker. Aim true.

Years would pass. Twenty long years of domesticity, of a sort. It was at the cusp of those twenty years,

As a young man boarded coach and ship and train,

As a Dragon found his keep robbed of its living treasures,

As a vow was upheld in a baptism of blood,

As a storm brewed at the will of a new Mistress,

As a thunderbolt fell with the precision of a needle onto a shock-slack face,

As a scar as brilliant and agonizing as the lightning itself erupted in the weathered skin,

As a Dragon realized this scar was the second one due to stay until he was dust,

Countess Dolingen of Gratz dreamed of her husband.

And smiled.

[vodika-vibes]



Happily Ever After

This is horribly self indulgent, and I'm not sorry, lol.

Pairing: Fives x Reader

Word Count: 883

Song: My Front Porch Looking In by Lonestar

Warnings: Domestic Fluff

Divider by saradika

It’s a lazy day, lazy in the sense that you put on your bathing suit that morning and have spent the majority of the day lounging by the pool, only really going inside to apply more sunblock and make food.

You have a nice tan going, and as much as you would prefer to continue lounging in the sun, your stomach is beginning to demand food.

And, since you’re getting up, you might as well make something for Fives too.

You pull one of his tee shirts over your head, and slide your sandals on, as you walk around your house to the barn, where you can hear Fives working. Well, you can hear his music blaring, so you know he hasn’t gone inside yet.

You stop at the open door, and you lean against the wood frame, a warm smile crossing your face. Fives is there, covered in sawdust, as he continues to work on the boat that he’s been building for over a month now.

You don’t see anything dangerous flying around, so you quietly walk over to the radio and lower the music, drawing his attention finally. “Cyare!” He grins at you, and sets his tools on his work bench, “I didn’t hear you.” He dusts some of the sawdust off his shirt and out of his hair.

“I’m surprised you can hear anything with how loud you play your music,” You tease, as you lean against the table, allowing him to come to you. You lean into his touch as he lightly sets his hands on your hips.

Fives laughs, “Well, it helps put me in the zone.” He slides his hands up your sides, “You’re warm. Have you been reapplying your sunblock?”

You lean up and kiss his nose, “Yes, Every hour on the dot. No need to worry, lover boy.”

He drags his hands up your sides and rests one on your shoulder while the other sits at the back of your neck, “Well, you forget sometimes, cyare. You can’t blame me for worrying.”

You shake your head, “Are you hungry? I’m going to make lunch.”

“Hm…let me put my stuff away, and I’ll help you. I think I’ve done as much today as I can anyway.” Fives admits, “The wood just needs to set now. I’ll prime it in a couple of days.”

“And then you and Echo will test it, right?” You ask as you look at the boat.

“Of course, I’m not putting you in anything that hasn’t been tested.”

“Overprotective.”

“Just protective enough,” Fives counters with a grin as he tucks a strand of hair out of your face. “Maybe I’ll spend the rest of the day in the pool with you.”

“Hm. I’d like that.”

He ducks his head and kisses you gently, “Alright. Stay here, pretty girl. Just until I get my tools up.” He kisses you one more time, and then releases you to clean up.

You hop up to sit on the table while Fives moves around the barn, sliding everything back in its place, and you turn the music off as he puts the last item away, but he’s back in front of you before you can hop off the table.

“Cyare,” Fives is grinning, as his hand slides up your bare legs, “You really should wear pants when you’re walking around.”

“Is that right?” You ask with a grin.

“It’s horribly distracting.” Fives continues with a growing grin.

“Hm,” You let out a thoughtful hum, “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem, love.” You say with a sly grin as you hop to your feet, dragging your body against his with how close he was standing, and then heading out the barn.

He groans, “It could be an ‘us’ problem if you wanted.” Fives calls after you before he chases after you.

You shoot him an amused look over your shoulder and push open the front door of the house you share with him. You leave the door open as you kick your sandals off, and peel off the shirt you’re wearing, so you’re walking around in your bathing suit.

You hear Fives at the door, and the sound of him kicking his boots. And then there’s silence. “Hey Fives, I’m going to start some burgers for lunch,” You call to him, “Do you want fries? Onion rings?”

He doesn’t answer.

You turn and see him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, and just watching you with an adoring smile on his face. “Oh! Is something wrong?” You ask.

“I never thought I would get to have something like this,” Fives admits, his gaze almost molten as he stares at you, “A home, a girl, my own happily ever after-”

“Well. You always deserved it, and you’ve earned it.” You walk over to him and lean against him, “Now we just have to build out happily ever after. One day at a time.”

He leans in and kisses you deeply. He grips your hips tightly, and starts walking you backwards. “We can eat later,” He murmurs against your lips, “I want to get started on our happily ever after.”

You giggle, and then squeak as he scoops you into his arms and carries you towards your bedroom, lunch forgotten for the time being.

[sharky-the-idiot]

EVERY LILARKY SHIP IN A NUTSHELL UNDER THE LENS OF ANON FANON:

Lilarky (Lilac x Sharky)- i love you more than words can say. you are my best friend and my fondest love, and i don't know what id do without you. you come second to nothing. i would die for you. (the shippers would die for you too). the heart of the fandom, everyone's favourite lovebirds. prime angsty au material

Popale (Poppy x Whale)- i hate the world and i hate my distorted reflection and i'd do anything to be rid of the weight of what i am not, and what i never will be. you are everything they're not and everything i adore, and we will be wed within the hour over a volcano while they scream

Toxic Flowers (Lilac x Poppy)- i hate you. now kiss me you bitch. *starts aggressively making out*

WhaleShark (Whale x Sharky)- and then they fucked even though neither of them want to fuck and actually they were in love the WHOLE time and-

Shanky (Sharky x Ink)- i've known you for years and i will know you until the end of our time. i am damaged and you are damaged but when we're together everything seems better. late night talks and friendly teasing, living for the other's affection and hyping each other up at all times

Ink-Stained Weeds (Ink x Craig)- the only correct ink ship. the only craig ship. they are silly and supportive and argue over cereal. the bickering husbands of all time

Jilac (J x Lilac)- these people are all idiots and it's up to us to stop 'em. hold my hand, we got this. (sorry everyone they are have a PLATONIC SISTERLY BOND in my heart)

Sunlilac (Ink x Lilac)- i'm here. i'm listening and i always will and i may not understand everything but i will support you for as long as it takes for you to love yourself as much as i love you. thank you for being my light

Mothbitten Suits (Moth x Lilac- look i love mothbitten lilacs but they both like suits and i thought it sounded fun)- will compliment and gush over each other until the end of time. flustered messes, brilliant smiles, lazy days and exchanging art. warmth.

Tatobee (Weltato x Red)- Mentor figures. they're older than everyone else and look out for the same weirdo teenager (affectionate) and write so beautifully that it makes people cry. talented, responsible, able to break hearts like its nothing

Carky Shutt (Captain Gutt x Sharky)- a pirate who's never found the treasure he so craves and a boy who doesn't feel special. protection and surprise encounters and a budding affection neither can deny. sneaking onto ships, trying to reform him. challenging him to a swordfight, asking him to join his crew. danger and excitement. what the other sees around the sirens. love so strong that it's gutting, that it hurts and kills and plunders and survives all the same. unpiecing your identity and having someone who'll listen and accept you. its okay to show weakness here. im not going to leave you. i promise.

Ocean Hugs (Olaf x Sharky)- i can't touch you and yet i want to, i crave your warmth and your love even if it kills me. you cover your pain with a smile but i see you and i understand. you dont have to hide around me

Sharning Spiky (Sharky x Burning Spice)- someone who's lost everything, and someone who wants to know more. a lack of judgement, a strange intrigue that neither can explain. a budding crush into something more, something fiery and destructive and passionate. can and will spoil each other to bits

Sugar Lover (Lilac x Eternal Sugar)- sapphics!! guiltily getting flustered, soft gasps you can't hide at the beauty of a god. you're nervous but not because you're scared, you want her to like you even as you know the consequences are damning. power imbalance and absolute awe. you've always enjoyed indulging, what's one more kiss?

Sharkverdrive (Sharky x 2-0-4 tack shooter)- are we all gonna ignore this? yes. yes we are

Sharky x Hollyberry- another one for the pile. doesn't have a ship name and probably doesn't need one. a gal who knows how to lighten up and party, a boy who's not used to getting out much. learning how to relax and have fun again. having someone to defend

Sharkzwalder (Sharky x Schwarzwalder)- t4t cuties who will shower each other in affection <3

Sharhim (Sharky x Yharim)- idk enough about this guy to sat anything. big menacing powerful figure & just a little guy. it would be hilarious

Jasky (Sharky x Jasper)- they keep their relationship quiet. it's all in "i love you texts", private moments and intimate looks no-one else understands. companionship, familiarity

Ink x ...any cookie- ink's into dilfs and pirates lmao. they should kiss

Ink x Twisted Alice Angel- nobody seems willing to acknowledge this one??? whenever it's brought up it's swept under the rug. sorry ink's wife, youre irrelevant in comparision to the Great CraigInk Debate of 2024

Sharkzarella (Sharky x Mozzarella)- they melt around each other. sooo many hugs. physical affection all the way. lilac is jealous :)

Ink x the Entire Bendy Cast- that is so many characters holy shit. he is just too lovable. this is what happens when you put a guy named ink into a game with ink in the title ig

Autumn Showers (Whale x Star x Lilac x Craig)- time travel buddies! they have seen horrors beyond comprehension. they have witnessed death and loss and a future they could not save. joined warmth, joined failure, joined happiness, joined hope. working together for the timeline that never was. relying on each other to fix reality. the family you never used to need

Oceans of Purple Ink (Sharky x Lilac x Ink)- why put Sharky with ONE of his love interests when you can have two?? everyone is happy! sharky is the silly one, lilac is the one who looks after them both, ink is the one who gets hugged 24/7. happy healthy loving relationship. then the angst fics drop.

Murder Smarties (Lilac x Whale)- will stab each other. scarily intelligent and scarily protective. bristling and insulting and sharp smiles full of loathing. will call each other mocking nicknames during confrontations. not at all healthy but pretty fun to think about

Poppy x Sharky- you are everything i despise about the one i love. you are not them and you never will be them and yet i see them in you. i hate you. i don't want you. you're all that's left

Jacman (J x Pacman)- toxic exes. they're on BAD terms but pacman wants to get back together. he keeps bringing her tiny orbs to eat no matter how many times she says they aren't even edible for her. the ghosts keep trying to get him to stop, he is not listening one bit

ShaShrek (Sharky x Shrek)- we had to involve shrek somehow laddies

i think that's all of them?? there's probably more though ngl. why are you so shippable

This was all so interesting and cute until fucking carky shutt showed up

[msfbgraves]

How were Daniel and Kumiko discovered in Mobverse? Did someone tattle at the school, or did Daniel and Kumiko really try to sneak out and run away together? Was Daniel brought back home immediately and tutored at home, or was he allowed to continue his schooling at the school?

Does Terry know how far this whole thing went? How serious it really was? Knowing, now, how “conservatively” he feels about the Alpha/beta/omega hierarchy, how supportive/against would he be about an omega/omega pairing if it were a boy/girl (considering that either could have a child)?

I think Daniel’s feelings for Kumiko is something Terry is secretly eternally insecure about. He cannot stand that Daniel loved someone so much and it wasn’t him (even though Daniel now loves him more, probably).

Luckily, maybe, for Terry, he only realised how serious this was when he saw Daniel and Kumiko together on the wedding anniversary outing; also, he's slightly comforted that Daniel didn't suggest going. Terry didn't think much of it before. You see, in this verse, it's common to have practice loves: Alphas with beta boys, beta girls with each other (or omega girls, should any be near), and omegas with each other. That last thing is, as I've mentioned, quite the Alpha turn on, as it makes them indulge in the fantasy of being given a show as a sort of harem master. The absolute most powerful Alpha rulers have had multiple omegas. But for that they have to be convinced that omegas all crave Alphas, whatever they say. Omegas alone are said to be completely incapable of running an adult home. And it's true that most omegas with only other omegas would feel very vulnerable. But definitely not all. Still two omegas together are thought to be no competition for an Alpha as no omega in their right mind would pick another omega if there were any Alphas to be had. Omega loves are placeholder loves or, for the luckiest Alphas, complementary loves.

Which is horseshit, and which hits Terry the second he sees Daniel embrace Kumiko.

But, and this also important, Daniel has literally spent the last two hours clinging to his Alpha's side, which shows Terry's lizard brain that he is important to him (as he longs to be). And Kumiko too is visually mated with the bitemark to show for it. It shouldn't be a threat to him and yet. And yet...

So Kumiko and Daniel weren't found out, they were fully expected to part ways on graduation, having primed each other for a 'real' love.

Only Daniel wouldn't hear it. I feel the reason that he didn't put up more of a fight before Terry was that he was still depleted from his fight for Kumiko. He got quite far into his plans (somehow either follow Kumiko to Japan or find himself a job to support them both if he had to mask as beta), because his Pop was rather preoccupied with the Santoro uprising. But of course he stepped in and doubled Daniel's security. He did him a kindness in letting him save face that this was for other reasons, and still Daniel tried to bribe his way out until Kumiko put a stop to it. She said it was to save him from himself but it told him that she wasn't willing to risk everything where he was...

And he now knows Terry would also be.

He was quite terrified to face his Pop after all that, and very relieved the man left it at a very stern talking to, if he did outright refuse Daniel's pleas to be with his love. He was given a last night at school to say goodbye as everyone had arranged for Kumiko to fly back home early, ostentatiably because of important auditions. (She got in on merit, she is very good.) When Daniel still didn't want to back down home from school properly graduated, Michael coolly sat him down to give him the lay of the land. You have one job, Daniele. Secure the right Alpha, and you will do it, or we will make you.

He's never really told Terry this and it is unbecoming for an Alpha like Terry to pry. He's pieced it together of course. And he feels insecure about it, as always, but in this case... I think he rather feels for his mate.

As for what he would feel if an Alpha was in a poly relationship with two or more omegas? That's an Alpha taking more than their due, as you only can be truly mated to one true mate. It's excessive and he disdains it.

[cavalierious-whim]

One night Childe begs to be bred by both of Zhongli's cocks.

Read the tags! You can also read here on AO3 for better quality. If you enjoy my content, be sure to follow me on Twitter as well, and consider supporting me on Patreon!

--

“There’s a good boy,” soothes Zhongli. 

He holds Childe by the hips with a firm but gentle grip. Smoothes a thumb down the sharp jut of the bone there, forwards and back, chasing the slight dip of Childe’s waist. 

Childe grunts. His breath hitches as his pelvis meets Zhongli’s groin in a fluid motion. “Oh—” He jerks. Hisses softly in pleasure and pain.

Zhongli smooths him over with sweet words and praises. “I knew you could take it,” he murmurs in that husky baritone, deep like the sodden earth, like the dirt that crumbles in their hands. Steady like the Geo that pulses through it, thrumming like molten ore. 

Childe’s cunt is stuffed full to the brim. He whines, wriggling on Zhongli’s cock, squirming as he holds himself over Zhongli on shaking thighs. “Fuck,” he mutters, sweat beading on his brow. 

Zhongli watches back, limp in the sheets, those golden eyes trained on Childe’s face. Studying him. Dragging over his curves for any signs of pain or hesitation. Fuzzed antlers crown his head. Zhongli’s skin is a mess of charcoal and tattoos that glitter like polished Mora. That thumb on Childe’s waist—it’s distracting. Grounds him as Childe’s nostrils flare. 

In with one breath, out with another. A grind of his hips. Both of them moan, but it is Zhongli whose head tilts back, brow pinched as he bites his lip. “Oh, Ajax.”

Childe would die to hear that sound again, that deep hitch of his voice, that dangerous purr. Zhongli holds him there tightly. His legs tense as he tries to not buck up, patient even as he struggles not to drive into his willing heat. 

They’ve played with this form before. Childe has spent hours lapping at both cocks, one in his mouth, the other in his hand. And really, they aren’t that much bigger than what he’s used to—just a smidge longer, a tad thicker, and… well, there are two. 

It is always overwhelming at first. They are careful, even when impatient. Zhongli primes Childe with his fingers first, those long digits striking deep. A thumb against his clit. Fingers spreading him open, sweeping through his insides, rubbing at those places that make his toes curl.

He waits until Childe has spilled in his hand, flooding his thighs slick. Sometimes Zhongli laps it up. Other times, he swirls his fingers through Childe’s wetness lazily. He’ll tease him with the tip of his cock before easing it in. All the while, Zhongli will hold him close. Whisper sweet nothings into Childe’s ear in that curling baritone until it rests in his gut and pleasure flares to life. 

This time, Childe is on top. He rides Zhongli with purpose, tilting his hips just so until that thick cock is buried as deep as it can go. Childe’s fingers dig into Zhongli’s chest. His nails scratch over Zhongli’s skin, tracing sparkling gold, cutting into the space where flesh bleeds into black. 

Zhongli’s spare cock rests against his belly, leaking all over his stomach. It twitches, aching to be touched, begging to be buried into his tight heat as well, but Zhongli has always been insufferably patient.

“Too slow,” says Childe, dragging his hips up until only the tip of Zhongli’s cock remains. Then, he slides back down, taking it in one smooth, fell swoop that leaves both of them staggering. Childe’s voice is shaky. “You take too long, you—”

“I am indulgent,” cuts in Zhongli. He lays there on the pillows like a god, sharp eyes watching Childe through hazy lust. The slightest upturn to the corner of his mouth. A soft tut as he clicks his tongue. “I prefer to see you take me slowly.” 

Zhongli lets go of Childe’s hip, a hand sweeping low. His thumb swirls around Childe’s clit. Childe yelps. Groans as his hips drag down, spearing himself into Zhongli’s cock with a slow grind. His thighs go taut, and he throws his head back, leaning into the touch. 

“Good boy,” says Zhongli. He keeps his thumb there and Childe ruts against it. He rides Zhongli’s cock, up and down, seeking out friction both inside and out.

But—but— 

“The other,” blurts Childe. 

Zhongli pauses, hips stilling, hand frozen. “Ajax?”

Childe’s mouth goes dry. It’s a thought he’s had. Always in moments like this when Zhongli sheds his mortal guise and lingers in the in-between. Not quite a dragon, not quite Zhongli, yet entirely himself. What would it be like to take both?

“Your cock. Your—gods, both of them.”

Zhongli’s gaze tips to his stomach where his second cock lays, precome dribbling from the tip. He wraps his hand around his cock instead and presses it forward. The tip catches against Childe’s clit, brushing against it as Childe rolls his hips.

They frot like that, rubbing against each other, warmth from the friction settling deep in Childe’s gut. Zhongli’s cock is hard and hot. Slick, from the way the edge of Childe’s cunt slides against it. Meanwhile, the other slips deep, carving its way through him.

Zhongli sighs, his other hand curling around Childe’s ass for a squeezing, fingers digging into the soft muscle there.

So close. So—

“That isn’t what I meant,” he says, voice falling soft. Hesitant. “Zhongli, I want both.”

Zhongli stills, everything stalling to a standstill. Oh, he knows what he means. “Ajax—” Zhongli stops himself short. That serpentine tongue slips out of his mouth and wets his lips, and he thinks. 

“I can take it.” Childe’s voice is firmer now. “Look at how well I’m already doing. I can do better. I can be good. I want—gods, Zhongli, I want—”

Zhongli’s cock slips out of him abruptly, and Childe whines. He shifts, sitting up against the headboard of the bed, back propped up by the pillows. Then he tugs Childe close, an arm curled around his waist. 

“Quiet down. I’ll give you what you want.” A kiss to his cheek. Another to his jawline, then down the line of his neck. Zhongli mouths at Childe, worrying purple marks into his skin that’ll last for days.

Oh. Childe cannot move quickly enough. He scrambles about, anchoring his knees into the mattress. Zhongli guides him forward until Childe is hovering over his topmost cock, the one that’s been lonely until now, red at the tip and aching. 

Zhongli drags the head across the puffy, slick folds of Childe’s cunt. He moans when Childe angles himself, his sex catching on the crown of it, and down he slides. Easily. Effortlessly. Zhongli’s cock sinks into those soaked depths as Childe takes him to the root. 

“Hah.” Childe’s breath catches in his throat. He moves, rolling his hips, fucking himself on Zhongli’s cock. The other rests against his backside, stiff and hot. “Come on, Zhongli.”

Goading words that make Zhongli huff. “Patience,” he murmurs, catching Childe’s chin between a thumb and forefinger. He forces Childe to meet his gaze. “If we do this, we do it my way.”

Childe snorts. “Your way will be too slow.”

“Precisely.” Zhongli slides a thumb over the seam of Childe’s mouth. “So reckless,” he teases. “Is one cock not enough?”

“No. Never. Not when it’s you. I want—”

Zhongli shoves his thumb into Childe’s mouth and tamps his tongue down. “I know what you want. But first—” He hooks his teeth behind the bottom row of Childe’s teeth and tugs. Childe falls forward and Zhongli kisses him, thumb pulling from his mouth to favor his lips instead.

Slow and sweet. Childe tries to wriggle against him impatiently, but Zhongli’s hands slip to his hips to hold him firm. Tongues sweep together and teeth clack. Zhongli bucks into him, driving the cock already inside Childe deep. Childe gasps into his mouth and Zhongli swallows it right down, that damned forked tongue sliding over his teeth.

“So needy,” mutters Zhongli. His breath is warm. He teases Childe’s lips as their mouths dance together, tongues chasing each other. “I love it, though. I love you—and so, who would I be if I didn’t oblige?”

Childe is already full. Heat sits low in his gut, swirling in his cunt as Zhongli’s cock hits all the right places. Rubs against that sweet spot that makes him see stars. It isn’t enough, though. Childe wants both, wants to be fucked senseless, stuffed so full that he can’t think of anything other than Zhongli’s name.

So handsome. Gorgeous. Childe can’t stop staring, taking in his godly form, and how the room glows gold as the room swirls with Geo. One arm around Zhongli’s neck to keep him close. The other strokes through his soft hair, and then his horns, the pads of Childe’s fingers pressing into the fuzzy notches and grooves.

The softest hitch of breath. Zhongli hums, pressing his nose into the nape of Childe’s neck. He inhales deeply and laps at the skin there. Traces all those little marks he left earlier with his forked tongue. 

“Ajax,” he says into Childe’s ear. “The oil.” Zhongli can’t reach it pinned to the bed, so Childe pulls back and fumbles around in the sheets for it. 

The bright scent of Silk Flowers fills the room as Zhongli tips some out into his hand, slathering his fingers. He is uncaring of the mess as he rubs it into Childe’s asscheeks, digging into the muscle and working out those tense knots. 

So close, but so far. Zhongli’s fingers just barely ghost the seam of his ass crack, sliding overtop it instead. “You’re taking too long.”

“I need you to relax.”

“You’re—”

“I could stop.” He doesn’t mean to be unkind. It isn’t a weird game of power imbalance, Zhongli is just intent on being careful because while he’s shoved a variety of things into Childe over their time together, never once has it been both his cocks at the same time. 

Childe is too desperate to not give in. “Alright,” he agrees. “Alright, I’ll try to…” 

It’s hard, though, with one cock nestled inside, pressed right into his core. Rock-hard and unyielding. Thick and pulling at his insides. Childe shifts and the cock lurches, and, fuck, it’s so good. A whine tumbles from his throat. 

The tension disappears. He melts into Zhongli’s grasp, sinking into his touch, and the way he massages Childe’s ass. “So good for me.” Zhongli’s finger dips between his asscheeks, wet and cold against his hole. An insistent press. Just a knuckle sinks in, testing the give. 

And then further as Zhongli eases it in.

One finger is nothing. Childe presses back against Zhongli’s hand, driving it deeper. Zhongli chuckles into his ear, amused. A second finger is a little more as it slips in beside the first. Zhongli spreads them, scissoring at his hole, loosening Childe’s rim to fit his cock instead. 

“Impatient,” teases Childe. He can tell by the jerky motions of Zhongli’s hand. The clipped pace he uses to open him up. For all the talk about taking it slow, he’s eager to get his dick wet—both of them, at the same time. “Horny, old lizard,” says Childe with a laugh. “Can’t say no—Oh, fuck.”

Zhongli drives a third finger into the last knuckle. Childe moans, shuddering at the sudden fullness. “Of course, I can’t say no.” Zhongli’s fingers spread his rim so wide that Childe’s toes curl. He fucks him slowly, lazily with those fingers. Bucks his hips to thrust into Childe’s cunt at the same time.

“Zhongli,” says Childe, scrabbling against him, limbs jerking impatiently as he fucks himself back into Zhongli’s fingers. “I’m—” He lets out a frustrated grunt.

“I love to watch you like this.” Zhongli kisses Childe’s temple, soft when compared to the way that he drives his fingers into Childe’s ass. “So eager and impatient. So willing.”

“Please.” 

It’s good, it’s so good, but it isn’t good enough and Childe knows that when Zhongli fucks him with both cocks instead, he’ll be in heaven. It’ll be beyond compare, Childe will be pushed to his limits, floating in ecstasy, drowning in trust that he only gives Zhongli. 

Zhongli pulls his fingers from Childe’s ass. He smooths his hand over his skin, tracing lines of scars and massaging them. A kiss to the brow. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright, alright.”

Childe is already so full with the length shoved into his cunt. He leaks around it, juices coating the insides of his thighs. His mouth goes dry at the thought of another. 

Zhongli presses the tip of his second cock to the rim of his asshole. “Easy,” he says sweetly, pressing in slowly. 

This time, Childe listens. The head of Zhongli’s second cock slips in at a crawling pace. Then another inch, and another. Childe’s hole swallows it greedily until their hips are flush.

Zhongli holds him in a vice grip, claws digging into his skin sharply. Little pinpricks, not enough to bleed, but enough to leave a mark. Zhongli’s face is screwed up, brow pursed, eyes half-lidded, golden irises peeking out dangerously from underneath those long lashes.

“Ajax,” he hisses. Tries not to buck up, straining to hold back, to let Childe adjust. “You’re—so tight. Oh, you’re—”

“Fuck.” Childe grinds down, driving both of those cocks deeper. “Yes, gods, I’m—”

He feels full to the throat. Zhongli fills him so perfectly, both of his cocks nestled as deep as they can go. One in his cunt, one in his ass, both utterly divine as Childe raises his hips and they pull at his insides. He eases back down. Careful, just like he agreed to, the gentle rolling of his hips. 

Childe scrabbles against Zhongli, melting against him. Chest to chest, nose into his neck—Childe inhales that earthy scent as he falls and falls into the throes of passion. “Zhongli,” he cries, moving a little quicker. Up and down, spearing himself on both of his cocks. 

All the while, Zhongli guides him, hands splayed around his waist, helping Childe rise and fall against him at a pace that is far too slow. Zhongli shifts, throwing an arm around Childe’s back, tugging him close. He kisses the column of Childe’s neck, burying his face there and inhaling deeply. 

“Ajax.” Another kiss, this one a little harsher, with more teeth than tongue. Fangs drag across the delicate skin there, threatening to mark it. 

“More,” says Ajax. “Zhongli, fuck me. Please.”

Their chests are flush. Zhongli holds him close, unwilling to let go, craving closeness. But— 

A tentative thrust, hips rolling against Childe’s. Zhongli’s cocks slide through him and it’s as if Childe’s entire being is being carved right through. Childe keens. His fingers curl into Zhongli’s hair and tug as he tries to ground himself. Fingers ghost the curves of Zhongli’s antlers, resulting in a low rumble that rises from his chest.

Zhongli fucks him with slow-moving thrusts that strike deep and leave Childe’s thighs shaking. He groans into Childe’s neck, pressing kiss after kiss there. He holds Childe tightly by the hip, guiding him over his cocks. “Ajax. Ajax.” He sounds so gone, lost in Childe’s tight heat, and whatever age-old instincts tug at his being.

And Childe gets it. He’s stuffed full beyond his wildest imagination. He sobs, tears leaking from his eyes as pleasure overtakes him. He comes like that, white-hot heat sweeping through his belly. His cunt clamps tight as he gushes slick which makes a mess of them both. 

Zhongli is the one who whines, though. He’s the one that clings to Childe with a death grip. “You feel—” Another moan as his words are lost. Sweat beads his brow and his movements turn shaky. Childe is slack against him as Zhongli thrusts up. His antlers knock against Childe’s forehead, and Zhongli whines, a deep, pitiful sound.

“Don’t—don’t stop. More, more—” 

“Of course, darling.” Zhongli pets his hair. He pulls Childe into every grind of his cocks. Presses his hand against the bulge of his stomach and whispers heated praise into his ear, filthy, filthy words that would make most combust. 

The cock in Childe’s ass comes first, flooding his insides wet with spend. Zhongli jerks, yanking Childe down against him to take it, and Childe does, swiveling his hips. Childe’s close again too, his clit aching. His fingers swirl around it, smearing his juices around to ease the glide. 

“Baobei,” says Zhongli then. “Ajax—”

“You aren’t done. You aren’t—Zhongli, please.”

Childe wants more. He wants to crawl into Zhongli’s chest and never leave. He wants to be fucked full and satisfied until his legs are nothing but jelly and he can’t walk for days. Zhongli’s gaze darkens, that golden-eyed glint ruddy. His skin glows too, Geo swirling about them, the lines that trace the length of his arms pulsing in time as he loses more of the grip on himself.

“So needy,” he murmurs. Not unkindly. He kisses Childe sweetly, lingering, that serpentine tongue slipping past his lips for a better taste. 

Childe is antsy. He squirms, seeking out more friction. His ass is stretched to its limit. His cunt aches, his clit throbs, he wants more. So close, so, so—

He whines when Zhongli’s cocks slip out of him suddenly. Zhongli flips him over until Childe’s chest is to the sheets, pulling his hips back until he’s presented properly. Everything is wet; with Childe’s slick, and Zhongli’s come that dribbles from his ass. 

Zhongli spreads his cheeks to look, sighing as he drags a thumb over his loosened, puffy hole. “Divine. You look—” He sighs affectionately, petting Childe’s rim carefully to soothe it. Then, that thumb sweeps lower to his folds. “So perfect for me. Ajax—”

“Breed me,” cuts in Childe. Zhongli stills long enough that Childe turns his face in the pillow to look back. Zhongli’s nostrils flare and Geo coalesces around his face, framing it. His fingers dig into the meat of Childe’s ass as he considers the request. Childe readjusts himself, spreading his thighs for a better view. “Come on, fill me up. I need more. Breed me, like the good mate that you are.”

The words strike a chord deep in Zhongli’s lizard brain. His fingers curl around Childe’s hips and tug him back roughly. The cock that hasn’t yet spent itself is pressed to his cunt, sliding through Childe’s drenched folds. 

“You paint a picture, you know,” says Zhongli as he slips in. He still has control but his movements are shaky. A shuddering breath slips from his mouth as he sinks right to the hilt. “The thought of you, swollen with my clutch. Ajax, you cannot fathom how I want that.”

Oh, but he does. Childe whines at the words, already fucking back against him. His intent is clear; he wants. “Do it, then. Fuck me full.”

Zhongli moves then, pulling out to the tip and slamming back in. His cock carves its way through Childe’s cunt, pressing just so against that spot that makes his toes curl. Childe cries out. His fingers wring the sheets as Zhongli fucks him earnestly, pulling at him with enough strength that he slides across the mattress.

Slick, wet sounds. The messiness of his cunt, and how their bed is drenched. Zhongli spreads his asscheeks again and sinks a thumb into his ass to pull at his rim. He ruts into Childe with renewed fervor, a low growling tumbling from his mouth with every squelch as he sinks deep. 

Then, Zhongli leans forward. He plasters his chest against Childe’s back to change the angle. Childe cries out. He feels Zhongli’s cock in his throat, so big, so thick, twitching as it swells. He’s close. They both are. Heat coils in Childe’s gut as he rolls back against him. 

Zhongli’s hand snakes around his front to find his clit. His fingers press against it, tweaking it, and a rush of fluid slicks his cock. “Fuck,” his Zhongli. His movements turn uncoordinated, pulled too thin, too distracted, trying to please both Childe and himself. 

“Just like that, like that—” cries Childe. “Yes, yes, yes—”

Zhongli comes first, flooding Childe’s cunt with hot warmth. Childe tumbles right after, tipping over the edge, yelping out Zhongli’s name before going limp in the sheets. Zhongli still pets his clit. Whispers sweet words into Childe’s ear as he prolongs that rush of heat, the clench of his gut, the way that his nerves boil, white-hot and alive. Childe moans, crying into the pillow, writhing underneath him, overcome by it all.

Too good, it’s too much; Zhongli, and his love; I, he—

Childe doesn’t remember slipping under but he wakes up to Zhongli’s warm touch against his side. He’s clean now, wiped down with care, and tucked into the bedsheets. Zhongli spoons against his back and holds him close, back to his normal, more mortal form. He draws circles against Childe’s side, smoothing over the sharp line of his hip.

“Zhongli,” he croaks, voice rough.

Zhongli stills. There’s a kiss against the back of Childe’s neck and a soft exhalation. “I had thought, perhaps, it’d been too much.”

“No.”

Another exhalation, this time a chuckle. “An expected response from you, I suppose. You tend to push yourself too far—”

“I begged for it.”

“Yes, well, you’ve begged for worse, haven’t you?”

“You’d never hurt me.” Zhongli doesn’t respond, so Childe continues. “And you didn’t. Fuck, it was��we have to do it again. We’re going to do it again, especially because you seemed to enjoy it a little too much.”

Zhongli hides his embarrassment in Childe’s nape. “The things you say in moments of passion,” he murmurs, “how can I not? Ajax, I love you. Those sorts of things… I want them with you—”

“I do too.” Childe’s voice is quiet. 

Zhongli lets the thought sit for a moment in comfortable silence. They’ve talked about this sort of thing in the heat of the moment but never after. It’s vulnerable but not unpleasant. Childe just melts against Zhongli and feels the way that his chest rumbles against his back. 

A hand slips around Childe’s front and rests against his stomach, fingers just barely digging into the skin there. Childe isn’t soft, he’s nothing but hardened muscle, lean and taut. But, earlier, when stuffed full of Zhongli’s cocks, there was a roundness there that left nothing to the imagination. Then, Zhongli shifts, trying to hide his half-hard cock that begins to rouse.

Childe snorts. “You old lizard,” he mutters, amused. 

Zhongli nuzzles the back of his neck and kisses it. “You love it.” There’s an embarrassed twinge in his voice. 

Childe doesn’t dispute it. He spreads his legs instead for Zhongli to slide his length between, sliding it against his still-slick cunt. 

“Mhmn,” hums Zhongli, face buried in Childe’s neck. “You spoil me.”

Childe tilts his hips until the tip of Zhongli’s cock catches and gasps when his cock slides into the root. Then, Zhongli spoils him with wandering hands and warm praise in his ear, and the gentle roll of his hips as he makes love to Childe again and again.

[random-conspiracy]

Hot take of the day:

I think my only ick with cannibalism is that it's very nasty and you can't have your cake and eat it ahashahsa.

For context, my family used to breed sheep and we had a small restaurant, so I'm familiar with the process of killing and eviscerating a big creature. You need to tie up the sheep because obviously is about to die and then you cut its throat so it can bleed and eventually pass away. Is it the best way? I'm not sure I was 8, but it's a long and probably harmless way, a very visual allegoric hourglass.

Now you need to hang the body from the ceiling and do a incision from the neck to the genitals, exposing the ribcage under the fat and skin. And oh boy! This is the big deal, because now its time to open the ribcage and let all the sweet stuff fall down (in a bucket if you're not doing this just for funsies ahshasa).

And this is my ick with cannibalism: The sheep had no time to digest anything, the intestines and digestive sacks are still full of forage, acid and shit and IT'S NASTY AS FUCK. That's just the obvious stuff, then you have other jewels in the mud like the gallbladder (we used to yeet it as far away as we could into the field).

If you ever think about eating intestines or anything at all you need to clean them VERY GOOD and it's hard work. My father was the butcher, my mother cleaned the guts and taking care of the intestines and stomach is AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. All the shit and food waste, washed away.

I'm all money into cannibalism but if you're flappy hands all happy into eating a guy straight up from ground you need to make peace with cropophagy because you're gonna taste some shit ashhsa. Yeah, the human body has not enough fat or muscle to even make a decent steak so you're not even playing that card, you must go for the organs.

And yeah yeah, we all want to romantic symbolism of eating the heart (even when it's fucking impossible to eat the heart because it's like chewing gum but okkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk I guesssssssss), then you go for the lungs and the liver. But honestly, that's it. You don't even touch the intestines or the stomach if you're too comfortable with cannibalism but draw the line at cropophagy ahshshasa.

Hannibal Lecter is the prime example in the other side of the coin, because he KNOWWWWWWS, like he may indulge in some pedestriam eating but com'on hashasadhasa. He kills, he cleans, he cooks. He's absolutely not eating shit because he's too good for casual raw meat. But then, what is the point?

"It was no chicken" Like yeah, don't you say dubfuck but it COULD had been chicken you know? ahsahsha. That's the issue. "This burger has human meat" yes, but's its a burger not different from any other. What's the point here of it being made with human flesh?? The LOLs? No one cares.

At least Lecter is a cuisine master, and can get the morbid x delicious mix right in the point, but if we're serious how well do you know how to cook? And remember we are not talking about your all purpose beef, we're talking about guts. How well can you cook some liver or some stomach in your mid kitchen where you don't even use the oven that much?

The real art here is the bestial consumption of tacking down your prey and ruminate flesh brom bones, soaking wet in blood.

And you must be mentalized for some shit ahshahsasa. (Also, you were absolutely right about it, what's the deal with sacred cannibalism. "Oh, I love you so much I need to eat you and integrate you as a part of me" No, you're not ashahsas. You're shitting all of it in some hours. What a fucking act of devotion idiot ahahsa, shitting the vessel of your love straigh into the toilet, you could do some stuffing idk).

Anyway, what's the conclusion here?

You can't be picky if you're a cannibal. Well, you CAN but com'on. Lecter is not gonna fuck you.

Lungs are the best organs. You stab those little guys, inflate them with water and boom! A cute fountain! They expand like balloons.

[ask-sister-solaris]

Some indulgent peepaw primo being good peepaw to child of Terzo.

Yes this is a follow on from a previous fic

“I’m proud of you”

.

.

.

.

She giggled as she ran around the garden chasing a butterfly. It had been two years since she had turned up at the ministry and boy had she turned everyone’s lives around. As Terzo was no longer Papa he could focus now on being a good father, and his brothers were there to support him.

Today was a break for Terzo, so Primo offered to look after her. She giggled as she reached the fountain and waited for Primo. Today he was gonna teach her how to tend to flowers, and that meant his Prime Mover would be there also! She liked her Uncles Prime Mover. She was like a mother. Her papa still didn’t have a prime mover.

She didn’t mind though. Primo sat on the garden bench and brought the flower and gardening book toward him. She looked up at him with puppy dog eyes. She was seven and still so small.

“Fine fine come on then”

He patted the bench next to him and she jumped up, looking at the book in wonder. After a few hours in the garden, they began looking at the real plants Primo letting her pick a few flowers to make a bouquet for Terzo. Once dinner time came around she walked back with him and put the flowers in water. At the dinner table she talked with cumulus about what the Ghoulette did for the band and she listened intently.

After dinner it was bathtime and all my cumulus had to do was pick her and take her. She waved to everyone, and after her bath she was dressed in PJs and she scurried to Primos room. He would always read her a story. She was clutching the large story book and looking up with wide eyed. When he answered he looked down and his Prime Mover cooed at her.

“Ain’t you just so sweeet”

She giggled and led her in and sat her on the bed. Primo sat the other side and they read to her. Her eye lids began droop and primo closed the book. He picked her up and took her to Terzos room, a ritual they’d begun because of the nightmares. Terzo smiled at his older brother taking his daughter from him.

“Well hello there Topolina”

Primo smiled and looked at the sleepy girl. He felt a swell of pride in his chest. Of course he looked after the orphans but there was something different about looking after a blood related child. He looked from Terzo to the girl and smiled.

“I’m proud of you”

Terzo looked at his brother and his facade slipped slightly. It was rare anyone said they were proud of him. But Primo had said it. He looked down at the now sleeping child of his and smiled.

“Grazie”

Fin

[marypsue]

Blood will out for WIP game?

[from this meme]

Thank you for asking about this one, because it's one I haven't really talked about on here and I'm very glad to have the excuse!

I wrote Lost in the Shadow of the Vampire, which is one of the most self-indulgent things I've ever posted: a piece of semi-meta semi-fan-fiction, where a (fictional) actress working on a (fictional) reboot-slash-sequel to 1987 cult classic The Lost Boys starts to suspect that one of her costars is actually becoming a vampire like the ones in the movie. It was a complete blast to write, and I had so much fun figuring out what the fictional reboot-slash-sequel would be about that I decided that I'd just go ahead and write it.

Since the premise is that this is a movie, a 2015-ish all-female reboot slash sequel ignoring all the other sequels, I tried to come up with a plot hook that would let me introduce new leads and change the time period, while honouring the vibe (without just ripping off the plot of the original) and calling back to the original, but also respecting which actors from the original would actually be likely to come back (and which actors from the original are still, uh. Alive). Also, I wanted a girl gang of vampires who have unfuckwithable style and vibes.

So. The premise of Blood Will Out is that, shortly after she turns eighteen, Kate Fischer, the biological daughter of Star and Michael Emerson, starts turning into a vampire. Since she was adopted as a baby and has had no contact with her bio family until very recently, she has absolutely no idea what's going on - but her sister Jamie does. And, because of what Jamie had thought was a very convincing blog-form webnovel and interactive ARG but is now looking like it's actually just the blog of an actual real-life vampire hunter, they have a line of communication to one Edgar Frog.

Unfortunately, this ends up raising more questions than answers. Was there something sinister behind the string of tragedies that struck Kate's birth family and left her orphaned? Was her becoming a half-vampire really biological destiny, or does someone have plans for her? And, once she finds herself drawn into the orbit of a trio of captivating vampires who're more than willing to accept her as one of their own, does she even want to go back to human? Will Jamie get her sister back, or lose her forever?

Does the world need another female-OC-centric TLB fic? Who knows? Who cares? I haven't written one yet, and I'm having fun. (Also, I have a big reveal in mind for the third act that I haven't seen anyone do before, and is positively evil. I'm excited about it.)

I've posted one small sample here, but here, have another:

“Where the hell were you.”

Kate closes her eyes for a second. Like she’s tired. Jamie knows better than to buy that. It’s past midnight. This is prime Kate active hours.

“I’m serious, Kate. I woke up – alone, in a strange city, in California, by the way – and you were just gone. No note, no text, your phone here on the desk -”

Kate sounds defensive, not meeting Jamie’s eyes. Good. She should feel guilty. “Don’t shit yourself. You fell asleep. I was bored. I took a little walk.”

“A little walk down to the Boardwalk, Kate?”

And now Kate doesn’t look like she feels guilty at all. Just kind of flatly angry. Jamie absolutely doesn’t feel a little silver wiggle of apprehension about that. “So what if it was?”

Jamie can’t find words. So instead, she settles for letting her face and her upturned hands do the asking for her. “So what if – Kate. Kate. We agreed. Neither of us goes down there alone. Do I need to remind you that you had to lock yourself in your room for nine solid hours because you accidentally saw a nosebleed? Do you know how many people -”

“Nobody died and I didn’t eat anybody,” Kate snaps, yanking out the chair by the little desk and dropping into it with her front pressed against its back and her legs splayed out to either side. She presses her chin into her hands on the top of the chair back, so the next words come out as a muffled grumble. “Not like you could’ve stopped me if you had been there, anyway.”

The silence that descends around and between them is abrupt and icy.

Kate shifts uncomfortably in the chair, looking everywhere but at Jamie. Like she knows she’s crossed a line. But she doesn’t seem any too ready to apologise for it. “I know you don’t like thinking about it, Jay. But it’s true. If I did go off the deep end -”

Jamie only realises she’s been frozen perfectly still in place when she tries to unclaw her hand from around the TV remote. “I wouldn’t let you. I won’t let you.”

“Jamie…” Kate’s eyes shutter, for a moment, before she finally looks Jamie in the eye again. “You could get hurt. I. Might hurt you.”

Jamie meets her gaze with one of her own, steady and, she hopes, fearless. “You won’t.”

Kate breaks first. She shuts her eyes, rolls her head back on her shoulders, and grips the chair back, leaning back as far as her arms’ reach will let her. “Ugh. Do you think Mom’s found our note yet?”

In answer, Jamie holds up her phone. Kate flops her head forward again so she can look under her mess of dark curls and see the notifications that fill up the screen. Can see that Jamie’s had fifty-eight missed calls and a hundred and two unread texts.

“I think she’s found it,” Jamie cracks.

Kate groans, long and deep and heartfelt, and lets her head flop backwards again.

She starts getting out her laptop as Jamie’s crawling back into bed. Jamie watches her face, the hard set of her stare, as she sets it up on the desk and boots it up. Now that Kate’s back, the wild anger – and the fear that had driven it – are starting to settle again. But there’s a slow, deep, sucking dread starting to take their place. The matter-of-fact coldness, the who-cares attitude earlier – that’s not Kate. At least, not the Kate Jamie knows. And the longer this goes on, the more often this new, cold version of Kate seems to slip to the surface.

But. Even this new, cold version of Kate still doesn’t want Jamie to get hurt.

That has to count for something.

“Kate?” Jamie says, pulling the covers up around her head so she’s looking at her sister through a tunnel of duvet.

Kate makes a wordless noise of acknowledgment without looking up from the laptop screen.

“You’re going to go back to the Boardwalk without me, aren’t you.”

That actually does get Kate to turn around. To look Jamie in the eye. “Jamie -”

Jamie doesn’t give her a chance to speak. She doesn’t really want to hear her sister talk about losing control again. But more than that, she just doesn’t want to have to hear Kate lie to her. She doesn’t want to know if Kate could do it with her eyes steady on Jamie’s and not a hint of guilt in her face or her voice. “Not tonight, okay? Just…don’t go back there again tonight.”

Kate rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, something in her stare softening.

“Not tonight,” she agrees. “Everything’s shut down by now, anyway. Now come on, Jay. It’s almost one AM. You’ve gotta be up early tomorrow if we’re gonna have any time before dawn makes me useless.”

“Your messed-up sleep schedule’s rubbing off on me,” Jamie grumbles good-naturedly, as she lets her head sink back into the pillow and her eyes drift shut. The bed’s never felt so warm, so soft. Despite her nap earlier, she really is tired.

“Oh shit, I hope not,” Kate says, sounding worried. And then, warmly, “G’night, Jamie. Get some sleep.”

Jamie drifts off to the sound of her sister’s fingers tick-tick-ticking over the laptop’s keys.

[ghostly-wisteria-tea]

Nailing my Isekai Khonshu character is a bit difficult since I have this habit of writing them slightly differently as each works go on. But in general, I am taking a huge amount of liberties since I stopped caring about accuracy, because comic lore is f*cking all over the place and retcons itself anyway.

Isekai-MCU Khonshu is like a weird combo of your old tired, jaded veteran grandpa stuck in a child's body and have the impulses of one. He can be a bit of a hypocrite when he tells mortals about their flaws, only to end up doing said flaws an hour later.

This is actually due to the contradicting nature of his godhood. As the god of youth, he is eternally a child and isn't supposed to grow-up.

Kind of like Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up.

Growing up means to give-up his youth. He is supposed to embody the prime child aspect within every mortal and living creatures. Curiosity, gentle happiness, joy on little things.

That's why I gave Khonshu a huge sweet tooth and a fondness of games. He also have all their flaws such as temper tantrums, impulsive behavior, sometimes he can't read the room, would say what is in his mind without a second thought, and sometimes thinks that he is right all the time.

Though he can also see and ask questions that isn't confined to the norms and rules. The kind that you end up being force into as you grow up. You end up getting stuck with getting a job, paying rent, finding ways to earn for your family. In a way, you lose that curiosity and open mind-ness as the mundane and boring responsibilities of adulthood starts to weight down on you. Khonshu can think and act outside the "box", creating innovative ideas that is both stupid and ingenious. And this helped him get out of dangerous situations many times after his banishment. Some of which are of his own making.

In contrast, as a god he is very, very old. He learned what it is to be mature and an adult by sheer experience and observation of humanity's ups and downs. He have seen disasters, struggles and how to avert them. He can give mature adivse to other's, but the "child god" within prevents him from fully applying that maturity to himself.

Because a child isn't supposed to be the "adult".

This can create a tension as inside Khonshu is fully aware of the contradicting nature of himself. A contradiction that was a later development after he was banished.

Before his banishment, he was with the Ennead and his fellow gods. Practically everyone there are related so Khonshu had his family.

His family was basically acting as the "adult" in the situations, telling Khonshu that sometimes his ideas are not really great and keeping him in check. He still looked like that adult since it is one of his forms in antiquity, but his inner child personality shines a lot.

And one that they tend to just let go since it is a child's nature to make mistakes, and it's the duty of their parents/adults to correct them.

When Khonshu got banished, it was then that he realized that no one is keeping him in check anymore. His family are not allowed to interact with him personally without permission until that banishment was lifted. Leaving Khonshu alone.

So to make up, Khonshu have to force himself to "grow-up" and be his own adult even though it is in contrast to his role as a "Child God".

This process is, in itself, difficult since Khonshu have to sometimes go against his own godly nature and be something that he isn't supposed to be. And it is a slow process.

Even after thousands of years, Khonshu is still having trouble trying to balance out being his own "mature adult" and suppressing the "immature Child god". He would even just stop trying when it got way too difficult, both emotionally and mentally. And it just left him jaded and tired.

Now that he ended up in another world, in a body that isn't banished. He can indulge in being that inner child instincts from time to time. Though it can be a double edged sword again since his inner child instincts is much, much stronger and can get in the way of the cold, calculating voice of distant reason that he spend years cultivating after his banishment.

[pixies-and-poets]

Happy Friday all! I need a mood boost and y'know... I was thinking, we love putting Woodrow through even more suffering around here, so why not imagine some happiness for him!

Therefore I decided to write out some cozy loving headcanons for my favorite rabbid crackship. The story I'm writing is about how they meet and come to know each other, fraught with pining and angst, but below are some imaginings of them as an established couple, nice domestic fluff and why I think they'd make such a good pair. Enjoy some soft artsy bunnies today if you would like!

I present to you.... Happy Phandrow Things!!

Phantom is very well off due to being a celebrity musician, and still has plenty of funds after losing his singing prowess. Woodrow is.... a poor poet who has always barely scraped by (have you seen his house?). So Phantom loves pampering his darling in every single way he can, buying him things, taking him to fancy restaurants, going to plays and musicals and operas with him. Woodrow is kind of dazzled and overwhelmed by all this as Tom was really excessive about it at first, and eventually it evens out as they both realize they enjoy the quiet moments with each other most of all. (Phantom is still pretty indulgent and they still go out together very often though; Woodrow used to basically never get off Palette Prime but now he does.)

Also they don't NEED to go out to have a really nice meal, because Phantom is actually a talented chef (as we can assume from that one puppet video)- this was mainly a new hobby he took up to cope with the damage to his voice, and now he loves cooking for his poet who can't cook for himself, because Woodrow cooking is. A bad idea. A really bad idea.

Due to his spooky ghost nature, Phantom would be basically nocturnal if not for having had to adjust to other people's schedules. As it is, he usually stays up really late and sleeps really late into the day and his peak energy hours are twilight into around midnight. Woodrow meanwhile is very attuned to nature and is an "up when the rooster crows" type of person. However he also stays up pretty late due to just having insomnia and difficulty sleeping so he doesn't sleep all that much, period. Or he used to not, anyway. Having someone to fall asleep with has helped in this regard so he has been sleeping better since being with Phantom.

On that note, they often do stay up late discussing art and poetry and writing and theatre until one of them falls asleep, 90% of the time it's Woodrow first falling asleep in Tom's arms, who carries him to bed and takes off his glasses etc and snuggles in with him.

This would go for pretty much anyone you'd ship him with but Phantom is totally the Gomez Addams "kiss up the arm and cover them with kisses" type, but because Woody has such long arms and is a long boy in general he has a lot of real estate to work with here-

Phantom has a massive collection of different pet names in different languages, different ways to say darling/beloved/sweetheart etc and is always changing it up. For Woodrow he especially likes calling him variations of "my lucky one" or "my good luck charm" in different languages (i.e. portafortuna in Italian). He is constantly telling Woodrow how lucky he considers himself that he gets to be with such a wonderful poet even despite the misfortune that may happen to them, and this is very very validating to Woodrow, as this is a total reversal of how he had always viewed his existence.

Phantom is very resilient due to his spectrality and just being a big tough boy (he was a boss, gosh dang it!) and in fact can still make himself totally invulnerable with enough effort. So he is indeed a very ideal person to put up with all the caveats that come with dating a jinxed person, and can usually laugh off the way he himself is affected, and also help protect and heal/nurture his poet from things happening to him. Woodrow sort of sees him as a guardian angel. An Angel of Music, you might say!!

Woodrow doesn't think of himself as a good singer, but this is largely based on when he was younger and a normal-sized Rabbid, when he had a different voice that he wasn't very fond of in general. He has a deeper voice now but has never really tried to sing much with it, and Phantom coaches him to become a better singer. This at first helps Tom deal with his own damaged voice as he is able to pass a bit of his skill onto someone he loves. When/if he is able to get his voice back, they duet; it's not as stunning and impressive as him and Bea's but it's very lovely all the same.

[jrueships]

what are the best wire ships?

YALL SHOULD NOT HAVE ASKED ME THIS LMAO 😭😭 i am so not serious to be the header on the wire fandom resurrection front but here we go 😭 i guess 😭! I HOPE URE READY CUS IM NOT LMFAO

FYI this post might contain some spoilers to the show but if u want a nonspoilerly version, just asked! it's pretty old so if yall haven't seen it i 10/10 recommend!!!

im painfully trying a rewatch of the show, i say painfully because my attention span watching a show vs a movie is KAPOOT! i can't stream 30 hours of a show but i can sit thru a 3 hr movie (if i haven't seen it before. Ill still have to get up and stretch sometime in the middle of it but ill be attentive nonetheless). LIKE... sitting thru a long movie holds more accountability to my mind i think. If i can't binge thru multiple episodes and end on a comfy, even number like episode 10, i can't bring myself to sit thru one without checking my phone 😭 BUT IT IS A GOOD SHOW! i just suck at watching shows in general, especially past the 1st season.. idek why.. it's like i get thru the 1st season in a happy binge breeze then BOOM! no more motivation... BUT WHAT I MEANT WITH THIS IS!!!!

This 1st post will mainly just kinda lightly touch on general knowledge from season 1 then expand in detail the more seasons i rewatch (with more ships too probably). This is mainly my fav ships i noticed now or back then

TO BE NOTED THO!! the wire isn't a really shippy show tbh, it's mainly about dynamics thru relationships contributing to story/effect on the story rather than romantic relationships. Every plot point has to have an eventual purpose for the story, every interaction, etc. It has like one will they won't they mainly for angst, and it's for Detective McNulty who has a general 'will he won't he' beat the Irish drinking gene or whatever lmao. If u wanna ship, u gotta really take the few nuggets the show might give u and REALLY turn them to gold. Cus they are gold in general, but it's up to you to make them really profit! IN CONCLUSION.. u gotta be. A little delusional. Hence our first 'ship' introduction..

🩵 stinkum & bird 🩵

... i told you we had to be a little unwell to really indulge. Sorry.

this is a totally biased list so please excuse me. Stinkum n Bird are two of Avon's muscle in the game and they both get outta it pretty quick. Involuntarily, of course, because they're the typa freaks that love it. With these two, you need context clues n connections. Almost EVERY scene Stinkum is in, he's GOT TO bring up his boy Bird. Hell, it might just be every. This is mainly due to the writers knowing the actor of bird is a big shot cameo, so it'd be too expensive to have Bird in a lot of scenes, especially in a TV show budget. And they also knew Stinkum wasn't made to last long so why not just use him as a substitute introduction to Bird's character so we don't have to pay that much for personal appearance in prologue? Bird's supposed to be the 'unhinged' one in the crew, the Crazy Guy. Crude, rude, cruel, & ruthless. Don't have the budget to show it, cheaper to tell it instead. Stinkum's just the hype man to Bird, essentially. Also he has another thing going on that leads to his early demise, but besides that, that's pretty much it. Goes to show how the show wants every dime spent for a strategical reason. Good TV shows need Causation, not 'and then's, but 'therefore' 'so' ETC.

... doesn't mean we can't have fun with it ourselves though. See, The Wire brings you quality entertainment, & it's up to us what we make of that quality to be entertained. Up to our love of the show to keep coming back to it and exploring the prime time possibilities it presented/hinted/hid. Which is a lot since practically every part of it is practical. The beauty of Stinkum n Bird to me is Stinkum being some wide-eyed doe eyed obsessed little freak who woobifies n glorifies n babygirlifies Brutal As Fuck bird because? He's insane. I guess? They both are! This is evidenced in the show, on purpose for plot! But this purpose can be made even better if we make something accidental out of it. Take the gold and spread its profits through smaller amounts, cut the product for bigger prices! LISTEN LIKE.. they made stinkum's character constantly bringing up Bird's name for plot... but him always yammering on about Bird can mean other things...... dare i say... gay things 😈. WHY does he always talk about Bird? For cheap character intro to get us ready when Bird makes his short appearance eventually yea but WHAT ELSE? they're giving us an ELSE without rlly GIVING us an else! Stinkum, who's a bit of a dopey lil goon guy, might have been unknown to a certain shooting danger one night when BLAM! He turns around, not filled with lead, but with awe for the guy he just saw skin a man alive... save HIS skin by dealing with his unforeseen assailant. Stinkum sees a softer side to the craziest, cruelest guy in their group, and has his respect eternally earned. Does Bird ever return it?? We don't know.... Bird never mentions Stink. Which creates more fun for us cus we get bounce off that with whatever the hell we want. It always goes back to the source! IF YOU WANT.. i recommend looking up 'the wire stinkum' / 'the wire bird' and ull find their scenes that show more of their character. I can elaborate on a single ship in more detail if u want, just ask ! trust me, id be MORE than happy to lmao!

🩵 Bird n Omar 🩵

Apparently, thanks to Stinkum, we know Bird n Omar jailed with each other. And STINKUM heard from BIRD that Omar was gay?? Which is like.. ok. Thanks stinkum/bird??? That's a bit.. what do u mean by that... have you, Bird, man whose little scenes he's shown is spewing same sex sexuality slander 99% of the time, Experienced that info Firsthand? Are you. Perhaps. Were you... One of Omar's whole stable of boys he had while locked up at Jess Up 🤨? ...the public needs to know 😈. Is all this talk you have against the lgbt.. perhaps... coming from a bit of internalized Rage 🤨? hm 😼? AND THIS ISNT JUST MY SPECULATION EITHER!! Other wire fans thought this!! They were sus on stinkum n Bird's relationship too!!! hell i GOT that idea from one of the wire's youtube COMMENTS!! yall we see it.. we do. Also Omar is 5'10... Bird is 5'3 at worst (says he's 5'5 but trust me. That is a definite lie.) .. Bird's also Omar's type too (which i find hilarious).. lightskinned. some may say, even, a little bratty BUT HEY! HEY!! im just usin my context clues given to me from THE SHOW ok! dont shoot the messenger bird... Omar looked like he was enjoying Bird getting his comeuppance a little Too well in that police interrogation scene.. i wouldn't be surprised if there was a deleted scene of him saying 'oh what a mouth'... BUT FROM THE SCENE GIVEN TO US THO.. what do you Mean 'bird really knows how to bring it out of people', Omar 🤨? What do you. What do you Mean by That 🤔? something.... explicit 🫣?

ANYWAYYYSS... smthin Bigger.

🩵Avon & Stringer 🩵

u rlly do have to see the show for all of these to rlly land with u tbh, the bigger ones especially bcs when the show has two characters they keep close for long... u know they're gonna be in pain. And u are too. I love avon and stringer man they make me so 😭😭!! One bleeds red the other bleeds green... ones all for family, the other for profession but DAMN IT! He thought he was family too, isn't it? Aren't i... Avon ? If the other ship types were doofy tongue out loyal to the bone tail wagging dumbly following dog Stinkum x asshole cat with claws who Maybeeee has a Slight soft spot for the dog where only HE can scratch it sometimes Bird, or elegant silk n clever streetcat with a semi bitten ear who steals fish with class Omar x rowdy rabid orange tabby cat who jumps at windows trying to eat other cats Bird..... this one is . Opposites attract. Unlikely friends to the end. Unlikely betrayal in bonds. Unlikely.. Unlikely. I don't wanna speak on it too much incase u haven't seen the show. It's just so good, it needs a justification thru watch. Avon and stringer together.. u can just feel the connection. Like these two Were childhood friends and now all this shit is happening to them.. this rift. It sucks!! It makes u wish the old days with them!! It makes u feel like an old head! Makes u feel what they're probably feeling but can't express cus they don't have the power or the pride rn!! I love them. They make me miserable. Avon and stringer were THE powercouple on the wire. They were THE girlboss malewife powercouple takeover. THE adhd bf Autistic bf romance. OKAY??? I just have to tell u the terms, it's up to u to see the show explain it. Watching stringer infodump about whatever smthing new he learned in his community college econ's is so cute. His finance bro business bro interests 😭 Avon acknowledging it and helping him indulge in it!! Making it a giant part of his organization!!! Avon the hardworking son from a long line of feared bad blood incorporating his businesstime consigliere godfather type shit ! Seeing avon get all excited at the bball game, jumping up n stomping the ground when he's winning or losing Lmao. Stringer roasting the competition, joining in on the pettiness. I love them. They're my petty powercouple and I GET TO SAY THEY DESERVED TO KISS EACH OTHER!! And GET MARRIED and LOVE EACH OTHER!!! okay!!! In another life avon is the prideful n stubborn basketball coach for their cc's poor basketball team and stringer is the sexy rich new econ professor who got demoted for being too harsh on his past private college students. D'angelo the spoiled nephew hates going to Stringer's class and hates Stringer even more when he becomes his strict new stepdad thanks to googly eyes at Avon. The coparenting comes with its troubles..

Another big crime dealing (literally) powercouple on the newer side..

🩵 marlo & Chris 🩵SHUTUP ABT CHRIS'S HAIR I TRIED OKAY IM NOT TRYING THAT HARD OKA

this one is mainly dynamic, there are some works for marlo/chris, but it's mainly dynamic exploration or relationship hinting if u squint but kept kinda dim under the surface. What's interesting abt these two is that.. They're just so interesting. It's like.. how Did they meet? WHY is chris so loyal to marlo? Also it's on misinterpretations too cus people might look at chris and think he's the ruthless killer who takes joy in his killings since he's big muscle for marlo's group... but actually he's a very chill (unless ur crime is Bad.) kinda kind n polite guy with a butler-like professional nature in his affable behavior sometimes . VS everyone thinking marlo is some emotionless, bug-eyed freak who just watches from the dark. And he is LMAO. Just like how chris CAN be ruthless, marlo CAN be hauntingly apathetic. But he can ALSO be very petty. I mean, half his Google images are of him looking disgusted LMAO. He's almost always vaguely annoyed, impeded upon, or intrigued. And chris n him Both know the other should not be messed with when pissed. If avon and stringer are the more kind of 'front and center' powercouple at the party, Marlo and chris are the two lonely assholes sitting in the dark corner (uninvited btw) of the party, vaping and judging people. Marlo doesn't drink, so he's just sipping ice water out of a red solo cup telling chris to kill whomever marlo finds insignificant (so everyone) while chris stares at the weather app on his phone, not knowing what to do. I love them in the goofy sense. They're just so awkward. Bruh girl 4 bruh girl. When two mfers with social skills where u can tell it's ok Except there's just smthin kinda Off about them, keeping them from being normL, find each other... the world burns. And it Did. They both have insane trauma and i think they should kiss. Ill def reblog with more abt them when i get to the later seasons rewatch..

🩵 Omar's og crew with him, Brandon, n bailey 🩵

i loved Omar's og little Robin hood crew so much 😭 it's a shame the wire back then didn't know how successful it'd be, so they introduced n had the other members live so short for story. They shouldve had more screen time fr! Doing shenanigans!! i just love the dynamic of Omar n Brandon being best bfs... Omar simping for Brandon n letting his mistakes slide bcs hes down bad for the lightskin.. and then there's lone wolf John bailey who just has to third wheel with them. Bailey is known to just go wherever the money goes, do whatever to get whatever, mix with whatever for whatever, so gotdammit if he has to spend time stealing money n drugs with gay people, he'll spend time stealing money n drugs with gay people!! i guess 😭. he definitely will be using that time to side eye them tho 😭😭. The funny gay couple and the straight man (literally) doing stealing shenanigans.. smh. We were robbed 😭 from their robbing!!!!!!!! i wish we saw more of them (dont get it twisted from all the praise the wire gets, it does have its faults, every show does!).. got to explore them more! We barely get to see Brandon before he dies n we don't even get to see John bailey's end result! Just hear it passing by! SMH!!! they were a cute lil ragtag group and i wanted to see them successful!!! also.. just saying John but... if u stayed n had a threesome instead of going to see ur 'mom', you wouldve lived longer...... probably not that long when you've got avon n his muscle minions after u... but still. You missed out big time bro. It's time to consider switching sexuality sides, methinks !

AS CLOSING SINCE WE'RE RUNNIN A LIL LONG!!

🩵 gay ppl.. everywhere

🩵 The Baltimore fuzz can also be poly excluding kima as platonic <3. Herc n Carver have too many sus conversations to be just bros at this point ... but ill talk more abt them later probably! They're rlly cute tho! And bunk n McNulty have their buddycop banter that's very domestic and assholic because they are domestic assholes. Bunk made lester bow-legged. Bunk ALSO outside of police stuff, has some childhood lore with Omar, of all people. Perhaps Omar had a schoolgirl crush on THE JOCK bunkster, feared star of his... school's game with the stick or whatever lol it sounds cute though! I'll talk more abt the fuzzy side of the show if u want, but they're pretty big so ull see more of that for urself with less explanation needed if u watch it !

🩵 avon's barksdale crew could be a poly powercouple gang takeover !! As could marlo's! With obvious platonic pieces as snoop probably has her own gf n such. Wee-bey is just so beautiful he needs to be a bf!! he needs someone to listen to his fish facts!! Him and stringer probably trade fish facts n finance facts! Avon and his gang kiss <3

🩵 bodie/Wallace have some fans! The stubborn kid playing tough guy to survive trying to steel his heart and the smart kid who's a little too soft and a little too supportive.. it's sweet and sad :( .

🩵 Bodie n poot are cute too. The second coming of girlboss malewife. Lil Kevin had to be in a poly with them or smthin cus there's no other reason why they should keep him along 😭 he was so shit at being muscle. It's not even funny LOL. Poot was also kinda shitty at being muscle too. Lil spoon headass, desperately debilitatingly declining hairline headass. Fuckin poot 😭.. bodie rlly spent his whole life carrying the team tbh. No wonder he's always such a crabby Lil guy! Yall make him do too much! By the time he was 26, he felt 86 probably !!

🩵 there's also cutty n slim charles, n other people that show in the later seasons that i can address later in a reblog, but yea! So far those are my favs mentioned n can be elaborated later! thank u SO much 4 asking, this was SUPER fun n appreciated 🩵🩵🩵 i doubt many ppl will read this n i don't blame yall but TRY if u can.. to watch The Wire if ure ever bored n have some freetime!! it's so good 😭

[adultswim2021]

Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! #3: “Cats” | February 25, 2007 - 11:45PM | S01E03

We start this one with a little ad for a restaurant called Gravy Robbers, an inane family dining restaurant where the gimmick is that their very dry meat will always require gravy, and during your meal you will have to occasionally defend yourself from a “gravy robber” who comes to your table to rob said gravy. This was a holdover idea from Tom Goes to the Mayor that was previously unused. Indeed, dumb theme restaurants was very much in the Tom Goes wheel house.

Later we see snippets of a Gravy Robbers training video, featuring Tairy Greene portrayed by Zach Galifianakis. He’s so funny. Goodness. One of the few comedy people that I feel like hasn’t let me down, EVER. I like when he says gravy “grah-vee”. Eventually we get to see bloopers which is such a funny, self-indulgent thing for an instructional video to do, gosh. Zach intoning “these are traaaaained military veterans” over and over just makes me so happy, because I’m choosing to interpret this as anti-troop. And who could forget his longform Shelly Berman-esque phone bit where he reacts to his friend’s niece being murdered as if he were being told about a friend winning the lottery.

The host stuff for this is: Tim has learned a magic trick where he can turn himself into an orange little kitty cat. Tim, however, finds it hard to turn himself back, and panic sets in. Eric eventually gives the cat away, before wistfully dreaming about better times he and Tim had playing around in a park. The smug way Tim drinks but then spits out the water fountain water is so funny, and the push in on Eric’s face, as if he’s saying to himself “I was always remember this and cherish this moment”. So funny. Tim comes back from cat-transformation at the moment that Eric is dropping him off to his forever home. He is nude, and the way he moans is so weird and funny. I love it so much. Behind-the-scenes note, Eric stated on the DVD commentary that they trained cat they got for the shoot was wonderful, except it smelled like shit. 

The first of the Kidz Break bits is in this one, and this might be the best one of all. “I Sit Down When I Pee” is a spirited rap whose aim is to de-stigmatize the act of sitting down to pee when you’re a boy. The song is very funny, and its purpose is murky. Is this an educational video? Infotainment? Could it simply be a hit song? The end throws up a caption reading “Paid for by Voter Initiative Prop 216” which raises more questions than answers (and this might be one of my favorite jokes of all time!). This is an absolute all-timer. 

There’s a shot-on-the-street segment where Tim offers free portraits for tourists walking around Hollywood. Pranky stuff like this would sorta fade out of the show, if I remember correctly. Tim does a bad job drawing and acts like a very weird guy. He also says things that don’t inspire confidence like: “you only have one mouth so I’ll just do one mouth”. A uh, borderline character if you know what I mean. Tim has some borderliners on this show for sure.

There’s the tender prime time drama “Kitty Cat Man”, where two big bros hug Michael Cera for fucking hours, and then he turns into a kitty cat just like Tim did. I wonder if this is actually intended to be a TV movie based on Tim’s real-life predicament. I guess it’s not a bad thing to have two sketches in the show that are basically the same. I like it! Hey dude, funny’s funny!

Speaking of that other sketch, the way it actually ends is Tim shows Eric how to make his legs very long. This is accomplished by having Tim & Eric act on a green screen and inserted into a cartoon land with cartoon legs. They stomp around with their new long legs, oblivious to the carnage they are creating below the clouds, where they are just crushing people up. Rude way to get laughs, but the moon approves so I do not know what to think. 

Another pretty great episode. I love the Tim & Eric program.

MAIL BAG

I have so many Mail Bags, OH MY GOD

Here's a new mail for the mailbag hot off the press: Tim and Eric are GAY for EACH OTHER. Print it and ship it. Goodbye!

b-dog bites the big one:

(muttering under my breath to a shrill techno dance beat) a-fuckin podcast. a-fucking podcast. a-fucking podcast.

Wouldn’t wanna meet potty mouths like this in a dark alley, I might gets sweared on!

I was hoping you'd say G4 because videogames are super cool 8-)

I never watched that shit it was too bad. And video games are bad. Sometimes they had people affiliated with Playboy on there, and even that would not get me to watch it.

My wife was so obsessed with That's My Bush that she met the guy who plays That's My Bush and got him to fuck her. He was married. She was dating me. But that's our man.

Thank you for a rare sexual Mail Bag... illuminating as usual! It is good to know that true love prevails

I was on an episode of Jonah Ray's Bar-B-Quay and he cooked pizza and burgers on the grill for everyone on the set for like two hours after filming wrapped. Nice guy. He even took selfies with his then new Samsung Propel. Unfortunately, Har Mar Superstar was there and that guys apparently a rapist. Otherwise a great night.

Har Mar Superstore may have gotten the last laugh, but I’m glad you had a fun night. If there were any girls there let me know. I love hearing about girls

[twilightpony4]

Backwoods: 2. Bouncin' Around

Nobody really knew when they were born. Splinter had always known his age given the biological qualities of a rat and a person in comparison. Whatever age the boys were was all a guess. They were barely crawling upon mutation; he assumed they were barely a year by human age standards and guessed as they went through developmental milestones. The only way they could determine a birthday was by calculating when red eared slider turtles would hatch after the breeding season. Henceforth, the family would just celebrate their birth on the first day of June because babies of their breed would hatch in the early summer. It wasn’t approximate but it was a time for them to collectively celebrate their new coming of age. 

The sun was out and peeking through the cracks of the sewer. Usually at least one of them would be up in the early hour given that their prime time had become the night when they would work, but they truly listened to the NYPD’s wishes to enjoy their time off from work and indulge themselves for the day. This time, the two usual cerulean-banded sliders were sound asleep in their own rooms. However, sleeping in was a disgrace in one’s eyes, especially since he was well known in this field of irritation and annoyance. The orange banded turtle woke up with a passion as he turned on the faucet water to wash his hands.

“I can’t believe they still sleepin’ when they know our birthday is today.” He mumbled to himself, turning off the water. “I got something for them though.” He huffed. From the kitchen, he grabbed a metal pot and ravaged the drawers for a wooden spoon. With each in hand, he set off for the main hallway. How they arranged their rooms was different this time around as they continued to update their home for the ever-growing children. On the opposite side of Splinter’s quarters, the rowdy bunch were stashed in separate rooms within a T-shape hall. No longer were they in open rooms or up in their circular, lifted quarters, but now a garage door gave them the privacy they wanted when they needed it, much like their old bathroom. They were grown enough for it anyways. However, they normally kept it cracked open up to their calves so that the family could alert them if there was an emergency, but Mikey had a different use to go through. Leonardo was in the first room down on the left side, so his door was opened up first. Every loud, creaking industrial noise a garage can make while being violently pushed up as produced. Michelangelo had no intentions to be quiet at all as he went through and opened up  next. With his door lifted up, Mikey began to scream and bang the spoon on the pot. “Ey! Ey! EY! Wake up! Get up! Get up! Get-Up!” He screamed, then he made a break for the other side of the hall to open up the rest of their doors. “Get up! Get-Up! I ain’t get no sleep so you ain’t gonna get none either!” The last room was Mona’s and he entered hers since Raphael’s large body was missing from his bed when he went into his room. Without fear, he approached her bed and banged loud against the head of his sleeping brother. Due to the size of the mattresses and how they’re able to sleep on them in the first place, his body engulfed hers as his arm pinned her down in slumber. It was actually pretty comfortable for the both of them despite how large he was compared to her. He cracked an eye open to look up. Mona sounded disgusted and tried to hide underneath his body. “Get up! Get up! Get-up-get-up-get-up-get-up-get-up!” Gaining a response, the orange banded terrapin stopped briefly.

“Bro, I know you lying.” Raphael groaned under his forearm.

“Ya’ll just nasty.” their brother replied in disgust.

“I fell asleep.” Raphael defended why he wasn’t in his room for the night. The young turtle ignored him as he jumped over the bed. His foot touched down on the mattress, shifting the two sleepers to that side and growing even more mad than before. No permission, he opened up her drawers and began digging.

“Guess what I got for yall….” From them, he pulled out the recognizable pink garments she wore on a nightly basis. “Clothes! Get up!” He threw the two-piece at the two in a ball. The young turtle sprinted out the room and began doing the same thing to everyone else. “This is what you wearing.” To not waste time, he only threw shorts or pants (whichever was easier to find, he just wanted them to get dressed) at his remaining two brothers and sister.  “This is what you wearing.” He came back in Mona’s room. Raphael was sitting at the edge of the bed, handing Mona her stuff although she’d rather throw her blanket up over her head. “I got something for you too.” Mikey pointed at his brother from the entrance. Then, he threw a pair of his black shorts at him before disappearing again. “Come on, and wake up!”

“I wanted to sleep in. That was my dream for my 18th.” Donnie muttered to himself. His upper body slouched over till his elbows hit his knees. Sitting at the edge of the bed and contemplating why he was listening to Michelangelo in the first place kept him there wondering how long he would choose to sit there till he got up. I mean, dude’s tired. Why don’t we not get up and just sit here like this. This is fine.

“Wellllll MLK,” Mikey stuck his head out from under the doorway. “that don’t fit into mine! C’mon! Get up! Angel finna be here to turn up so get up.” The turtle scooted to his room to do whatever else he could to make the morning more obnoxious. Before he disappeared, he gave a little hip swinging dance with his arms above his head and swung them abruptly. “My best friend finna- get up right now!”

Leonardo got up first (surprise, surprise).  He hopped off the steps from the hallway and towards the kitchen.

“Sensei!” He called. Dad!” A little louder. Nothing came back. Not a word or a subtle appearance.

“Ah, he left to go shoppin’.” He jumped when Michelangelo grabbed his shoulder and hung off of his older brother. His weight pushed him forward into a stumble.

“Getting stuff for us? I’d hate for him to go alone and carrying stuff around.” As he should. Aside from being a mutant, sensei was getting up in his years every year. Yes, he could definitely take on his sons easily (less as time goes on), but a son worries about his father just as much as the other way around.

“He got picked up by Casey. Don’t worry, Angel came too so they’ll have some muscle.” He winked and gave him a knowing click of the tongue before pushing down on his shoulder to jump off of him. The eldest brother smirked and followed the family into the kitchen.

Donnie and Venus were promptly joined by Michelangelo at the table. When Leonardo walked in, Mona Lisa sat atop the counter as she watched Raphael open up the kitchen cabinet.

“We did it boys.” Raphael spoke loudly which startled the crowd. 

“Huh?” Donnie placed one earbud over his ears to dampen his tone. The rebel turtle closed the cabinet he was getting into and pulled out a new box of Lucky Charms.

“We actually lived for another year.”  He pulled out a bowl and poured over half of it inside. He was a growing boy afterall.

“For real, the stuff we be doing I’m surprised myself.” Mona nodded in agreement, then took the box and grabbed a handful of the cereal before stuffing herself. Raphael began to list as he ventured over to the fridge:

“Guns, thugs, poison gas, evil magicians-.”

“ alien invasions, manhunts, robots, and potential health concerns…” Venus finished before getting a collection of confused stares. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t eat too much pizza.” She pointed directly to Michelangelo. The turtle felt attacked as he gasped softly while clutching his chest. However, the air hung for only so long until the family agreed.

“You right.” They agreed in differed responses.

“Speaking of….!” He sang. In no time he tiptoed away with his back arch backwards slightly. “I’m gonna go dial the place to serve the ‘death of me’.” The young turtle picked up his phone and began dialing but not before sticking his tongue out at his so-called “family”.

“I’m gonna use the livingroom to meditate for a sec. That alright?” Leonardo asked as he got to fixing himself a kettle of tea.

“Sure, go for it.”

“I was gonna back back for a nap anyways.” At the end of his sentence, Raphael yawned. His hands went over his face and rubbed his brows up and down, avoiding to keep his nose out of his bowl.

“Me too.” Mona added. Michelangelo yelled: “Ya nasties!” much to their dismay. 

The clan began to disperse. The lovebirds returned to Mona’s (with that unfinished cereal), the besties kept in the kitchen, Mikey was still on the phone with the pizza people (which is crazy since they’re open in the morning anyways), and Leo took himself to the living room. The rushing water from the slide was always loud but it had noise-blocking capabilities from the family’s shenanigans as Splinter discovered. The match cackled as he lit it up and placed the flame on a few select candles. It would take time for the aroma to even make a hint of its appearance due to both water and sewer smells, but that was not their job anyways. It was all for the mood. Splinter had so many candles because he would often stare into them to reach his point of relaxation. The movement of the flame entertained him and slowed down his body functions into a state of relaxation. For now, Leonardo used it as mild stimulation as listening to subtle, environmental sounds kept him in a spiritual state.

He kneeled down on the rug that sat at the epicenter of the arrangement of candles. His legs intertwined with one another as he sat down. To start himself off, he began with deep breathing. The first held breath refreshed him as he exhaled. Inhale, exhale. His system began to slow down and his focus sharpened.

“Lucali! Yeah, I wanna whole pie plus the calzone.” Leonardo’s body twitched. His right eye cracked open and began to search around. Far out of his eyesight, Michelangelo was on his shell-cell.

“Lemme tell ya, how ‘bout you put all the toppings on.” The eldest brother shook his head, closed his eye, and tried to tone his young brother out. “Nah fam, for real, put everything on it. I swear, it finna be good.”

“Mikey.” Leonardo muttered to catch his attention.

“And no anchovies, and I mean no anchovies! You tryna be funny and put anchovies on it and I’m deeming you dead to me.” Suddenly, a tall candlestick holder was hurdled towards the orange banded turtle. He shrieked as the holder smacked him on the arm.

“Michelangelo!” Leonardo’s voice echoed throughout the entire lair, making everything stop and stare. Mikey kept the phone to his ear as he locked shocked eyes with his eldest brother.

“That’ll do.” He continued in a shaky voice before hanging up the phone.

“Please!” Leonardo pleaded. Mikey surrendered and began to back off.

“Yeah, yeah. Do your thing. I’ll join you in a bit, how dow dah?” 

“Huh?” but before he could get an answer, Mikey had already high tailed out of the room. His answered confused him, but he needn’t dwell on it too long. Time to take advantage of the silence. Inhale, exhale. Multiple times needed to bring back that refreshed feeling. Inhale, hold, exhale.

“Bouncin' around, bouncin' around, bouncin', Bouncin' around, bouncin' around, bouncin'

Scrunchin' their eyes with your name in their mouth and Bouncin' around, bouncin' around, bouncin'...” From the moment the music started, Leonardo’s trance was fatally interrupted by the booming of the speakers. His eyes locked onto the weird sight in front of him. Michelangelo was not not alone as he and Donatello danced vivaciously to ‘Lemon’, taking no care to Leo’s previous demands.

“Do y'all not see me trying to meditate?” He asked rudely, but with good purpose.

“This is like meditating!” Mikey mocked.

“It’s our birthday,” Donnie insisted. “get off your high horse and get over here!” The eldest turtle grouched, sinking into himself. He let out a big groan. Then, he got up and joined them.

[landothemuppet]

dancing with a spider (t.h) smut

Word count: 5.2k pairing: actor!tom holland x dwts dancer!reader warning(s) : smut (+18), swearing, female masturbation, mutual(ish) masturbation, mutual consented sex N/A:  wow, okay! First; I’m so proud of this concept. I've never seen it on other tumblrs, but that doesn't mean I claim to be the only one to have had this idea.This is my first smut. Be indulgent. I hope you like this as much as my previous work. I remind you that English is not my native language. You can also find a small bonus : dancing with a spider (smau) Don't forget to comment, reblog, interact with us, it's important for the authors. Love you so much ! xx taglist: @angeliquekalampoka @harryhollandsgirlfriend @cedricdiggorysimpp​ @hogwartsmarvelmommy​ (’cause i know you were so excited to read it!) - if you want to be notified of all my future writings you can add yourself in my taglist : here

 It was your fourth season and you had the opportunity to share the floor with always the most extraordinary partners. You even kept in touch with them after the show. But when the production and the casting team told you that your next dance partner was going to be Tom Holland, you couldn't believe it. On the first day of rehearsals you posted a photo of an empty dance studio with a not-so-enigmatic caption. Your notifications exploded and you could only smile at the animation under your post.  The first day Tom arrived super smiling, motivated and you were like a pile of springs at the idea of ​​sharing the stage with him. The meeting was so warm, tom was a nice man, it's was so easy to talk with him.

 "Hello, there!"

"Hello you! I'm Y / N, i'll be your dance partner for the next weeks"

"I was hoping I was with you! You set fire to last season"

"And I hope to bring it back fire with you, Spiderman! Let's take the trophy home"

 You both laughed before clapping your hands and prompting him to start that first repetition. He was very studious ... for the first hour and a half before he started making you laugh every time you missed a move. You smiled to yourself every time Tom swore gruff words. You were pretty sure the production should beep lots of swear words coming out of its mouth. He was as much a perfectionist as you were, and even though Tom was a spontaneous boy, you still gave your best. The trust and the chemistry between the two of you almost immediately set in.

 Your first dance was a Charleston, the production even specifically asked you that the first song you dance to be the Spiderman theme. It was super cliché but it set the scene for your partner. Especially since Tom's press tour was about to start soon after the show ended. The Charleston was a dynamic dance with a lot of kick and bounce but you knew Tom had enough energy. You also had an advantage that he did a lot of his stunts and because you expected to add some of his gymnastic tricks into the choreography, in addition to the lifts you had set up initially. You first taught him the basics of Charleston but your vocabulary quickly turned into onomatopoeia, which made your partner laugh a lot.

 “okay… here we go..and pam pum, pam pam pum, again pam pum, swing, pam pum, pam pum, pam pam pum. Tom, focus!.”

“I’m sorry darling, I don’t speak your “pam pum” language.” he laughed at you.

“You Div! Come on, Tom! It has to be perfect. I want a 10 on the first prime and I know we can make it.”

 During the performance, Tom was gorgeous! The judges stood up when he did his backflip on the judges' desk. You both were dynamic; you were on fire. His kick steps were perfect, your tandems in perfect synchronization. The energy in his feet was there, not too strong not to look like a jive, the complicity, the facial expressions. Everything ... Everything was perfect for you so much so that on the first "10”. Tom and you jumped for joy and clung like a koala to him as he spun you around. The juries have never stopped complimenting you and you were so proud of Tom for the work he had provided.

  The audience loved you right away and the support you were getting with their participation in Dancing with the Stars was incredible. It always energized you. On your second week, you danced a waltz on Tiny Dancer by Elton John. During the judges' comments, Tom gave you a kiss on the temple, a mark of affection that did not go unnoticed by his fans. A few of them, thousands out of a few million after all, represented you as a lovely couple even though you were just friends and dance partners. But it was the risk of dancing with such a popular actor: being associated with him as a potential romantic relationship. Did you and Tom really bother you? No. To tell the truth, you played it a lot and liked to laugh about it, especially when reading the comments under your performances or your posts. You were even quite active on social networks.

 When Tom couldn't rehearse indoors, you would sometimes follow him wherever you could. So you rehearsed everywhere: on film sets, in the rehearsal room, at his place. You were snuggled up on the couch in Tom's trailer while he was filming. You waited for him to come back for a break so you can practice a bit between takes. There were still a few reshoots to do on the last Spider-Man before its release. you were browsing old videos of your performances to give you ideas to add to your new choreography. You were not yet satisfied with the one you had built earlier this week..The door swung open to find Tom, staring at his phone as you jumped out of the couch.

 “Hey love, did you see this?”

“Jesus, Tom, you scared me! No, what should I have seen?” you asked, unaware about he’s talking about.

“Look at my Instagram”

 A few days ago you and Tom stopped by his parents' house to recharge your batteries. It was his grandfather's birthday and you were amazed to see him so close to his family. It was so important to him and you appreciate it. His brother Harry then took a snapshot of you two and Tom posted it on his Instagram to thank his fans for their support. You met his almost full family - apparently one of his brothers was in Scotland and couldn't get back in time. His mother was the most caring you have ever met; she was so sweet to you that your heart instantly melted. You were greeted as if you were part of the family and that had moved you.

 You pulled out your phone to look at the comment section under his post and you did indeed notice how the topic turned to your alleged relationship.

 "Oh my god, your parents liked your post ... that means you're going to marry me" you joked.

"Are you kidding? Don't you know you're already pregnant?"

"How did you know? I wanted to tell you during the next prime" you outbid

 You and Tom laughed at your antics, he sat at the end of the sofa, putting his feet on your thighs. After a few seconds of silence, Tom smiles tenderly at you, looking at you with soft eyes.

 “But it's true. They liked you. I mean, my parents like you.”

“Thank you. I love them too. Your mom is so adorable, protective yet adorable.”

“She would like to work with you on a photoshoot. She told me your face was so soft she wanted to capture this.”

“Is that a way of telling me I'm pretty, Thomas?”

 If you only knew. But in truth, he thought you were beautiful. He had been following the shows since your first appearance. He already had a whole mental picture of you and what you seemed to be in life ... and participating in that season, he had learned that everything he had imagined was a far cry from who you were. You were much better: much more beautiful in person, naturally, much funnier, much more energetic, much softer. And you smelled good ... even when you had been sweating for two hours from dancing with him.

 “you’re always pretty, y/n”

 Your cheeks warmed up; you felt the blood rush all over your face. Your eyes rested on his ankles, which themselves rested on your legs. You bit your lip, touched by the compliment. Tom moved from the couch to get closer to you. He reached for your chin, but before he could touch you, the door opened on Harry who told him he had to go back and turn because there had been a problem with the lighting. That day, you felt your heart race but you never spoke of this moment which could seem quite innocent and harmless.

The rehearsals are linked and your complicity visibly grew as it was obvious that your friendship was drawing towards romance. But you were both far too oblivious to realize it. But it was in moments of laughter and sharing that you came to doubt the nature of your relationship. And the more the weeks went by, the more you really enjoyed Tom's company.

 "Stick your side of your pelvis against my butt."

"what ... what?"

"Stick. The side Of. Your. Pelvis. Against. My. butt, Tom." you repeated laughing.

 You were amused by the brunette's dismay; his cheeks were flushed and his stutter was adorable. Although he could be cheeky, like on your instagram post, simple little things like this unsettled him. You've pushed your butt out to the side of his pelvis, not quite in the center of his crotch. You needed him to understand the need for that closeness along with establishing some distance. You needed him to understand the movement. So, you stuck to him, your right hand on Tom's lower back while your left-hand pressed Tom's against your lower stomach to maintain the position. He yelped slightly in surprise and you laughed again.

 "There. I need you to be close to me to do the shadow reverse rolls"

“O-Okay.”

 You started your hip and knee movement against him explaining how to follow. Step by step, you introduced the move but you could see that Tom was insecure. You perceive it over and over again. But you couldn't deny it, the tension between you two was palpable and that's what kept you from that figure. You had to admit that you had always found Tom very handsome, he had always sent you a positive image of him. By getting to know him through this adventure, you really appreciated the man. Sometimes - after two or three glasses of red wine at the end of the evening, alone in your apartment - to imagine his chocolate eyes sweeping your body, to feel his hands on your skin, exploring more than the touch of a simple choreography. There were too many things left unsaid. Too many repressed feelings. But you didn't say anything about it. On the contrary, you have taken the budding feelings for your dance partner even further. It was unprofessional. That week you really worked hard. But something was wrong.

  The samba was not in itself a disaster but it was not your best performance. In truth, it's even the first time you were actually in danger on the show. Behind the scenes, you tried to calm Tom who was freaking down. You used his own advice against him: turn your nerves into excitement.

 “Tom, it’s going to be okay. We can do this. I’m proud of you. We can do this okay?” you tried to comfort him.

“I’m so sorry I failed our dance.”

“You haven’t. It’s okay. Tom, I’m so proud. I’m so proud to have you. I’m so proud to have met you. You’re incredible, okay? You’re the best partner I ever had…I’m so proud of you.”

 Your hands caressed his temples, at the base of his hair, your thumbs passed below his eyes to soothe him. Instinctively, you kissed his forehead, nose, cheeks, continuing your comforting words. And it seemed to work cause your second chance was awesome. You were saved by the public and you jumped into his arms. Your hands grabbed Tom’s face for a moment and you kissed both his cheeks with way too much enthusiasm that your lips almost touched. Tom then buried his face in your neck, hidden by your loose hair. He would be lying if he said he didn't want you to actually kiss him. Well, not exactly. He wanted to kiss you; he was craving it every time he walked into the rehearsal room. But he didn't want your first kiss to be on TV in front of millions of viewers. His stomach twisted with emotion. Was it possible that you felt something for him or was it just awkwardness due to your infatuation?

 Oddly enough, all that damn tension kinda evaporated when you did your paso doble the following week. It wasn't until week eight, a few steps from the final, that everything really changed: Argentine tango week.  

 With his glass of protein smoothie hanging in front of his lips, Harrison watched the scene unfolding in the garden with very conflicting emotions. Tom pulled you back to his body with such ferocity, your leg almost to his shoulder as his hand slid down your ankle to throw your leg back. The brunette then spun you around before grabbing your wrists with both hands, a dominant position for a technical move.

 "Hey mate, do you want to..."

 Tuwaine stopped in his tracks when he saw his blond friend totally overshadowed by the scene. He let out a hoarse laugh that brought Harrison out of his reverie.

 "Dude, I never thought watching my best friend dancing a tango could trigger something in me. I'm going at Gracie's." he complained with a sigh

"Do you think they fucked?" Tuwaine asked.

"If they haven't yet, they definitely need it ... look at this ..."

 Harry walked into the room too, controller in hand, before he even spoke, he followed his friends' gaze to see you and his brother repeating over and over again. Tom was now carrying you at arm's length before letting go of you with a little push. The three friends said "Shit" in sync of anticipation before seeing the brunette catch you in his arms like a bride, in a very controlled manner. Tom then put you back on the ground and you continued your movements until he stopped you again, your back against his chest, his hands all over your body in an artistic and sensual spectacle. The expressions on your faces truly reflected an inner struggle. You could feel the consuming passion between the two of you just looking at you and it was hard to deduce if you were acting for the storytelling aspect of the dance or if you were being sincere.

 "Damn ... If I have to go through this sexual tension between these two again, I think I'm going to go and isolate myself at mom and dad’s."

 On your side, you were so caught up in your rehearsal that you didn't notice your audience. At the end of the dance, you were both out of breath, your noses were touching, your eyes were on fire. If you had to listen to your heart, this was the perfect time to break the tension and kiss it and Tom seemed to be thinking the same as his eyes vacated from your eyes to your lips.

 "It was perfect, Tom. Perfect." You finally said.

 This little sentence allowed the actor to refocus and move away from you, reluctantly.

 "Yeah ... You have to repeat that lift again ... you know, the one where you spin on the floor"

 You can see exactly what figure he was talking about. It was quite difficult, indeed, and it was impossible to perform this stunt in Tom's cobbled garden, unless you wanted to tear your blank to shreds. You let out a little laugh and nod your head.

 "By the way, mom wants us to go for brunch."

"With pleasure. May I ... take a shower first?"

 The question seemed to throw off and he shook his head before inviting you inside to show you the bathroom. As you walked through the glass door, you felt three pairs of eyes on you and your heart began to beat with anxiety. Did Tom's friends sense the tension between you? Seeing the blond' smirk, it seems so. You went upstairs and locked yourself in the room as soon as Tom showed you which door it was. The brunette moved into the living room where his friends had started a fifa - and apparently Harrison had decided to stay -. It was Tuwaine who noticed the actor first and took the initiative to tease him.

 "No need to subscribe to Pornhub anymore ... you guys are hot." Tuwaine joked.

"Yeah man… no way you weren't fantasizing about her." Harrison added

 Tom's ears were as red as his cheeks in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. He rested his elbows on his knees, burying his head in his hands which were slipping through his hair.

 "To be honest, she's driving me crazy. I don't even know how to take the first step towards her"

"Hmm ... kiss her, dumbass," Harry said, exasperated.

"I can't kiss her like this, unprecedented"

"Unprecedented? Are you kidding me? You're not going to tell me that you don't have a single chance to kiss her as your both bodies burn with sexual tension every time you dance together." his brother stormed sarcastically.

 But to Tom, it seemed so sudden. He knew he was thinking too much, that he just had to ... seize the opportunity as soon as it presented itself. But there was so much at stake: his friendship with you - but was this complicity really friendship? Would he lose you if you didn't feel the same? What about the competition? You were about to go to the semi-finals, if you made it that primetime. Was he ready to start a relationship with you? Would he know how to manage his jealousy in the face of you, being close to your future dance partners?

 On your side, you heaved a sigh of relief at the contact of the hot water. The soapy water wiped the sweat off your skin but the knot in your lower abdomen was still there. The tension that had accumulated between Tom and you, especially during this tango, was becoming too heavy to bear, it was becoming unbearable. You still felt like you had his hands all over you, and your own hands soaping you didn't get rid of the burn from his touch. You threw your head back against the tile in the shower. You weren't going to get rid of the feeling like that, with nothing to do but you were at Tom's, and by the greatest of luck, it was his shower gel that you had used. You smelled like him, still felt like his fingers were stroking your skin. Your dominant hand slid down your stomach as you bite your lip. No. No you couldn't. Once again, you were at Tom's. There were people downstairs. But you were in need and your hand ventured lower still. Your index finger began to go around your clitoris, you closed your eyes to take advantage of the moment. Softly you slipped between your folds in a weak moan. You were trying as best you could to be as quiet as possible, your free hand running through your hair, down your neck, caressing your collarbone and then your boobs. You inserted a finger inside you and a louder sigh escaped your throat. It was so good. You picked up the pace with your fingers, hitting as hard and as far as you could. Your hand came to tighten against your throat as your thumb stroked your lip, representing Tom's hand instead of yours. It was so easy to imagine the brunette with you, his scent was everywhere and you almost had the feeling of feeling his breath on your neck. But you had the feeling of "not enough". Reluctantly, you released your hand from your throat and fumbled to grab the shower head to bring it in front of your private parts. The pressure and temperature took you deeper into your dizziness and your fingers kicked even harder until you felt your legs shaking. Tom's name slipped from your lips as you let go. What you didn't know was that Tom was right behind the door, ready to knock to tell you that he was going to have to leave for brunch soon. Everything then happened so quickly. As soon as I got out of the shower, it was time to go to Tom's parents. At no time has this unconsciously shared secret been put on the table. No opportunities actually presented themselves. Then the repetitions started again, again and again ... until the evening of your elimination.

  You would have liked to have won. Honestly, you thought you were going to win but your opponents were formidable. The final was very complicated. Several dances, including the Charleston that you did at the start of the adventure. You were proud of your journey. And even though you hadn't won, you had decided to celebrate the occasion with the team, celebrating the winners. After a few drinks, you headed to a London pub with Tom's close friends. You were so proud of him, so happy to have lived this show and to have made it to the final. But the melancholy and sadness gnawed at you a bit. What would happen afterwards? You were comfortably installed in a box with Tom by your side. You were alone, apart. His brother, Harry and his friends were at the back of the room, screaming a rock song while dancing, beer in hand. You were both euphoric but the tension was still palpable. But alcohol seemed to suppress inhibitions. One of Tom's hands was on the bottom of your thigh as he turned to face you.

  "Fuck! That was so crazy."

"Fuck, yeah!" you said back

"You know ... even if we didn't win ... I'm happy"

 You wanted to speak but Tom grabbed your cheek in his other hand, his gaze burning. His thumb stroked your cheek. You swallowed hard while admiring his chocolate eyes. You could feel your heart rate speeding up. Fuck how you wanted to swallow his finger and lick it. You had dreamed so much about his hands and you were obsessed with his touch. His hands were so warm, soft but you could feel he knew how to work with them. His hands weren't delicate, they were manly, in their own way. You could admire the veins in his arms and it twisted your lower abdomen. It was sexy. Your mind was sending you images of Tom pinning you against a wall, mattress, table, his veins drawn across his arms as his body swept back and forth against you. You swallow hard again as Tom continued to speak.

 "Let me finish. I'm happy because, even if we didn't win ... I won everything ... I met you ..."

"Tom ..." you tried to speak, but what were you going to say? You didn't know it yourself

"And I'm a jerk."

“Tom…”

“I’m a fucking jerk because I wanted to kiss you so many times but I never had the balls to do it. And god knows I've been craving it for a while.”

 Your heart exploded just like your lower abdomen contracted. One more word, one more touch and you could completely let go in this moment. He didn't seem to realize how mutual it was.

 “And I heard you…” he continued.

"what?"

"In the shower last week ... you said my name. I couldn't take you out of my thoughts that night. I kept… I kept imagining that sweet sound and what it could be if it was me who really makes you these things"

 You were in a bit of shock. First, Tom confessed to you that he was attracted to you, now you learned that he had heard you. Your body reacted before your mind. You passed your thigh over his legs to straddle him. Your lips moved closer to him; you were determined. To hell with the people around you, to hell with hesitation, you wanted him, so bad.

 "Damn, kiss me already."

 The fire in Tom's eyes sparkled his gaze, you could first see a hint of incomprehension there before you saw the desire in it. You bit your lip as your pelvis sank against Tom's crotch to signal your approval. It melted on your lips in a passionate kiss. His hands were all over you again; your legs, your kidneys, your back. Your teeth rattled at times from the eagerness of the kiss, but it was so good, almost as hot as your tango. You needed to feel it against you, to release that tension. Your hands were in his hair, pulling lightly at the roots. Tom groaned in the kiss.

 "Let's go to your place ..." you whispered in his ear.

You've never been so quick to leave a bar, or even get to Tom's. The door barely slammed as he slammed you against the wall, both of his hands gripping your thighs as you jumped up to wrap yourself around him. You let out a moan when you felt its bulge against you.

 "Wait…" Tom stepped back slightly.

"Tom ..." you complained.

"No ... no ... I want you to know that I really appreciate you. Not ... just physically."

"Damn, me too Tom, but if you don't fuck me now I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands."

 The brunette let out a small laugh before carrying you to his room where he laid you on the bed with a little too much enthusiasm. You yelled slightly in surprise as Tom hurriedly pulled his shirt over his head. You had seen him shirtless before but it was even more beautiful when you knew it was more intimate. It was quite intimidating and at the same time, you didn't feel the need to talk. Tom kissed you again, more tenderly, deflecting onto your neck, his hands sliding under your top to touch your already too sensitive skin. You moaned his name as your own hands caressed his shoulders, his back. The heat in your crotch choked your whole body. Tom's fingers wandered over the zipper of your jeans, he gave you a look for your consent and you just nodded. You eagerly helped him remove your pants, surprising it slightly when your underwear fell off at the same time. You gave him a naughty smile that the brunette returned to you. You then remove your top so that he can admire your breasts still shapely by your bra.

 "Damn, you're beautiful," he huffed, desire burning in his eyes.

 You kissed him as you lay down on the bed again. Tom's hands began to caress your skin again, his thumbs applying light pressure to the inside of your thighs and you were opening your legs almost instinctively. His fingers began to roam your privacy, sliding between your folds. You threw your head back against the pillow not without noticing the smirk he had on his face.

 "You are so wet ... are you impatient?"

"Fuck ..."

 Tom kept playing with your labia to reach for the clit, you moaned at his touch and it only made him smile more. He started drawing circles against your sensitive button, sometimes rolling it between those fingers to alternate between his index finger and thumb. Your legs were contracting with each little wave of pleasure. Tom reveled in the sight beneath him and his erection grew bigger and more uncomfortable, but he wanted to wait. He wanted to see you collapse under him, feel you lose your mind just by his touch. He slipped a finger inside you enjoying the soft sound of your moan before starting to pump in a steady rhythm. You already felt a first orgasm rising, your nerves slowly loosening. The pleasure was overwhelming, the sexual tension you had tried to suppress too great and the mere touch of Tom was driving you crazy. You weren't going to last long, you had been waiting for this moment too long to enjoy a long, sultry fuck. It was too much for Tom, he needed you to touch him. He then unbuttoned his own jeans and pulled his pants down below his buttocks. You caught his signal and then your hand grabbed his hard cock. You started to pump, letting Tom growl in pleasure, letting out a few curses. The feel of your fingers on his dick was divine, the pressure all the more pleasant but it just didn't seem enough.As Tom added a second finger, you moaned louder, slightly complaining.

 "Tom ..." you moaned.

"What is it, love." he asked, in a naughty tone

"More."

"More?"

"I want more ... please."

"Tell me what you want ... use your words my pretty girl"

"You ... I want you inside me, please."

 He could have played you motherfuckers and said he was already inside you, but he wanted you just as much right now as you wanted him. Tom kissed you fervently then leaned over to his nightstand to grab a condom from the drawer. You were under birth control but you like the fact that it protects itself as well. He placed the condom on his hard member and positioned himself at your entrance.

 "We can stop at any time."

"Tom, fuck me."

“Your desires are my orders, love.”

 When he sank into you, you both let out a full moan. It was so good. After a few seconds of adaptation, Tom started to move at a steady pace. You circled his shoulders with your arms, stroking his skin with your fingers as you moved your pelvis trying to find a rhythm.

 "Fuck, y/n. You're so tight"

 You moaned at the sound of your name and Tom knocked a little harder, farther, just over your G spot. Another moan rang out in the room and your fingernails started to scratch Tom's back. He picked up the pace, restraining himself from moaning your name over and over again, to no avail. You felt a new wave of pleasure, even more powerful than the previous ones, and one of your hands caught on the base of her hair.

 "I'm going to cum ..."

"That's it, baby ... cum for me."

 Tom wasn't far either, one of his hands grabbed his headboard to stabilize his pace as he held you by the hip. His punches were faster, more powerful. Your eyes fell on his arm, contracted, his veins drawn as he hammered you. Your orgasm exploded out of your throat and you squeezed yourself around his cock. Tom had to catch up on your hip, repositioning both of his hands on your body as the sensation of you collapsing plunged him into his own orgasm, moaning your name in unison with you moaning his. He collapsed on the bed, rolling next to you before removing the condom, tying a knot, and throwing it to the floor, mentally noting to throw it in the trash later. You approached him and put your hand on his chest, slightly shiny. You kissed his skin tenderly, gently recovering from your emotions. Tom ran his hand over your head, stroking your hair.

 "I'm so glad I was on this show. I never would have met you if I hadn't." he entrusted you tenderly.

"I'm glad you were on this show too." you smiled at him.

"I like you, y/n y/l/n"

"I like you too, tom holland."

 You both laughed a little. Tom leaned over you and kissed you. He might not have won dancing with the stars. Maybe he hadn't brought home a trophy. But he had you ... and it was way better than anything he had hoped for.

[samuraiswian]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴀꜰᴇᴛʏ ɴᴇᴛ | ɢᴇᴛᴏᴜ ꜱ.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:  Invited to a concert by your roommate, to an underground bar, unintentionally you gain the attention of the womanizer Suguru Getou.

ᴘᴀɪʀʀɪɴɢ: ɢᴜɪᴛᴀʀɪꜱᴛ! ɢᴇᴛᴏᴜ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ 

{ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ}: ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ɴꜱꜰᴡ, ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ʙᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴜ, ʀɪᴄʜ ᴋɪᴅ ᴀᴜ, ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ  ᴛᴡ:ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ, 

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ:4.4k

 ᴀ/ɴ: Ya’ll the way how many times I rewrote this whole thing like...deadass. Honestly this took too long to write lol,  Like this man owns me. I had an idea {If Getou’s band that sound like Artic Monkeys, specifically, ‘AM’.}   which turn into Brainrotting which got out of hand. So this is verryy self indulgent, hence why its so long (I apologize). 

With each step taken down into the dimly lit bar, your sweaty palm glides down the aluminum handrail. Above the overlapping chattering voices, rhythmic thumbs of a kick drum rises, which coincides with your heartbeat. Relax, grounded the voice within.

Your roommate shuddered seeing you alone on another night, a half eaten box of takeout rest on the coffee table while the late night news blared in the background. It was her fault for even bringing up the proposition of going out. You saw nothing wrong with that outcome. It was safe .And while safe kept you hidden from him, your roommate thought it was unhealthy for you to be at home alone. So she claims, a fine ass woman in her prime should put herself out there. To you, unfortunately, that would be tantamount to a death wish.

You were a homebody who needed to be coaxed out of its shell, in her opinion. That was far from the truth; oblivious to how wrong she was, she consistently suggested going to Six Eyes. A bar, more specifically, an underground bar, which is convincing enough to get you out of the house for one night. Since the owner was not a big promoter, it wasn't well known. With her hands clasped together and a jut of her bottom lip, she predicted "a slow night". Your gaze shifted to the female reporter on screen, sensing a sudden “no” coming her way, she begged. 

“At least come keep me company for an hour, tops.” 

He couldn't possibly track you down in another country, in a city full of strangers. So, ostensibly, you agreed.

Now you're tormented by the persistent thought of returning back home to the safety of your apartment. Burnt cinnamon tangling with thick tobacco smacks your senses as you shove past warm bodies that stood around to find the culprit who conveniently lied about the ever-growing crowd. You weren't sure who to hold responsible: yourself for falling for your roommate's lie that the bar wouldn't be packed on a Friday night, or her lying to begin with. It didn't matter how you tried to shift the blame—it was all on you—

A boisterous laugh erupted, before a rugged body crashed into you, the stranger's icy drink splattered your satin cami top. Your arms stretched out in anticipation of a fall that never happened. Strong arms enveloped your midsection, further shielding you from humiliation.

 “Ah shit, my fault I didn’t see you there. My friends were being dumb, they pushed me over.” 

From the man who was responsible, his honeyed voice drifts into your ear. The intense fragrance of cigarette smoke, hint of caramel, and alder wood-like aroma filled your nostrils, clouding your mind. His companions stood a few meters away, pretending not to notice the male flirting his way into your pants—and failing miserably.

“Open your damn eyes, next time then.” 

He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a crumpled napkin, attempting to wipe your shirt with it. “I told you it was my fault, princess, no need to bare your claws.” He was covered with tattoos as far as the eye could see, with black gauges to match his domineering demeanor. As his silver-layered jewelry gleams in the light, the man smiles. He could put a thousand suns to shame with that thin smile on his face. He was a pretty boy at best, who expected women to flock to him.

Snatching the paper towel from the man and dabbing it on the camisole The harder you wipe, the more your bra outline protrudes. Damn it, you cursed. Going braless was a bad idea. His gaze, on the other hand, never dipped below the collarbone. What a gentleman. At the very least, he was courteous. 

“Don’t call me princess.”

“What else do I call you, if not that.” He bit down on his bottom lip, intently watching your actions. His dark orbs stared back at you as you stopped and looked him in the eyes.

“Beautiful as you are, you must have a name.” 

“Let’s see you bump into me, then split your drink on me,ruin my shirt and now you're expecting me to give you my name for some sad attempt of flirting.You see where this is going right.”

“Fair point,” He chuckled, his tongue protruding through his cheek. “Then. —Perhaps I should buy you a drink instead?” He leans in, his hands stuffed into the back pocket of his dark wash jeans, invading your personal space.“So it could end up on me again. Hard pass."  you purposely bump into him with your shoulder, muttering "asshole". His friend laugh,  exchanging money behind his back, 

“See ya later princess,” He yells after.  

Whilst you approach the bar, a young woman calls out orders, and you catch a glimpse of a white bow as she frantically thumps glasses down towards customers, who’ve taken up space at the counter. You cram into an empty barstool between two drunks who are tongue-lashing each other, and a man knocked out cold. Made up in your mind,this was the last time you'd come out to a place like this.

Her eyes brightened. “Hey, you made it!”  Unable to stop beaming,  she fills a pitcher to the brim, sets it aside, and picks up another to fill at the bar tap. 

“Iori, I thought you said no one was going to show up?” Your elbows rest onto the counter. As she continues to fill the glass, she cups her hand around her ear. “I thought you said no one was coming!” She bursts out laughing. “I said it’s going to be a slow night, never that people weren’t coming.  After all, this is a bar."  You couldn't help but sigh in frustration. Clearly, you were aware that it was a bar, but you were not prepared for a crowd. You downed the shot Iori put in front of you, feeling a warm sensation run through your chest. Something to take the edge off, she says.

“Why is it so crowded anyway? I can barely hear myself think.” Iori thumb jams backwards, pointing to a flyer behind her that says, 'Rock Night Weekend’.  "Some popular local band playing tonight.  And Gojo didn't tell me until literally an hour before we opened, so if you want anything—it’s on me to make up for your time away from home."  

You pointed to your clothing with a wry smile. “No thanks, some asshole dumped his on me instead.” Iori scowls ”I have something in the back if—”

“Utahime! I don't pay you enough to just sit around and talk all day, table four needs a refill, and table two needs more appetizers.” A white-haired man with square rimless sunglasses leaned over your shoulder, passing her a brown bar tray. “You don't even pay me,” she shot back. It baffles him, and he scoffs in mock incredulity.

"It was entirely your idea to host this event when we are clearly understaffed. Now fuck off, can’t you tell I'm in the middle of something." Iori nods in your direction before taking a tip from someone.

The gum he obnoxiously smacks on fades as he leans further over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the person Iori mentioned. Gojo peered over the rim of his glasses, eyeing your figure seated on the barstool. “And who is this beauty Utahime?”

”Y/n, gojo. Gojo, Y/n.” Iori flimsily pointed between them. Gojo takes your hand in his and rubs his thumb in leisurely circles across your skin. "'Y'know it must be hard to be this beautiful, too many bozos trying to sell you a dream, huh?" He lowers his lips to the back of your hand as he holds it in his. "It is. In fact, I'm looking at one right now." Ouch, Iori laughs as you wiggle your hand free.

Never once does his gaze leave your breasts as he trails a bony finger up your shoulder.

 “If you give me a chance, I’ll show you that I’m honestly not.”

 “When hell freezes over.” 

“I’ll get my coat then.” He leans in closer. 

“Down boy, you're drooling.” Iori moves a tray of shots across the bar and positions it in front of the man leaning against it. Gojo uses the wristwatch he wears to keep track of the time. “Whoops, it's showtime, and Sakuna's going to kill me if I don't hurry.” He lets out a low howl as his attention is drawn to a young woman wearing a miniskirt. "He'll be okay," he smiled as he pursued her.

“Shesh, what’s up with him? Ten more minutes I could’ve sworn he'd start barking.” 

“Sad to say, that's Satoru Gojo,  neighborhood hoe and the owner. But don't worry, he's like that with everyone; just bruise his ego once or twice and he'll back off.”

"Anyway, what's the name of the band playing tonight?"

“Curse Dwellers.”

As you rest your chin in the palm of the leather jacket, you snicker. She whizzes back and forth behind the counter, replenishing drinks and taking orders.

“What a ridiculous name.”

“Yeah well, all the members are hot, especially, Getou.” Iori sets a shot glass in front of you. “Who knows, maybe I can put in a word with his bassit, let ‘em know I have a friend that's in need.” She bit her bottom lip, wiggled her brows, and you grimaced at your roommate.

 “Iori, please. I don’t need you putting in a word with nobody, especially here in this shit hole.”

 “I work in this shithole.” 

 “My point.” You muttered a scoff in response. “I’m not about to just sleep with anyone here, just because you think I'm in need.” It wasn't that you were deliberately being this way; it was difficult adjusting from being a silver spoon breed to now barely having a pot to piss in. “See, you wouldn’t have such a stick up your ass if you did have sex. Take a look around, the world is your oyster here, all you have to do is pick somebody, and have them fuck you til you can’t remember your own name. It’s not rocket science. And if you don’t see anyone, the offer still stands.” 

“I don't need to get laid,” you pouted.

The two's attention is diverted by feedback from a microphone. Gojo steps into the spotlight, replacing the earlier man with a calm demeanor. As he introduced the headlining act, it was clear that the next band was well-known throughout the venue. Just after the kick drum solo, a strong guitar riff broke out. loud screams echoed throughout the space. Iori nudges you, pointing to the man who isn't looking at the audience because he's too busy untangling cords from the mic stand. His hair was now thrown across his shoulders, clothed in a black cutoff shirt with inked sleeves. “That's him, that's Getou.”

Once he got his hands on the mic, his sweet voice captivated everyone in the room. He was a natural. You've got to be fucking kidding.  HeIt couldn't be him, could it? The brazen jerk who spilt his drink on you earlier?

His aura was seductive, making the audience demand more and you crave more. His presence was unequaled. Subtly, you found yourself swaying your head back and forth. Unintentionally, his eyes met yours, and his lips twisted into a grin-like smile, exactly as they had done before. Even when he belted out his heart out, you couldn't look away from him for a second. Truly unmatched. Those that backed him had distinct personalities, which explains why they were well-liked.

In the lighting, the tattoo bands on the scruffy pink-haired drummer glitter. His gaze shifts to a guitarist in front of them, who then gestures for the male to back off. It's typical for the drummer to roll his eyes, as he has done before. meanwhile, a dark-haired bassist nods to the music as he places his foot on the floor monitor amp.

End of their set, sweat drips off their faces and caught in laser stage lighting, their final note echoing throughout the venue. After chanting "We want more," the audience is met with exactly what they've been asking for.

Clammy hands grasp your abdomen, drawing you ever closer to an athletically-tanned body. As the stranger's grip on your skin begins to tingle, you let out a quick gasp. Boozed-up, coo-inducing buffoon:

“Quite a beauty you are. So, why don't we just skip the introductions altogether and enjoy ourselves somewhere else?”

His hands sank lower than they should have, and your nose furrowed from the heat of his breath. "You fucking pig, get your hands off of me." In spite of yourself, you gritted your teeth with malice and wrung his hands from your body. He takes a moment to think. He squints his eyes in order to get a better view and shake off the idea that he's seeing double. "H-hey, you look familiar," said the man. When you feel a burning sensation in your stomach, your heart begins to beat faster. "You're just drunk ." His palm squeezes your breast, the harsh slap masked out by the noise of the local bar. The man glowers, the realization of being slapped struck like a thunderous clap. He retaliates by winding his hand back, just before a hand wraps onto his. 

“Enough, Kusakabe. You've had a little bit too much. Stop before you do anything stupid, my friend.”

Getou’s grip tightens on the man's wrist. The stranger yanks his arms away from the dark-haired man, humiliated by the idea of one individual pausing his act. Like they were anticipating a brawl, his bandmates laid down their instruments on the stage. “Or what, pretty boy?—You gonna kick my ass?”  The bassist stopped the drummer in his tracks as he rose from the bench. 

When Kusakabe delivers Getou a heavy shove to the shoulder, Getou retains a stern expression. Onlookers divided so that the band members leapt to action from their stage positions, without being caught up in the chaos.

 "Nothing much," he admits, "just some fucking manners.”

***

The cool night air soothed your aching bones as you studied Getou's profile. He cupped his hands around the engraved zippo, lighting the nicotine stick he held between his lips. The embers flicker, illuminating his features as he tries to pull hard, sending thick clouds of smoke spiraling into the air. Your breath came out in short bursts. You can't recall the last time someone stood up for you. You thought foreign acts of kindness were extinct. People you once knew took advantage of this. You're filled with remorse or guilt because of Getou's bravery. It was his mocking voice that whirled around, tormenting you and interrogating others. He’s just using you.

You can't remember how long the two stood in the aftermath of the fight, but the picture of Getou's friends hauling the belligerent drunk out of the bar with sickening grins on their faces lingered with you. His knuckles were decorated with bruises with a faint purple and crimson tint, as well as a bite mark from the drunk. 

Iori promises to take you home, but as the temperature drops, doubt begins to creep in. The last train departed three hours ago, and there was cab was nowhere in sight. From the looks of her boss, Gojo may try to shift his responsibilities onto your roommate instead of taking care of them himself. “I didn’t need your help.” you muttered. When Getou raises his chin to look up at the stars, he takes a drag.

“You hear me, I said—”  

“Sure you did. Kusakabe was quaking in his boots.” He gives you a snide nod. Your body shot off the brick wall and landed in front of the man. 

“I’m serious. Had you stepped in, I would have handled it.” 

“Had you handled it, I would’ve been looking at a nasty hand print instead.”

His eyes bores into yours as he takes another puff. 

“I’ve dealt with worst. Believe me, compared to other men he wasn’t going to do a damn thing.” Your arms folded across your body. 

“If that’s the case, I  wonder what kind of men you deal with.” 

“It’s none of your concern.” 

“Oh kitten, but it appears that you forgot that your taste in men ruined a perfectly good show tonight.” A delicate finger presses against his heart with each word you utter. 

“I didn't ask for your fucking help.” Getou's teeth grit as he tightens his jaw. His imposing presence grows stronger with each step closer to you, until it completely dominates you and your back meets the cold brick wall. “Let's say I didn't help you tonight, huh? Suppose he had his way with you. And he'd turned you into his personal fleshlight, then what.” With his massive frame towering over you, he blows thick smoke directly into your face.

Your heart thumps against your chest, and you're quite sure he can hear it. As the humiliating dark-haired male taunts you, you are left stunned. Your chin is trapped between his forefinger and thumb as the back of his knuckle grazes your cheek. As he lifted it, your head rose, providing you a clearer sense of what might have been hidden beneath the streetlight. “I'm sure you enjoyed all the attention.” You were able to escape from his grip. As he breathes, his gaze is drawn to your lips.

“What's the matter, princess? Your mouth no longer works." 

Your attention was drawn to the thunderous thuds of objects falling from the alleyway and his bandmates bickering shortly after. Getou never moves, his gaze fixed on yours. His eyes are dark and steady as he takes you in. They resemble the man who kept the keys to your cage. Your body sags as you recall the montage of bruises he left all over your body, despite your similar stature.

***

 You've known about your father's arrangement with Naobito Zenin since you were a child. Your father decided that guaranteeing his lone daughter to his business partner was a good idea. All in the hope that the two companies' merging will go smoothly. Because he lacked an heir to properly inherit the company, your father believed that this was the only way to keep it afloat.

However, you'd never met the boy to whom you were allegedly betrothed. That is until, a blissful spring morning, hidden away in the vacation home's secret garden. Silence was broken by the soft clanking of the shishi-odoshi. The timid ten-year-old boy bashfully wrung the tail end of his shirt, with dirt caked on his pants knees. Within his grasp, the posy bouquet he hid from view wilted.  

“I’m N-nayoa—Naoya Zenin.” he mumbled. The tips of his ears burned red.

 Despite stumbling over his words, he never took his gaze from the only thing that kept him grounded—his brown oxfords. He clumsily shoved the posy of Camellias in your face, which came from the same garden where the two were standing. “These are for you,” As he bowed deeply, his head collided with the fabric of his pants. Just as his mother instructed. His sweet gesture made your stomach churn. 

“I don’t like flowers.” It was almost comical, how disbelief edged onto the boys’ face, his eyebrows shot up. 

“Mother said all females love flowers. What’s wrong with you?” 

You shrugged. “Nothing is wrong with me. flowers are stupid.” 

“Well you’re stupid.”

 He shouted to the top of his lungs, It shocked you when he snatched the posy from your grasp throwing them at your feet. Without another word, Naoya scampered off. 

At the time, he had no concept of courtship. Too busy squabbling with you. Regardless of whether you were his, he believed in befriending you properly, bringing all of the things he'd discovered were your favorites, disguising it as a mere coincidence.

 Each passing spring, second thoughts about your feelings for the boy changed. Under the cherry blossom, where you two shared kisses, Naoya confessed that he would become the head of his clan when he becomes of age. Everything was promised to him, just as you were.

Gone were the days where the two would sneak into the city for the spring festival. It seems as though the days are slipping away from Naoya as a natural consequence of Naobito's doctrines. And as the young boy grew into a man, Naoya felt obliged to remind you that the Zenin Clan believed that the idolatry of women should be seen, not heard, and displayed it with pride.  

Well into your official engagement, another woman's lingering perfume clung to his shirt after his ostensibly business luncheons. Naoya's infidelity piqued the interest amongst the board of directors' wives. You despised that because you were linked to Naoya, you were expected to attend their arbitrary get-together. Fundraisers and galas were discussed, but with the wedding approaching, you were in the spotlight.

 Mai sat at your side, the embarrassment in their backhanded assurance that they were on your side was palpable. "At the very least, she has someone who comes home," she counters. It's the only reassuring thing Mai can say before trying to change the subject.

That night, a sumptuous candle-lit  dinner was held to commemorate the two's anniversary. The couple ate in silence, the cutlery scraping against the fine china, as the city lights streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ladies' words still burned, throughout dinner.

‘A birdie is going ‘round telling people about your fiancé's affairs.’

‘It’s okay hun, it’s not like the woman will please him forever.’

 ‘That’s right, don’t worry men stray, but not for long.’

“Stop seeing her, or else.”

  “What are you going to do to hurt me, love?” He slices the sirloin steak without missing a beat. As the man at the head of the table finishes his meal, a manicured nail gently taps the wine glass's base, your patience wears thin.

“Don’t test me, I’ve let you embarrass me long enough. We all know that if this wedding doesn't happen, your company would be nothing. You will not inherit anything because Naobito regards you as a failure. End it now—or else.” As he finished chewing, his silverware fell to his plate, followed by the cloth napkin he dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

“Is that a threat?”

Your eyes travel over to his. Even as the clock ticks by, there is a deafening silence.

“It’s a promise—”

He flung out the armchair, which clattered to the floor, when he slammed his fist into the glass dining table. “I didn’t quite hear you….It’s almost as if you said that you are threatened?” He dared, challenging you to step out of line, to impose on his authority. Naoya stalked over to your end of the table, carrying the expensive bottle of red wine. 

 Your back met the  backrest of the chair, with your chin raised high to look the predator in his eyes, malice filled every word that was spoken. “I didn’t stutter— the way you parade Yuki around, damn near makes me into a fool.’” 

He scoffed, hoisting his slacks before resuming his position on the glass table. Red wine poured into your previously empty glass. “And let me guess you’ve heard all this from the trophy wives, who do nothing but sit around on their asses all day.” A slender finger traced along the edge of your cheek, He titters. ”Please. Y/n. Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.-- What makes you  think I need you? Me? Of all people.” 

His agonizingly tight grip abruptly latched on your jaw, his sneering face inches towards yours. “It’s you who would lose everything. I alone have to carry my clans and your fathers burden, because he couldn’t produce a son. So next time you feel so bold, remember to stay in your damn place.” forcefully, he shoved away your face from him, your back meeting the back rest again. Eyes aglow, the engagement ring you dropped into the glass of wine leisurely sways to the bottom. “You are just like Naobito. You won’t be happy until you destroy everything in your path.” 

The Zenin Clan believed that the idolatry of women should be seen, not heard, and displayed it with pride.  And Naoya deemed it fit to remind you of that as the young boy turned into a man. ‘I correct you because I love you,’ you've heard so many times that it's burned into your memory. Words that Naoya borrows from his father’s teachings.

Your tears have bonded to the carpet, your ears are ringing, and your senses are blurred. Drops of blood also fall to the ground from the small bruise that his clan rings have caused.  The roar of a crackling fire masked the soft sobs from your broken voice. Naoya Zenin's chest heaves as he stands tall, looming over your cradle frame on the floor. 

“You should know better than anyone not to threaten me.” He calmly steps over your body, the faraway crunch of his shoes against the broken glass as he walks out the door. Every argument ended the same. Naoya disappeared for the remainder of the night, only to return in the twilight.

His rough hand would clasp around your neck, tightening around you as he pounded into your wetness from behind. The soft 'palps' of skin echoing through the large bedroom, entwining with his name pleas. As if he is afraid of losing you, he suffocates you with his entire weight. In your ear, his breath came out in shortstops, groaning ever so slightly when your sooping walls clenched around him yet again. Naoya reaches out, a firm grip on your breasts, spraying your insides with his warm load. It's the closest thing to an apology you'll get, and you'll take it...for the time being.

The late-night shifts at work still continued. On his collared dress shirts, he had lipstick smudges and stains. You'd had enough. You despised the man who fucked you into the mattress at night, only to have his fill with someone else the next day. Who the hell thought he was to think he could have it both ways? With billions of dollars backing him up, he was thought to be untouchable. So you took your leave. You hadn't even been out of your cage for a day when you were dragged back in by your hair, kicking and screaming. When he saw your frail frame, bedridden, he realized what he had done and vowed to you that he would never do it again.

Your mother recognized the warning signs because she'd been through similar experiences herself, but she couldn't say anything other than to bare it for the time being in hopes that his rage will subside over time. She was right. But there was one thing you were unwilling to wait for. You were on your way out, no matter what it took.

[rhyewritersstudio]

Happy Birthday, Mod! 💐✨ (I didn't know how else to submit this as I'm in the group, so, erm... 😅)

- - -

It is one hell of a party. Of course, Brian expected no less, but it isn't the alcohol or the chemical euphoria making the rounds which has his spirits soaring, nor the company so much... well. Perhaps it is the company.

Those brief minutes when Freddie gravitates toward him to exchange a few words, or a jest, before he slips off again into the crowd, but no less then, too. Brian watches him. The truth is that he cannot stop observing him, beside that man so much of the time. The man who Freddie has now introduced to him as his.

Quite without meaning to—Brian thinks with a fond smile.

“Have you met my...” Freddie had blurted out, glacing around in search of the object of his affection, who, when Freddie's eyes found him, made his smile grow wider. “Have you met Jim?”

He seems like a nice fellow, does Jim. Brian wants to trust that first impression, although a cynical part of him thinks he ought to know better. Then again, if Freddie can open his heart anew and trust, then who is Brian to harbour suspicions?

It is so good to see Freddie like this, content and joyful. He is not breathless with the flimsy, perilous ecstasy of excess, when desperation bleeds through the cracks, all cold sweat and smuged eyeliner. No, Freddie is not that tonight, and Brian has known him long enough to know what he is looking at. Freddie's happy.

It's a bittersweet relief Brian feels, to witness Freddie so taken with somebody new. Somebody Brian could have never been for him, but sometimes wished—oh, he is too old now to pretend—good God, aren't they all? Old, they're getting old, who can deny it? Yet, Freddie in his harlequin trousers defies such drab concepts as being middle-aged. A 39-year-old boy, he sparkles with the vivacity of a man in his prime.

There he approaches now, the man of the hour, a drink in hand and eyes twinkling when they meet Brian's. Freddie bursts into giggles, one hand over his mouth, before he has quite reached him.

“Dear me,” he laughs, when Brian raises his eyebrows, casting him an inquisitive gaze. “Your costume, darling!” Freddie explains, reaching up to give the witches hat a flick. “Every time I look your way I have to laugh, I can't help myself.”

Brian grins and inclines his head. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“So you fucking well should,” replies Freddie, giving him a wink as they clink glasses.

“It's a great party, Fred.”

It's worth saying, because it is true, and because it makes Freddie beam. Brian always thought that the enjoyment of others, if Freddie could facilitate it, meant more to him than his own. Perhaps that is what they all have in common—entertainers.

“I'm glad you're enjoying it.” Freddie moves a little closer to be heard over the din of the crowd, one hand on Brian's arm. “Where has Chrissy got to?”

Brian chuckles. “I should find out!” Really, he should, and he does wish that he were more inclined to seek out his wife.

“Best of luck, dear.”

Freddie pats his shoulder and leans in, tilting his chin up, so Brian instinctively leans down, expecting an outrageous joke half-whispered in his ear. What he receives instead is a peck on the cheek. Brief, warm and full of affection.

Before Brian can process the unexpected gesture fully, Freddie disappears back into the crowd.

It's that sort of night. Indulgent, over the top, unrestrained and a little unreal. He's that sort of a man, Brian thinks. You can't help but love him.

- - -