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[dark! vampire x reader]
A/N: It's been some time since I last wrote a monster short fic, but let's write an imagine! For this one, I may write something a bit longer. but enjoy otherwise!
Warnings of: brief mentions of the death of a sibling, manipulation, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, blood drinking, Stockholm syndrome
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The death of your brother comes as a surprise to those in the family and close relatives. He was relatively healthy for his age, active and not a drinker or smoker, so when he had fallen ill rather quickly with what the physician said was consumption, your heart was shattered, never to be the same it was before.
His funeral came and went, relatives you were familiar with and some you hadn't seen in years came and went, though one had caught your eye who you had not recognised as either friend or kin.
He almost blended himself at the back of people when the coffin was being lowered, and you had overserved him silently, thankful the dark veil that covered your face didn't show you were watching him.
His garbs were black as the rest of those around you, though some of the trim on his jacket had a crimson embellish, a pair of black glasses perched so you could not tell who he was looking at.
With long sandy blond locks tied back, pale skin and a lean tall build, he seemed ethereal, an angel who was there to take your brother's hand up to Heaven.
By the end, it had been him who came over to you, telling you how deeply sorry he was for the death of your brother, and how he was a good friend. He gave you his name, Sir Claude Spencer, a mentor and teacher to your brother during his studies.
It came to you as a surprise, seeing how young the man looked in front of you, and you could not guess him to be someone with years or even decades of academic knowledge stored in his mind.
Nothing otherwise told you this man was odd for being there, for if he was your brother's friend, he could be trusted. You felt rather sorry for how you poured your emotions and sorrows onto him, a man you had just met that otherwise consoled you for the rest of the day.
Claude was everything a gentleman should've been: thoughtful with his words, calm and collected. His voice was a soft timbre as he spoke to you as if treating a dying or sick animal. He was there for you when no one else was, and you could not believe how easy it was that you could put your trust in him so quickly.
Maybe it was the grief, and it had pushed you over the edge, but Claude had promised that if you needed refuge or a place to stay to clear your mind, his was always open. He lived in the Spencer estate, given to him after the death of his late father – he told you – so he did not have any next of kin he could pass it down to.
Though you were grateful for the offer, you could not imagine living with a confirmed bachelor, yourself young and ready to be wedded yet no man had thought you the one to catch their eye.
It didn't come as a surprise when you took him on his offer, writing to him a week later that you would come, and he was even more excited to have you there.
"I shall await day and night for when you come. Yours faithfully, Claude."
The Spencer manor was a drab sight, however, with few staff who worked only during the days and none staying at night. You greeted them all warmly when you climbed out of the stagecoach, with none but Spencer's butler, Arthur there to greet you coolly.
"The Master is resting at the moment, but he shall see you at dinner tonight."
It was odd, but he seemed to be a busy man, so you didn't think much of it. Instead, you were treated like glass, given a tour around the entirety of the manor, before being shown where you were staying.
It was shocking when you came to be told that the Master bedroom was only down the hall from you... Claude's room.
When dinner came, you dressed as best as you could despite still wearing black. When greeted with the sight of Claude, it seemed as if all your troubles and worries had melted away. He too, looked relieved and delighted to have you here.
Dinner came and went and your exhaustion had come with a heavy toll, but Claude was not disappointed that you needed to go to bed. For a man as young as he looked, he did not seem to tire as easily as you did, but it did concern you that he rested during the day.
Claude kissed your hand gently with a goodnight, leaving you giddy and looking forward to getting to know him more throughout your stay.
It didn't take long before you started seeing the signs that something was off not just about the manor, but of the staff and Claude. Arthur said that he was sensitive to the light, that he had sleep terrors and was always tired during the day, or that he was reading all night and could never get any sleep. His changed between staff that you did get a chance to ask, some with worrying, wary looks as they rushed off before you could ask anything else.
You also realised, Claude rarely ate. When you too did eat, his plate was always untouched, and it made you cautious that had he poisoned you? No, he wouldn't do such a thing. The only thing that he had was a cup that you assumed was wine, constantly refilled as if he needed it like a lifeline.
You heard the noises at night, some down the hallway just outside your room, lurking in the darkness like a beast that prowled, other times, you heard scratching at your window, keeping you up nearly all night. When you told him or Arthur, they told you it was the old pipes or a dog was loose in the yard, or the wind was bad that night, but... why was it the case for every night?
When your worries began to build, and you debated whether you should stay any longer, it was Claude who dispelled them quickly, giving reminders that you were still in mourning, that you were in no right state to travel or go back to your family. He told you to take each day slowly, and that he appreciated it if you took the chance to get used to the estate.
But something told you he was right, that you needed a break from the world and he would be there to help you through it.
You complied nonetheless, though, you believed you were doing it more for himself than you. Claude displayed affection that you thought only a husband would show to his wife: longing stares and touches that lingered for longer than expected.
He had any reason to touch you, brush something out your face that wasn't there, hold your hand, and guide you through the gardens once the sun had set.
His touches soon grew bolder, experimenting with your reactions, especially when one night, instead of kissing your knuckles, he kissed your cheek instead.
It left you in a daze, confused about your relationship: was he a friend or did you see him more than that? It couldn't have been like that, he was being kind, wasn't he?
It came to one night when the howling, the screaming, and the scratching haunted your waking dreams that you had to step out, regretting it immediately.
The sight of Claude seemed normal at first, apart from the gurgled noises that came from him and the figure he was clutching. At first, it seemed he was in the tight embrace of a lover, your heart tightening almost jealously before you noticed that his mouth was attached to the woman's neck, ravaging at her flesh like a starved beast.
You didn't know if you dared make a noise at the scene in front of you, watching in horror and dread at the way Claude did not resemble the man you called dearest friend. He resembled a creature of the night, a living nightmare in front of you.
You slammed the door shut to your bedroom before you could watch any further or be caught, and you knew the noise echoed down the hallway to alert Claude he had been caught, yet, there was no movement outside your door to tell you he was standing there.
You didn't open the door until morning, having stayed up all night, packing your bags and telling yourself you would leave the moment the first sign of sunlight peeked through your curtains.
It surprised you awfully when you opened the door, being greeted by the sight of Claude at your door.
It seemed that everything seemed normal, apart from his dishevelled hair, his eyes tired and his skin pallid. He didn't seem like the calm man he was when you first met him, instead, his mask had lifted, and he seemed almost fearful, frantic, desperate.
He asked if he could come in, spotting your bags beside you, blocking your path to leave past him. Your heart was racing, terrified of what he could do if you went against him, fought your way through him. Would he do what he did to that woman? 
That was when he denied it all: that you were hallucinating, that you were still grieving and you needed—no, he needed you to stay with him. It was for your safety, that you had to stay with him or else he would truly lose it all.
You were convinced you saw him bleeding a woman dry from her neck, but Claude was adamant you were wrong, saying it was lack of sleep. That the noises had made you paranoid.
Had you truly imagined it all?
Claude smoothed your worries, whispering sweet nothings that he couldn't live without you, that he promised you the world, his love, your hand in marriage, anything to keep you with him.
It was so much, and his sweet words calmed your worries enough that when he pressed his lips to you, your mind was clouded with the love he showed you.
Maybe he was right, maybe he did need you: you both were grieving for your brother and friend. It only made sense that two souls were bound to be together, to help one another with their torment.
Perhaps, staying for a little longer to cradle his love didn't seem so bad after all.
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 8
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A/N: So sorry this chapter is coming so late into January. I hope everyone is doing well. Let's get this chapter rolling!
Summary: Love comes with many sacrifices.
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Chapter 8
He’s up all night as if consumed by grief all over again.
Adrian is familiar with the feeling, the ache within his chest, which devours him whole.
It stings in his body and mind when he rises with the sun, clouded and forgetting the previous night’s memories. He tells himself he will never be vulnerable with another, over and over, but his time spent with you draws that closeness he needs. He was craving more and more of your closeness and it grew easier and easier to feel it with you.
He was sure that if the consumption of wine continued, he would’ve done something he regretted, unravelling all the work to form an attachment and friendship that took so long to create.
It was the wine, he told himself. It causes anyone to do stupid things.
But it’s not the wine, he knows it. He knows it’s an excuse – a poor one to use when facing something far more lethal than a friendship on the line. He knew it had to be wrong, to put you in a position that made you downright uncomfortable, and the soft touches the two of you shared brought him far bigger feelings than he’d ever felt before.
It wasn’t far from trusting someone anyone, he knew it was something that could’ve been done long ago to betray him. And despite it, Adrian fears it could come any day, no matter how much his emotions grow.
He feels like a boy with a childish crush, not fully understanding the entire complexity of it all. It feels far more real than a simple crush: Adrian yearns for it, begs for its stay, to flourish and build into something much more. It’s a desire, a wish to anyone who would listen.
No, it would never happen. He told himself over and over again, cold in the bed as if there had been another beside him. It was far different to that fateful night, and the ghost of arms around him felt more tender than they had ever been. She is my friend, my closest friend.
Adrian had never felt colder.
When the sun reached his eyes, he squinted, as if its heat would finally put him out and catch him ablaze. Anything to end my misery. He wondered if more wine had been left, but it would’ve started a routine he dared not start again. Not with you around.
He said he would never return to that, not when you stayed.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered into the chill of the air, awareness hitting him like a blow to the face. If he was truly wanting to remain sober for you, something was deathly wrong. “I truly am becoming a Belmont.”
He rises with the rest of the day, telling himself he will apologise if you’re still stiff with him, but he will continue as if all the previous days had been the same. Nothing to hide, except for muddled emotions.
It’s the reminder to himself when he looked over the fireplace mantel, sitting cosy above with its pretty dark curls he made by uncoiling dark thread, and brown buttons for eyes, the skin tone as close to yours as possible, that he cannot have you finding this of all things.
-
“Are you ready?”
You draw your eyes over to the blond, readying a chestnut mare, the two of you standing in the castle stables. Adrian tells you that the town is not too far, it may take a bit longer to get back with such a large supply he hopes for. The castle’s food supply was dwindling, and Adrian kept a list of what needed to be restocked.
Adrian was kind in giving you some spare clothes, simply because you didn’t want to get your pretty dresses dirty: simple dark pants with a pair of riding boots, a dark green vest and a white tunic shirt that was too big and you had to cinch in with a belt. You also carried on you a small satchel, a cloak and gloves in case of the cold.
“Yes,” you shuffle closer to him, wary of the large beast in front of you, its beady black eyes staring right into your soul, “it’s a beautiful creature.”
“Indeed,” Adrian answers, soothing the horse by scratching just behind the back of its neck, behind its ears, “she is a gentle soul. She will not be frightened by you.”
You warily stare ‘her’ up and down, inquisitively, “What is her name?”
“Oh,” the Dhampir seems understandably abashed for not giving her one, “I did not think that far.”
“Really?” You stare between him and the beast, surprise blooming in your voice. It only makes sense for you to give her a name now! “How about… Lady? No, no—or maybe—”
“Luna?”
His voice catches you by surprise, but it is a wonderful idea. “Luna?”
“It’s a pretty name,” Adrian strokes her snout affectionately, “I like the other name too.”
“No, I like Luna more.” You follow with a guide of Adrian’s hand in knowing where to stroke Luna; just above her snout, his hands lingering longer than you both expected in this subtle affection before he pulls back. His touch still lingers, and it comforts you the size of his hand compared to yours.
“Shall we get going?”
“Indeed.”
It takes some minutes of humbling yourself to get onto a horse- with Adrian’s help- but you’re far more ashamed of how you embarrassed yourself in front of him. It’s not graceful how you straddle, the discomfort that comes from your legs so far apart and how you’re already dreading when it moves.
 Adrian is quicker than you, almost leaping on with ease as he sits behind you, his hands coming from behind to grab at the reigns.
“Easy,” you think he’s telling the horse to be at ease, but you realise it’s directed to you, his hands reassuring you, “You’re not going anywhere, little witch.”
You’re thankful he can’t see the way your face heats, the way you wish he would do what he said, but you have to stop those thoughts from occurring.
The laugh that comes from you is more of a wheeze, and you correct yourself before you can embarrass yourself further. “Are you talking to the horse or me, Adrian?”
Adrian chuckles lightly at your jab but knows it is all a tease. He guides the horse out from the stable, and almost immediately begins a sprint. The castle seems like a speck in the distance the further you travel, trees whipping past like shadows of figures you thought were human.
Animals could be heard within the trees as if they surrounded you, but instead of fear, you felt the wind whip through your hair, and across your face. You imagined this was what it felt like to be a bird, or the fastest horse free in a field. It was in some way what you imagined what a vampire felt like hidden and part of wildlife.
With the speed and wind on your side, you arrived in the town by the time the sun was highest in the sky. You forgot how lively a town could be: bustling with life. People of all ages, genders and skin tones wandered the market. Mothers with their babes and young children playing around her skirts. Those who came to sell and trade within the markets. Couples of old and young fill the streets with tender displays of affection for one another.
It made you blush when you looked around, realising that some could maybe say the same about you and Adrian looking like a couple. Would Adrian notice this too? Would he feel ashamed to be associated with you?
You didn’t realise you had been distracted by your thoughts when you felt a tender hand shaking you gently out of your thoughts. Blinking owlishly, Adrian stood before you, his golden eyes were wrought with concern. “Are you alright?”
“Overwhelmed, but I’ll survive,” you told him, puffing your chest out to show you weren’t feeling all sorts of worries. “Have you got the list?”
Adrian doesn’t want to shake away his concerns for you, but he unravels the crumpled note from inside his coat pocket to hand to you. You scan over it quickly before you nod. “See you back at the carriage?”
“I must hire one first,” Adrian chortles, “but yes, I shall see you then… be safe.”
Be safe.
It’s enough to make your heart swoon, and you nod, fleeing like a lovesick teenager who just said hi to her crush. You absorb yourself by finding the necessary things, trying your best to not get engrossed by the things around you.
You get mostly through your list before something catches your gaze.
An array of jewels of different sizes and colours greet you: some attached to bracelets, necklaces and brooches, others gaudy and lavish and sitting for all to see. It doesn’t take you long to fully stop and be standing in front of the older woman’s stall, looking over them carefully.
If only I had enough money.
“The peridot would suit you nicely, young lady,” you look up to catch the warm gaze of the woman, her crow’s eyes wrinkled. “Or alexandrite. Very pretty, will catch anyone’s eye.”
“They are very pretty,” you muse, though you already know you won’t be buying anything from her, it is always nice to look around. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Light colours would suit your skin tone,” she begins as she points to different items, holding them as if for you to compare until the next thing to come from her mouth leaves you practically gasping, “I’m sure your husband would agree.”
“Husband?”
“There you are.”
The first thing you notice is the arm that snakes its way around your waist, a body leaning in closely to you as you feel your body freeze on the spot. Adrian is looking over the jewels with you with interest, softly musing to himself, “I knew I’d find you here.”
You’re gawking now, no words are coming to you and it’s only when the old woman brings up impatiently that you’re buying anything that Adrian pulls a bag from his pocket, casually handing the woman the change as if it's nothing. “The peridot I think would look lovely on you.”
He’s moving away, back to the wagon with you following behind like a lost puppy.
“What was that?” You whisper when it’s just the two of you, watching the world go by.
“What do you mean?” He asks as he pulls out the necklace to inspect himself. “I thought this colour would look nice on you.”
“Yes,” you replied, fiddling with the hem of your gloves. “It’s just—”
Adrian seems to read you easily, and he knows when you’re showing some discomfort. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”
“Far from it,” you laugh it off, though your heart hammers to great lengths, “She had been the one to say I had a husband.”
Your laugh leaves Adrian silent, quieter than he normally is, and it leaves you spiralling. What was he thinking? Was he too uncomfortable with the choice of words?
“Turn round for me?”
You blink thoughtlessly at the question, slowly following as you turn your back on him. You have to stop yourself from gasping aloud when his gloved fingers graze over the back of your neck, pulling back your curls to give him a proper view.
You’re shivering, and you realise what state you’re in, crumbling just from a singular touch, but you try your best to keep your cool. Adrian steps close behind you, his scent is strong in your nostrils as he collects the links of the necklace, putting it around your neck before securing it.
 “It suits you.” He quips, knowing that his words are having an impact on you, before he turns away to the cart, you follow hot on his heels to nag him for making you feel so unsteady.
-
It's sometime later on the cart on your way back when Adrian suddenly touches your hand.
Even when he wears his leather gloves, you can feel the warmth that resonates within him, the raw strength and power that comes from him. He’s a killer, a killer who could’ve overpowered you a long time ago, but who you put your undying trust in.
Your shock freezes you as you look over at him, his gaze on the road ahead, but you know for a fact, that he’s aware you’re staring. “Is something the matter?” He draws softly, looking at you through his peripheral.
“You’re…” You can’t find the right words, but you direct your gaze to his free hand occupied in holding yours, and he follows. “My hand,” he states coolly, though you feel as if there is a hidden motive to this. “You were cold.”
Right, you tell yourself that, and a harsh chill bristles through you before you have time to think it through. He’s smart, too smart.
“Oh." You don’t consider he’s telling the whole truth, but you don’t shake away the way he’s holding your hand. It brings a great comfort to you. You’re still side-eyeing him as he continues on the road, the silence that envelops you is calming and quaint.
You’re very aware that your heart is hammering, the necklace wrapped around your neck is being twirled as you think heavily with your thoughts. Shall you tell him now how you feel? Would that break everything you built with him? It’s only a matter of time before your feelings are split accidentally and your friendship is cursed.
You squeeze his fingers to get his attention, “Adrian, there is something I wish to tell you-”
You’re lurched forward from your seat at the front of the cart, the suddenness of it is all to not still your nerves. The horses snorted in anxiousness, and all around you stood still as if holding their breath. Adrian’s eyes were deadest on something within the trees, and you couldn’t help but feel even more nervous at what could be out there.
“Night creatures?” You whisper to Adrian, but he only gives a glance your way, a way to tell you it was way, way worse.
It was still far too early for creatures of the night to be out, but with the fading sun passing over the horizon of the trees, that was when you spotted them.
They blended with the trees at first, but you could see their silhouettes, standing as rigid as statues, ready as soldiers for war, staring down at you like vultures. They can’t be just human bandits on the road, their presence alone gave off a bad omen. You don’t know how many you count, their clothes blend as one with the growing darkness as the sun settles.
Adrian’s voice is already speaking to you, cutting the silence with a knife.
“Y/N, get to the back of the cart, do not come out until I tell you so,” it’s not a warning, but an order, and you don’t want to waste his time by stalling. His voice is serious, eyes stone cold as he glares down at the figures not far and lurking around the trees.
Adrian easily hops down from his spot as he flicks the scabbard off his longsword. You watch in a mix of wonder and dread at the scene that unfolds.
The figures draw in closer, watching and snarling as Adrian holds a solid line, almost unfazed as he holds the sword close to his face.
His sword glows suddenly as if imbued with holy light, a shocking flow of blue flames engulfs it, glowing and hissing with life. The flames flicker close to Adrian’s face as he readies his action, changing his stance before he is on the closest one.
He’s quicker than your eyes can register, a shadow of crimson shifts as he moves at lightning pace, soon in front of the hooded creature as his sword moves as one with him. He is no longer holding it, rather, the two of them move as if it is a dance, fluid and graceful.
A hiss of a cry lurches into the darkening skies, one is down on the ground, its skin hissing and bubbling as it disintegrates.
Two more are on him with a flash, but Adrian fights with valour and dances around him, swords crashing against the sound of their taloned nails. You’ve not stuck around to know what was happening, having crawled through to the back of the cart for safety.
Once huddled in a spot surrounded by crates, you can only rely on sound: clashes of silver clang loudly around you, bodies fall and you have no clue if Adrian is winning or not. You can only assume he is, from the way you can still hear the glow of his magic sword, twirling around as silent as he is.
Another noise resonates from just outside, creeping behind you and you freeze, before the sound of splattering blood and a gargled choke dies down. You look just to your left to see that the material of the cart is splattered in the thick, viscous liquid, and you shudder that Adrian is here to protect you.
You don’t know how many of them are left, and you can only think that the best thing for you to do is protect yourself if one finds you inside. You scramble to your feet, clumsily looking for any blade that could be of use. You find only a flimsy dagger, and you clutch it close to your chest as you settle in the back of the cart, trying to calm your racing heart.
Something draws in close and you stutter a gasp before you realise it’s too late. The figure pauses almost dramatically, inching closer to the back of the cart, their movement deliberately slow, trying to edge as much fear out from you.
You pray it’s Adrian coming to your rescue, to tell you the area has been cleared, but as the face emerges through the curtains of the entrance to the cart, it’s not those golden eyes you’ve grown to love staring back at you.
They’re red, crimson as the blood that will soon spill from you.
Your screams fall silent as the face erupts into a smile, wide and fanged as the rest of its vampiric kind. The dagger in your grasp feels more like a twig as you stare down, wide-eyed the vampire in front of you.
“What a pretty little thing you are,” his voice is soft yet hoarse, and his red eyes seemed unblinking as he seemed to taunt you from the entrance, blocking one of the ways you could escape. “What a delicacy you’ll be.”
Your fight or flight had kicked in and instead of either of them, you had become frozen in your spot, dreading that this would be the way you died, dying in a smelling cart as a vampire ripped at your throat.
“Don’t worry,” he coos, inching closer, a clawed hand bracing the inside of the cart as he further draws inside, “I’ll make sure I’m quick with you.”
-
Adrian's POV
Blood soaks through the leather of his clothing, but he is thankful it is there’s and not his.
The last of the creatures die within an inch of him, sizzling into nothingness as he stares down what remains. Ash of their bones and the burnt clothes remain, the reminder to anyone who crossed him he would do it a hundred times over.
All in the name of love.
He had once didn’t understand the meaning of love, the way it would pull at his heart and lurch within him. He needed it as if it was necessary like water or food, a hunger that he yearned for in the waking hours of the day to the late hours of twilight.
He is his father's son after all.
Dracula did it in the name of love, and he found he was killing his kind all to keep you safe.
“Y/N, it’s safe.” He calls you to, and he listens for any sound except for the sounds of nature surrounding him. It’s startling how quiet the outside world could be, and how quickly his heart could plummet in knowing something was deeply, deeply wrong.
His heightened senses could not smell blood, not the blood that came from you but what had fizzled and dried. It seemed almost deathly quiet, but Adrian’s mind was racing, the pulling of his heart meant you were not here, or worse, he had failed to keep you safe.
A scream brings his attention, and he wastes no time in hurtling towards the back of the cart, his heart racing.
No, no, no, if he's failed in doing the one thing, he's failed you and himself.
He hasn't even got his face an inch through the gap before he senses something telling him to move out of the way, an object being flung just where his face would be. His head snaps to see a dagger clatter to the dirt just behind him before it turns to what stands before him, a snarl leaving his curled lips.
You were safe, for now, though the vampire he failed to miss had his disgusting fangs inches from the base of his neck, his clawed hands wrapped around you, keeping your body locked to his chest.
 “Son of Dracula, the Messiah,” the vampire greets him, observing him with a lazy smile. You continue to squirm in his grasp, eyes locked onto Adrian for any semblance of safety. “Care to take a bite of your pet first or shall I do the honour?”
His venom is bitter and his anger is boiling at the words he uses for you. How dare he call you a pet!
“Unhand her now,” his voice resonates inside him and he channels his father, the voice he would use and boom across the castle grounds, “I will not ask you again.”
“Ah, ah, one step and I spill her neck open.” The hooded vampire fusses, his movements almost consoling to Y/N as he runs a hand down her cheek, tears drying on her skin. “This one is a waste if you keep it.”
He laughs easily as he stares Adrian down, his next words bringing Adrian close to lopping his head clean off. “Though it is no surprise, you are Dracula’s son, keeping human women around as your pets. It was Dracula’s weakness,” he leant close into Y/N, drinking up her tears as he licked his tongue up the side of her face, “and it will be your undoing.”
Adrian is hunched as if ready to pounce to get him off you, but his golden eyes are never leaving you. A cry leaves your lips when his tongue licks up the side of your face, and you’re shivering, hands clutched around the tightened grip of his forearm.
There is a silent connection that only he can feel when you are close, and it comes from your eyes that stare back at him. They don’t seem as frightened as they did before, and he believes he knows you want him to be calm and not quick to action. Your eyes calm him like a storm approaching, ready to destroy all in its wake.
The vampire holding you runs a hand through the links of your necklace, the hands glimmer in the low light inside and it’s the only thing Adrian sees, trying to not imagine it coated in blood. “Such sweet, sweet blood.” The vampire says, his face drawing into your neck, but you stop him from doing anything further.
With your hands clutching his forearms tightly, Adrian watches how you shut your eyes tight, before shouting the words that resonate through you:
“Ardeo!”
It amazes him every time when you speak that spell, the way flames spill from your hands as easily as water flowing. The endless cycle of nature flows through you, and the power within your hands cries with a mighty scream that neither Adrian nor you know who it’s coming from.
The flames roar as they lick up the clothes of the vampire, and his screams join in fright as they clutch around his arm, a grip in itself that never lets him go. They take and they take, scorching the fabric as they bury deep into the skin.
The vampire is held in place as if something within an endless cycle of life and death ties him to his spot, scorched by your touch as he squirms and screams. He sounds like a pig, Adrian notes, but the sound is as annoying as the actual animal dying.
The vampire is quick though, and though his arm is distorted, blackened and charred, he shoves you away from him, his nails catching you by the skin of your arm, nicking it as you collide with the side of the cart.
Adrian is there in a flash to end it all, to end its misery, to end its hellish torment. He does it for you when his sword is a flash of lightning, quick to the bite and cold as a kiss to the vampire’s neck, coming out the other end before anyone could realise.
Your breath is caught in your throat as you’re unaware you’ve been cut, though the adrenaline dies down as quickly as the body slumps in front of you, turning to ash before your very eyes.
Adrian is beside you, a hand tending to your arm before the sting catches up with you. You hiss in pain, realising what had happened and how deep the wound is. Three long scratches reach down to your elbow, bleeding freely.
“Careful.” He’s quiet with his words, delicate as if treating you like the fine China you are. He rips part of your shirt, wrapping the open wound to stop the flow of blood. He reminds himself he needs to clean it when you return to the castle.
You’re staring at him as he does so, your eyes glazed over as if in a daze, and before he has time to register if you’re okay, he feels something press against his cheek, and he realises it’s your warm lips, chaste and sweet.
“Thank you,” you murmur, leaning into him as the silence fills the cart. Adrian is silent for what feels like forever, but his mind is screaming. You kissed him, and he’s gaping like a dead fish. You kissed him and he feels like a boy all over again.
He shakes out of his thoughts to collect himself, to calm the rush of blood that goes straight to his head, and he feels lightheaded, but he gladly accepts your embrace, cradling you to his chest.
“No... thank you.”
-
Latin Translation:
Ardeo - (I) burn
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I cannot tell you with words how beautifully written this was! I felt I was pulled into this, feeling every emotion. I too, was moved into a world where reality and fantasy blended, and I wish it was all real!
— a call of the sea
Merman Aemond x Fem!Reader
Summary: On that fateful night you should have died. But something saved you and pulled you out of the sea. So why now you can't just stop hearing that same 'thing' asking you to go back to the same place you almost died?
Word count: 15,612 (a monstrosity)
Dividers: @cringecrew
Rating: Explicit +18
Proceed with caution.
English is not my first language.
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The days are a repetition of the same; wake up, drink your coffee and take care of your hygiene, go out to sea in your old boat, throw your nets and pray that the ocean returns you with a generous amount of fish trapped in them, go back to the pier and take your fresh catch to local traders to get as much money as possible - which means just enough to survive.
The point is that you have a routine and have followed it faithfully for years, in fact you can say that you are proud of how well you do your job.
You know the sea. You know the dangers and you know the tricks; the false sense of security on a seemingly sunny day. You grew up near the coast. The ocean is as much a part of your life as a childhood friend. You already know which days should be fun and carefree and which days are better to stay away, avoid contact. The wrath of the sea should not be taken lightly. But the sea can be deceiving, even for a good friend like you.
You know the sea and you know the weather.
It was an indisputable truth that daylight was getting shorter every day and autumn filled the night breeze with the first chill of the season.
It would only be a matter of time before the first storm arrived.
But you thought you would have time.
You were out at sea when the winds suddenly picked up, making your heart beat a little faster as you set up the fishing nets for the night. You didn't need any weather report to know that a storm was approaching (and quickly) that day. The leaden sky and the static of the atmosphere told you everything you needed to know.
Again, you thought you would have time.
You needed the money, your rent and electricity bill literally depended on paying for today's fishing. So you took a chance, even though your instincts told you this was the day to avoid the sea.
That was your first mistake.
The waves rock your small boat and spill over the side, splashing beneath your feet. It doesn't take long for you to decide that it simply isn't worth risking your life to get that money (no matter how necessary it is) and decide to take the quickest route to the dock.
When you finish placing the buoys, lightning crackles in the distance. The frightening rumble of thunder hits the moment you try to start the engine. The old thing shakes and groans and creaks, but it can't turn on despite your desperate attempts.
The first cold drizzle stings your face. You swear.
God, if you get caught in the storm...
"Come on!" you growl at the engine, but your threats fall on deaf ears.
That's when you remember that you simply forgot to fill the engine with the gasoline you bought the other day, and that it's still in the green plastic container under your bed. At least you would still have some chance of getting out of this situation alive.
“That’s what I get for ignoring my instincts,” you mutter under your breath, as you cross your small boat towards your cabin.
But the roll of the waves against the sides of the boat is cruel, the deck is slippery, and you are in such a hurry to fuel the engine and get out of there that when a big wave suddenly breaks on the left side of the boat, you get your foot caught on a loose rope on the deck and trips, falling directly into the water before you even realizes what has happened. The whole thing happens as fast as the blink of an eye, and yet as slow as sand falling into the hourglass.
Your world disappears into a furious, gray expanse.
The cold water invades your body, colliding with your defenses. Vaguely you are aware of being immediately whipped from side to side in the turbulence of the sea, but the state of adrenaline in your body almost numbs it.
You've known how to swim for as long as you can remember. It's an instinct that's as natural as breathing. But as your thick clothes and boots weigh you down and your sense of direction spins out of control, you realize how easy it is for a fraction of an unfortunate moment to turn fatal. You fight in the gray expanse, arms flailing and instincts screaming for survival. But with your five senses silenced and the weight of your clothes slowly dragging you down, this can easily turn into a losing battle.
You fight and push until you break the waves, hungry for a breath of air, just in time to receive another wave that sinks you again with a hard slap of violence. You ignore the suffocating burn in your lungs as you swallow a significant amount of salt water, focusing only on jolting yourself to the surface once more, straining to see how far you have been carried away from your boat by the currents. You barely register the white mass much further away than you had first imagined, just as another wave knocks you over.
You're trying not to panic, God, you really are. Panic is the cause of many drownings. But it's hard to maintain any rational thought with the absurd amount of cold, salty water surrounding your body (on the outside of your body and on the inside).
Hell, if you don't get rid of your clothes, you'll never make it to the boat in time. And if the waves carry it too far, then there won't be any chance for you. Not with this storm.
Your mind searches for images buried in the farthest corners of your mind. Images you didn't want to remember now. Images of your father. With wise words and bright eyes in the cerulean colors that surrounded you throughout your life. You can still imagine him skillfully weaving his nets with thick, calloused fingers, roughened by the sea and hard work, and explaining to you in his calm, husky voice the angle at which the boat is best for navigating the waves that arrive with the southeast winds. Everything you learned, you owe it to him.
Losing your father to the sea was the most painful moment of your life. The biggest betrayal coming from your longtime friend.
Like father, like daughter.
The irony of your position is hard to dismiss, as your mind whirs for oxygen and your lungs burn for air in your desperate attempt to reach the surface.
You return to the surface breathing in violently, coughing the salt out of your lungs. Lightning and thunder resonate in the dark sky above your head, the sea is gray, with strong and powerful waves. The whole scenario is scary. And keeping your head above water is proving much more difficult than you imagined. It is quickly consuming all your strength and energy. You won't last long...
But -
You need to fight. Your father would never forgive you if you didn't try. You would never forgive yourself if you didn't try, for him.
You grit your teeth and frown, struggling to take off your jacket and boots. The salt burns your eyes, blurs your vision. Whether it's the sea or your own tears, it's impossible to say. You struggle to stay afloat. To keep air in the lungs. Swim towards your boat, which seems to move away with each passing second, a mere toy in Poseidon's hands. But it's so useless.
The winds are wailing, and the sea is rough, and you are so small and insignificant against the brute force of nature that surrendering to its power is inevitable in the end.
Another wave passes you. The sea devours you; hungry, merciless.
You are immediately sent spinning through water so obscenely powerful that it is impossible. Life below the surface is not calm and peaceful, but it is calmer than life above the surface, that's just a fact. But not this time. This time the water is just as vengeful and powerful as it was at the top and you don't know why. But you know there is no escape and this is how you will die.
'Forgive me dad, I tried...'
You are below the surface in a gray, dank world with no up or down or left or right or sense of self; just water, an onslaught of water, an endless pressure of water that is crushing your last breath out of your lungs and spinning you so fast that you have no idea where the surface is and there is no light or hope just water. Just water and dark shapes and as you spin you think you glimpse a pale humanoid form with shiny black scales and silver mane, a burning blur of electric blue gaze like a neon sign. But in your next spin toward death there's nothing there, just water, water, dark water and shadows and a stream of air bubbles that could be yours, even though you're holding your breath so hard it hurts and--
And something stronger presses against your waist.
Your oxygen-starved thoughts become sharper and more focused. The pressure around your waist is firm, warm and concentrated, as if there were a pair of hands around you. As if there was someone behind you holding you by the waist.
"You're far from home tonight."
Your eyes widen even more when you feel something soft on your ear.
Lips. It looks like there lips are on your ear, but that's not possible. So it must be something else, like algae or an eel.
Whatever it is, it's soft and squishy, and gently grips your entire ear, as if it's about to swallow you whole. The voice that is now in your head is so darkly delighted to find you in this state.
“You won’t last long here, little human.”
The words cut through the tumult of the water effortlessly, and you can't help but marvel at how clear and precise they are. They are like a bell. Like a bell ringing at the break of a new dawn that you will never see.
Your salty, trapped breath is screaming in your lungs and there's nothing around you but a kaleidoscope of water and moving shards of darkness and there's a pressure, an equal pressure around your waist that feels like grasping hands, but you know which is just the merciless shape of the water taking shape around you before taking you away.
Thin lines of pure silver corrode the edges of your vision, like tentacles.
You are suffocating. You are imagining things. You are hearing things. You are breathless and dying and you are hearing words of crystal clarity because they are being spoken by you - because you are dying. Your brain is recapitulating your last moments of life and that's what you're hearing. You are slowly dying and this water world will soon be your coffin and there is no one in it but you.
Whatever is covering your ear presses harder against it and licks it.
The buildup of carbon dioxide in your blood is setting you up for a silent fire. Now it's only a matter of seconds before your subconscious flips the switch and you open your mouth to breathe desperately, even though you know that this will only accelerate the moment of your death and not delay it.
What looks like a tongue, but is actually just your imagination, then slides inside your ear and licks slowly.
And then your world stops spinning. You're seeing straight for the first time since the wave pushed you underwater. You don't know which direction you're looking, but you're finally looking in one direction steadily. As if you were being held in a place of control and contemptuously defying everything the ocean could create.
"Soon."
Your subconscious is telling you when you will die.
"Come back soon."
The creature's voice resonates clearly. But no, it's impossible, you think, I'm clearly hallucinating; the lack of oxygen is affecting me.
Your vision darkens and you open your mouth, unable to delay the inevitable any longer.
Water floods your lungs and the last thing you feel is a pair of strong arms wrapping you tighter.
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You wake up with a start, alert and confused, not knowing exactly where you are.
But the familiar smell of the cove soon fills your nostrils and your (slightly blocked) ears manage to pick up the sound of the seagulls around you.
You wonder what time it is. What a day it is...and if it had all been just a dream. A drunken, lonely daydream after a bottle of wine.
You move until you're standing, which is definitely a difficult task since everything about you hurts. Your chest burns and your throat and neck are incredibly bruised.
Gods, why were you still alive?
The gentle rocking of the waves against the sides of your boat doesn't help your newfound seasickness, but it becomes just white noise when you realize, with amazement and disbelief, that you're back at the dock. You and your old boat. Both safe.
How is this possible? How could you be back on the boat after you were dying in the deep grip of the ocean?
Your consciousness is fragmented.
Divided into fleeting images of black scales and electric blue gaze, of a tight embrace and lightning branching in the stormy sky. And sea. So much gray sea as far as the world extends...
You take a deep breath and feel your tortured lungs hurt again, but this time in a good way, and you focus on how it feels like your head is being split and stitched together simultaneously. You notice and then ignore what appears to be a jet of liquid shards sinking into your chest and nestling in the cavity behind your heart.
“I’m alive…” you mumble, vocal cords burning with the effort. "That's all that matters..."
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Seven days since your near death.
Seven days and you are not well.
There are dark waves whispering to you. All day and all night they lick with a cruel black tongue the margins of your hearing and deposit their message, one dark grain at a time, on its banks. 'Come back' the voices whisper, 'come back to me'. It's like a disaster waiting to happen. They are building a pyre on your beach and one day it will be set on fire.
Overlaying this unauthorized construction is a darker sound, a richer sound, a sporadic swirl of an ancient fun song that tells you that you cannot ignore it forever and that you cannot escape it, not even temporarily. It's in your head and in your eyes and behind your teeth, crawling under your skin and it won't stop; that parasitic sixth sense you picked up from the water just won't stop.
You must have suffered more than you thought when you almost drowned, and your body hasn't had enough time to recover from the ordeal, even though seven days have already passed.
You repeat every hour of the day that there was nothing in the ocean that night you almost died. This unknown pattern of killer waves could not have been predicted, but it should not have come as a complete surprise. More is known about deep space and the subatomic realm than about the bodies of water that cover most of the planet, so you shouldn't be surprised that nature has surprised you. And that voice inside your head was YOUR voice inside your head. You hallucinated and told yourself 'you're far from home tonight' and 'you won't last long here, little human' because that was the truth. You were terminally ill out there and you simply recognized your situation and your final moments and that one day, one day soon or in the future, your essence will return to the water as one day all things do.
There was a logical reason for absolutely everything in this life and this was another case.
But.
But why do you need to dig your nails into your palms until it hurts to distract yourself from the compulsion to get back into the ocean? Why do you need to grind your teeth to keep from giving in to the inviting whisper in your mind - 'surrender, surrender'.
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It's been seventeen days since you almost died in the ocean and you've had enough.
Your brain has been set on fire and you can't take it anymore, you can't take it another second, you can't live with it another day. You know that this (whatever it is that is slowly dissolving your brain) will only spread through your veins and down your spine unless you put it out, and just as you know you can't throw water on the oil fire to erase it without making things worse, you know you can't treat what you're suffering from with anything that exists above sea level.
This is between the ocean and you.
Then you'll have to go back. You'll have to go back to the beach. You will have to dive into the waves to find a balance that may cost more than you can afford, but you have to do it, you have to pay the price of it.
The next night you return.
Touched by madness, the villagers whisper to each other as you descend winding paths and stone steps.
A brain infection, a voice murmurs as you turn your back on the wife of the local tavern owner.
Carried away by sea nymphs, the old women crouched in a doorway, shaking their heads beneath their black hoods.
It's the most plausible explanation of all, you have to admit.
Either way, you believe you have heard every possible theory about your long and mysterious illness that has kept you away from prying eyes over the past few days. But with the winds of winter reaching the village to the bone, these days there are not many souls left to haunt its empty crevices, nor torment it with their gossip.
Smoke rises from the chimneys, black skeletal tendrils disperse into the heavy sky, reminding you that you too should be huddled in your little home, warming your fingertips against the crackling fire, preparing a warm, comforting soup for your dinner. But there is a restlessness that takes over your body. A compulsion that demands - demands - to be heard. An inexplicable need to be close to the only element of nature that you can claim tried to kill you in the same way that motivated you to stay alive.
The sea.
The creaking of the deck wood beneath your boots makes a few small hairs on your arm stand up. It's the first time you return after long days of self-imposed exile, long days of total denial and internal madness. Even with your cardigan reaching mid-thigh, leggings and boots, you feel exposed - unnaturally cold. You rub your arms after a short hop from the deck to your boat, murmuring wistful words to your old friend - who looks just as damaged as you do; but surprisingly still standing.
The process of starting the engine and heading out into deeper water is almost mechanical for you, although this time there is a cold feeling in your belly, a shiver that makes your fingers tremble around the boat's wheel. Fear, maybe. But the call is stronger, louder. It sounds crystal clear and irreducible in your ears, in your guts.
The sea is calm tonight, so different from the last time you were here. Calm enough that when you are far from shore, far from civilization and any help, you turn off the rusty roar of the engine and just let your boat float peacefully on the gentle waves. Like the caress of a friend.
You almost sigh.
You tighten your cardigan around your body as you step onto the deck, the wind blowing your hair around your face. Your fingers are still shaking as you close them on the edge of the boat, looking restlessly and intently at the way the moonlight reflects off the calm ripples of the sea, hoping to catch an unusual movement on the surface, or an infinitesimal disturbance in the rhythm of waves that may imply some presence.
From what?
Honestly, you don't know.
A few minutes pass - hours? - the concept of time is a bit abstract for you lately, but your eyes are as focused as ever. And that's how you see it.
You can't see perfectly in the dark, even with the illumination of a full moon, but you think you can make out eyes watching you from a distance.
An icy sensation runs through your body as if you were diving, your eyes widen and the baby hairs at the base of your neck stand up.
There’s something watching you.
The lower half of the creature's face is hidden underwater, but as you slowly get closer from the edge, the clearer your vision becomes.
You look into a pair of mismatched eyes. In fact, looking better, you realize it's just a violet eye that shines like stars in the dim light. The other one doesn't exactly look like an eye. It is something colder and more inert; something unattainable and ethereal. Like a precious jewel carefully stored inside the protective shell of an oyster. There is a stone bleeding a vibrant, electric blue where the other eye should be.
You immediately remember the bright blue flash you saw that night.
You're in shock as you stare at the creature, unable to process anything else around you except the sound of your own ragged breathing in your ears. Infinite moments pass – maybe the time is simply an illusion – before the creature dives in a graceful, practiced movement, and something in you gasps and hisses like a dying cat as you see the shape of a long black tail fin emerge for two seconds before to sink with the creature among the foamy waves.
What the fuck-?
You partially regain control of your mental abilities and run to the other side of the deck, trying to see something below the dark surface of the sea. But there is nothing. For the next few minutes, you see absolutely nothing but foam and waves and the reflection of the moon as you squint.
Your boat suddenly rocks, tilting to the left, almost knocking you over in the process. A sudden knock on wood resonates across the vastness of the night. You gasp and shudder when you see the creature in the sea, watching you closely with its forearms crossed over the side of your boat, its strength and size were what made your boat stay tilted.
A man, from what you can tell, with long silvery blonde hair, naturally slicked back by the sea water. He's handsome, as far as you're concerned, but there's something off about his features. They're very sharp, if that made any sense. The half of the pale face that is decorated by that blue stone is marked with an irregular scar from the cheek to the forehead. A few small hoop earrings dangle from his elven ears; golden ornaments emit a soft green glow, casting mysterious shadows over his face. A trio of small, parallel, slightly widened slits sat on each side of the slender neck, looking like the gills of a fish.
A smile wrapped in a mocking stretch of lips dances across his angular face, full of smug satisfaction and pride. He points to the deck with a long, claw-like finger.
It's incredibly difficult to look away from the otherworldly image that he is, but with some effort (and curiosity) you look where he points.
A swordfish half your size struggles violently and agonizes on your deck boards in the final moments of its life. You widen your eyes, trying to take in everything that is happening.
That was for you. A gift.
You know it is. But even the simple act of parting your lips to mutter a thank you is more difficult than anything you've ever done.
"T-thank you." You succeed, after a few seconds of failed attempts.
But the merman (oh god, that's it isn't it? that's what's happening here) nods, pleased with your recognition. You looks away as his long tail ripples the calm waters, breaking the silence of the early morning. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave. The wild nature emanating from him is the most moving image you have ever seen in your entire life.
The need to get closer to him overwhelms you, almost suffocates your airways. It's a compulsion that hurts your inside, that makes you want to scratch your skin until you draws blood.
It's dangerous. You know it is. Nothing that feels so intense and oppressive can be healthy.
And yet, you lower yourself until you're kneeling next to him - from the periphery you notice that the poor fish on your deck has stopped struggling. But your attention is inherently on the unnatural creature in front of you.
“You saved me that night, didn’t you?”
You don't know why this is the first question you ask him.
"Yes," the man says, "I did." His voice sounds as strange as he does; It's rich and deep, and definitely not unpleasant, but it has a sharp, strange edge to it, like it doesn't belong.
You leans a little further out the boat and your gaze descends, taking in the packet of information; the way the milky, pale skin of his muscular chest gradually darkens to a soft shade of gray and then leads towards the sides and back until it joins the complete darkness of the scales below his waist. The firm planes of his pecs and abs are covered in a few scars that almost glow in the moonlight. Your eyes travel over his broad shoulders and toned biceps, marveling at the delicate fin-like structures that protrude from his forearms; before finally settling on his broad hands that are as dark in color as his tail fin, with long, slender fingers that end in sharp claws.
The lewd curve of his lips tells you he already knows everything about you. He knows and he's enjoying your heart-stopping reaction when you realize he knows.
“You’re–” your voice trails off, you can only stare at the man in wonder-terror. It is difficult to distinguish the difference between the two things.
“A merman, yes. What an intelligent human you are,” he says, almost mocking you.
“I thought your species only existed in myths and tales.”
You whisper the truth that has scratched your conscious for a long time.
This must be a dream. A vivid hallucination at the moment of your death; how else could he be real?
You are completely and utterly captivated by him.
But it's impossible to control the startled jump and the mortifying sound that leaves your lips when one of his hands closes around your wrist. You're crawling backwards before you know it, heart beating painfully fast against your chest. Something dark crosses the merman's face, but it soon disappears, leaving only a confused expression.
"Don't be afraid."
God, you should be afraid. Fear is the first feeling you should have, it is the fear that would keep you alive.
But not. You weren't afraid, not really.
"I – I just…"
"I didn't hurt you before, when you were adrift at sea, barely clinging to life. I certainly didn't save you just to hurt you now." With the greater flow of words, you can notice how his voice sounds a little strange coming from his throat. As if he had some unfamiliar accent or was simply not used to speaking.
The silence that falls between the two of you is heavier than lead. His clawed fingers scrape the paint of your boat, but he does nothing more to threaten you.
“No danger comes to you from the sea,” he finally says. His voice is that of the deepest ocean and equally dark. But it carries a promise more solid than the land itself.
This time, when his hand grabs your wrist, you don’t startle. This time, when he presses forward, pulling you towards the edge of the boat, you go with him. You shudder at the contact; the strange heat of his damp hand radiating through your bones, through the fabric of your clothes. You feel the thin membrane at the base between his fingers; and tries to stifle the moan that torments your body. This contact...is not common, not normal. Nothing here is.
From the ocean flashes, pieces of his tail - and it is a dangerous looking tail, the more you look the more you notice, with sharp fins and ridges, a perfect match for the dangerous claws of his hands. The thing parts the water as it writhes, and you can barely estimate its size. The sight itself makes you break out in a cold sweat, but at the same time you can't help but be curious. Unhealthily curious. Fatally curious. You see the flashes of the creature's chiseled, black scales, gills, and fins sprouting and you marvel at the sight.
This is what myths are made of, something bitter and barely clinging to the threads of common sense murmurs inside you. Of mesmerizing songs of creatures, half man, half fish, that drag sailors to the bottom of the ocean towards their death.
Except this time there are no songs.
There's just his two-tone gaze, watching you in a way that sends shivers down your spine. Being looked at by those mismatched eyes is a sharp kind of pain, the kind that cuts through the surface of your skin. The purest ice of his scrutiny collides with your every bulge and vertebra; the sensation makes you step back for a second, until you grit your teeth and move forward, driven by something very primal and instinctive.
Your entry into the sea is silent, or silent enough to be covered by the waves that gently break the side of your boat. You open your mouth to complain: of your clothes now weighing down your body, of the temperature of the water, of the disturbing feeling that you would be drowned by him at any moment...
But it turns out you're not being drowned.
You just stand there, swinging your legs and arms in the familiar swimming motions, without taking your eyes off the creature for even a second. Every atom screaming that you are the prey here, that it is senseless to lose sight of your predator. Not that you'll have any chance if he actually decides to attack.
But it's hard to ignore basic instincts.
He, in turn, just circles you while you swim a few meters away from your boat, taking advantage of the gentle rocking of the waves to carry your body. The water is deep and night has long since fallen. You're cold, on some level, but you barely feel it with the adrenaline surging through your body like flames in a campfire. The merman's shape is absurdly long and, despite his size, he is very agile. He is incessant in his slow movements, twisting and turning around your smaller body, sometimes sinking down and passing under your body. He examines all your angles as if you were an exotic specimen.
You try not to jump when he runs his scary clawed fingers along the curve of your very human, rounded ears. The feeling of scales dragging across your skin makes you shiver.
"Cold?" He growls low, like a storm approaching.
“N-No,” You respond, only half sincerely, trying to ignore the jolt of emotion that his simple touch has on you. Your arms keep pushing and pulling around your body, keeping you afloat.
Aemond's lips part slightly in a smile, enough for you to spot a row of teeth meant to destroy; intended to break bones and tear flesh. Central incisors, lateral incisors and canines, first molar, second molar...all of them; both upper and lower teeth. Sharp, deadly fangs. The mouth of a predator.
You're shaking with the sheer terror of discovery when his fingers trail from your ears to the roots of your hair and then down your neck, where he feels the absence of gills. It's just warm, soft flesh, contrasting with the scales and blackened skin of his hand. He runs his finger along your wrist, slowly and with interest.
“Ugh—” you choke.
He tilts his head at the sound, his one responsive eye squinting and consumed with your reaction. It makes something in you sizzle - heat up. His hands trail further, until they run up your arms. He pulls out your fingers that shake the water beneath the surface and holds them in his right hand, comparing your small, soft fingers to his own long, thick fingers, with claws long and strong enough to tear the rough skin of other predators. His hand is comically larger than yours, shadowing its form as if it belonged to a child. With your hands touching and intertwined, you can feel that the web between his fingers has an almost rubbery texture, with much more movement and elasticity than you could imagine.
He doesn't break eye contact with you.
The long silver strands that frame his striking features begin to dry; and one of them is wrapped around his little hoop earring.
Every detail of him takes the breath from your lungs. And that can't be good.
There is a kind of hypnosis surrounding him, something that confuses your mind and keeps you drifting. Because you blink and the next thing you know his nose is pressed against the wet skin of your cheek, taking in your scent. He breathes in slowly through his nose and stretches, breathes in and breathes out, and your first thought is that he can breathe into you until you fall apart and are claimed by him. The second thought, distant and almost nonexistent, is that he breathes oxygen like you and you can use that knowledge against him and that he is vulnerable and not immortal and--
There's a wetness on your cheek that just wasn't there a few seconds ago. There is a different kind of texture to your skin.
He must have pulled his head away and now you're crying. But the tears don't go up, right? And they certainly don't just cover one side of your face.
But a tongue does.
The walls of every cell in every organ in your body darken and weaken. They are undertaking a self-imposed necrosis, a simultaneous cell death that only happens when the temperature is so low that hypothermia sets in and the brain must sacrifice body parts to divert heat to it and other vital organs to ensure the survival of your body. But you're not cold. Your brain is not cold. You're crashing and electrifying and you're not cold. The rough tongue being dragged down the side of your face is warm and wet and smells like freshly cut roses and sea foam.
His conical lizard tongue crawls up to your ear.
A tingling rash runs down your spine, and your eyes widen so wide in their frozen sockets that you're surprised you can't see around the circumference of the world.
This is wrong. It's wrong.
He can kill you at any moment. He could have been playing with you all this time.
He is everywhere. Like a constant presence. In front of you, behind you and on your sides. His tall mass shadowing your body, his long tail fin gliding and touching your submerged legs with each movement. He could easily end your life here.
But no, he doesn't hurt you.
A wild thought arises in your mind that he won't annihilate you because he doesn't want to. He doesn't want you to get hurt and he doesn't want to be responsible for it. He could demonstrate his dominance with a heavy hand, but he doesn't. Maybe he is actually playing with you and giving you fleeting examples of what life was like before him and what it could be like again if you had the strength to break free from him. Maybe his interest in you is buried by ambition but underlined by scientific curiosity, and he is recording every movement and reaction you generate simply because he wants to learn. It would make sense.
“Aemond. My name is Aemond.”
He whispers close to your ear and this time you can swear you hear a siren song.
Wrong. Wrong.
Your heart trembles like a rockslide in your chest.
“A-Aemond?” You ask, trying to repeat the syllables slowly.
Aemond's violet gaze darkens.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
You don't have a good feeling about this. But, like everything that involves the creature, you are unable to resist.
“Aemond.”
“Again,” he demands, his distorted voice getting quieter.
“Aemond,” you breathe as his face gets closer to yours.
“Again,” he growls. You sob.
“Aemo–” But he doesn’t let you finish.
His mouth is on yours.
There are no slow starts or shy, exploratory movements of his lips against yours. He just kisses you. Hungry. He takes the first opportunity to stick his long tongue into your mouth when you gasp in fright.
The jagged edges of his tongue weren't a trick of the light, you think as you feel hardened ridges brush against your gums and inside your cheeks before he intertwines his tongue with yours like they're old friends.
Your hands come out of the water and grab his shoulders - to push him away, of course - but somehow you end up digging your nails as best you can into that hardened skin as he practically devours you. Without leaving your lips for even a moment, he pushed against you until your back collided with the edges of a rock - and you vaguely wondered how far this creature had made you swim without you even realizing it.
Towering over you with his arms pinning you down, he lets out a low growl as he continues diving for more over and over again, leaving you completely breathless. You think you might be drowning once again, the purest taste of the sea on your tongue preventing any attempt to catch your breath. Only when a long, high-pitched moan leaves your throat does he finally give in, but not without letting his sharp teeth graze your bottom lip before pulling away. The dangerous spikes pierce your delicate skin immediately, and he catches the small trail of blood that runs down with the tip of his tongue.
He moves away a few centimeters, leaving your body panting on the rock; his gaze dark as he watches you through his half-closed eye, lips twisted into a smile too predatory for your comfort.
Your chest flutters like hummingbird wings as you try to catch your breath.
“So fragile.” He states with a dark laugh. Raising his free hand to your face, he wipes the remains of blood from your trembling lower lip with his finger and you can only look at him completely mesmerized (scared? you can't tell) when he takes the digit to his own lips and slowly licks it, keeping your gaze the entire time.
After a moment, he lowers himself again, until his lips are right next to your ear.
“I’ve been watching you for so long,” he says harshly, his breath against your skin sending pleasant shivers down your spine. “Is the sea calling for you, mate?”
He hums when you mumble an intelligible response, licking your jaw with that long, conical tongue. A thin line of fluid from his tongue runs down your neck and seeps under your shirt clinging to your chest. It's warm and rich and crawling slowly, and you wonder if it's dangerous before remembering that you've literally already tasted his saliva in your mouth and it's too late to worry about that now.
It's oppressive. It's too much. The truth bleeds through his question - the sea had called you. You were only here, making this sweet mistake that could result in your death, because the sea had called you.
You feel dizzy. Breathless.
Somehow you manage to move away his embrace and he lets you, he lets you gain some illusory kind of control.
You are in a cave, not just a rock as you had imagined. God, how far had you swum?
It's the entrance to a large, half-submerged cave, with curved walls that stretch into deeper and deeper corridors until you can't see it. But you can see a constellation of small sodium lights shining in front of you, repeating the same chant you heard when he whispered your name. You look around only to see that there is no sign of your boat in sight, it is as if you are in a completely different place, as if you have crossed some kind of secret passage that divides the worlds without even knowing how you got here.
It's not natural. The ice that runs through your body is like nothing you've ever felt before.
He pushes you forward until you are both inside the cave.
In front of you is a rocky ledge and you swim towards it. As you get closer, you see that beyond the edge is another tunnel. You wonder how far this cave goes. You wonder if there is a maze of twisting tunnels and star-studded areas beyond it. You wonder how big this place is and how long Aemond has known about it. You wonder if he created it and brought you here to show it off.
You reach the edge of the rock. He lets you go. You take a deep, calming breath and place your hands on the stone. It feels cold, but stable. You find support points for your feet. You test your position, breathe again and start to climb out of the water. The ledge is not high and soon you will have the upper half of your body free. You support your weight on your arms and prepare to pull your lower body and legs out.
Large arms wrap around your waist.
“Where do you think you’re going,” his voice whispers in your ear, “sweet girl?”
You shudder in his grip and try to free yourself, but you can't. You are trapped. You are completely trapped. His hands are warm and huge and, unfortunately, familiar and welcome. They hold you securely and do not hurt you.
He snuggles into your neck, pushes his broad chest against your back and sings in your ear. “Hmmmm….”
One of his hands starts to caress you. It then moves lazily along your waist and up your back. He stops.
“What are you hiding here, little one?”
His mouth moves away from your ear. The lips trail softly along your cheek, along your jaw, down your neck and upper back to the start of your spine and are warm and soft, and never break contact with your skin. His lips move along the back of your exposed neck until they stop. They get to where the collar of your shirt and cardigan are.
He licks your skin. And bites the fabric. And pull.
In the silent cave the sound of your clothes being ripped apart is like a death sentence.
You choke back a sob and press your hands against the rock, your left cheek against the cold stone.
He waits a moment.
He waits a moment longer.
He waits until you change seats.
He gently releases what's left of your clothes, parting the torn flaps to each side and exposing your smooth back to him. And he places his tongue at the base of your spine. You close your eyes and take a deep breath as you feel it.
His broad tongue covers every part of your exposed skin, from one gap to the next. It feels hotter than before. It's better than anything you've ever felt before. He moves his head to drag his still tongue from your waist to the nape of your neck and it's warm and smooth and almost frictionless, but not quite, not really. The stickiness on his tongue is leaking and leaving a path of moisture for him to return. His tongue is a muscle unlike anything you've ever felt before, and he drags it slowly, slowly, all over your skin and neck, and before you can think about it, you tilt your head in case he wants to access the side.
He wants.
His face presses against yours as he runs his tongue over you and it's not obscene, it's not disgusting. It is not unwanted. He smells like the ocean and smoke and something so ancient that no other language has a name for it.
“We’re not done yet,” he says. “In fact,” he says, as he tilts his mouth toward your ear, “we’ve barely started.”
The blood pulses thickly in your ears. And you are grateful. This is the sound of what should be in your body - the sound of chemicals and hormones and the mechanical processes of your body pumping with adrenaline and preparing to fight, flee or freeze.
The instincts are all there.
But you can't act.
He kisses your ear.
You open your eyes. You can see out of the corner of your eye the outline of his head, his almost dry silver strands, the soft glow of his cerulean eyestone and that long tongue.
You remain silent.
But you don't stand still.
You make a half-hearted attempt to climb further up the edge, to escape his oppressive touch. But he holds you tighter and keeps you in your place.
You feel two sharp stings on your waist and your breath freezes in your lungs and your eyes widen, widen, widen because he's going to cut you. You pushed him too far with that attempt, now you're going to get hurt.
And once again you are wrong.
His huge hands effortlessly wrap around your waist and cover most of your lower body. His thumbs rest on the small of your back, and each of them has a claw at the tip, with a thin, sharp claw that has been whittled by evolution and carved from unknown material.
He pierces you with them.
You tense up in preparation for the double sting and the internal trauma of the duel. His claws are refined weapons, but they are also tools, and he pierces you with just enough force to shatter the material of your leggings. They brush your skin like the touch of a grateful lover and don't break its surface.
With cruel slowness, he places his tongue on your neck again. He drags it down your spine like he's doomed. Maybe he is. You know you are and maybe he is too and this is where you both belong. His tongue runs up over each of your vertebrae and down between your cavities and your skin is fizzing, it's tingling with something sharp. Maybe there is a strange chemical in it that is causing an allergic reaction and soon you will suffer, soon you will start to burn.
He holds you steady and pushes his tongue further down. He squeezes between the top of your leggings and claims all of your skin and goes down, and slower, and lower and the exposed skin you left tightens and still he doesn't stop. He licks you until he can no longer and willingly traps himself between what's left.
In the long second he pretends to consider what he will do next, you take a moment to compose yourself. You take a deep breath. In and out and that's all the time you have before you feel a slight twinge on both sides of your waist. He is gently stabbing you with the tips of his claws. It presses hard enough to pierce the clothing material and not your skin, never your real skin.
He separates your last protection.
With a slow tear of fabric, he tears lines into your pants and takes them apart. His claws graze you, but they never cut you, never hurt you. He peels you carefully and completely, and the cave air penetrates you as if magnetized by him.
The only part of you that's still in the water is your legs below the knees, and that's where he stops cutting. The flaps of your leggings hit your skin, float in the water and you are exposed to him, you are so shamefully exposed to him. He pulls his claws away from your skin and holds you around your waist again. And as you stands there, red-faced and cheek pressed to the stone, you know he's looking straight at your ass. Probably studying the many ways in which you are different from him.
Time passes and the silence persists and you wonder if he's going to use his thumbs to open you. You wonder if he's going to dip a thumb into your buttock and spread you to the side. You wonder if he'll use his other thumb to do the same thing on the other side of you, or if that thumb will stroke your entrance to feel how tight you are and how much wetter he needs to make you before he can--
Oh God. Why are you thinking this??
You can't help but push back into him.
His hands rest on your waist and you really wish you weren’t disappointed by that. You feel him adjust his position behind you. You can't see where his face is, but you know it's now perfectly aligned with where he wants his mouth to be. You feel an isolated heat in your face travel down your neck and chest and you swallow and swallow again and your dry mouth tastes like salt.
He licks you.
You inhale with a strangled meow.
And when you finally need to exhale, when you finally need to breathe again because this compulsion has already replaced the soup of conflicting desires in your head, he licks you again.
This time he licks you slower.
You groan. You wish you had thought to cover your mouth when you let out that sound, but the position you're in means you have to use both hands and arms to hold on to the rock. He deliberately put you like this, you realize. Everything coldly calculated, part of a much bigger plan. He leaned you over the edge so you couldn't escape or adjust or cover your mouth in a token attempt to stay silent.
He licks you again.
And again.
This lick is even slower. And rougher. And you feel much better. Better and better.
He licks you like that again, and again, and again.
His thick, wet tongue slowly licks your entrance. It reaches all the way down your front to your clit and is dragged back down again, and again, and again.
Why try to be quiet? There is no one around to hear you. There is nowhere you can run away. There is nothing beyond him.
The friction you are feeling is sublime. His tongue is the perfect amount of roughness against your sensitive skin and every time he pulls it back, every time he pushes it forward, you feel yourself getting wetter. You're leaking to him and that's a shame. With that thought, you push yourself back before you can think and it's a shame. Every time he circles you, you squirm and don't try to escape him and it's a shame. It's an endless shame.
Your body is unconsciously reacting to physical stimulation, that's all. You've survived certain death by drowning and he's still not killing you, he's not hurting you, and you're so relieved and so flooded with chemical reactions that you're acting on autopilot and all you care about is being alive.
You hold the edge tighter. You feel the warm width of his thick tongue pushing into you. You adjust your position. You feel his length slide back along you and you calculate the last remaining angle and pull yourself forward.
His rhythm falters. It's just for a second. This lasts only as long as it takes your higher brain to tell you that you acted on the exact opposite of instinct just now and that you should be disgusted with yourself. He knows what you want and will give it to you. And he will allow you to take that from him.
He restarts his slow, steady rhythm and you begin an opposite rhythm. Every time he pushes his tongue forward into you, you push yourself back, and every time he drags his tongue back into you, you pull yourself forward.
Back and forth, back and forth, you ride his tongue with deep, panting breaths and it's a shame.
You think his mouth is curled into a smug, bastard smile, but you can't be sure. You can't be sure how long you've been doing this or how long you've been here or how you spell your own last name, because there's a liquid fire spreading particles of lava between your legs and up your stomach and you can't think of anything else, except for how good it feels to bounce on his tongue like that. You're in unfamiliar territory in many ways and you don't have a map, you don't have a way home, so you do what your species has done since the beginning of its creation – you adapt. And improvise. And enjoy the magnificence of being alive in this precise and fleeting moment.
You ride his tongue as slowly as you can bear.
He doesn't change his speed and you're grateful. You fear he will push you to the limit and then leave you, but he doesn't stop and you have to trust him. He took you to these depths and didn't abandon you and now you have to trust him again. You think you have no choice but to trust him, but that thought isn't right, that thought has always been wrong, because you always had a choice. Your life is nothing more than a series of choices about how to react to the expected and unexpected waves that hit you and you are making one of those choices right now.
Pressure, pressure, pressure is contracting and getting hotter and you're feeling so much hotter and your breathing is as ragged as the laps of his tongue are smooth and you're shallow, you're pants quick and shallow, because you're almost there, You can feel like you're almost there and you close your eyes and hope he doesn't go away and hope he doesn't go--
You cum hard and scream something unintelligible into the darkness. You grip the edge so hard that it leaves marks on your palms and you violently push his tongue away and back into his face. He presses his hands to both of your ass cheeks and it hurts, but he also pulls you back to his face and doesn't stop licking you, he doesn't stop moving his tongue.
You need to get over it, enjoy it and recover, but he's not letting you, he's not letting you. You choke and clench your teeth as your orgasm takes over you and a new fire consumes the still scorching remains of the first and it's immediate, everything flows into one, like a river going in one direction.
He needs to stop for a moment to let you recover and start again, but he's not doing that. He won't let you go anywhere but over the edge and he's licking you, he's still licking you, his tongue is nothing but rough, wet licks against your clit and soaking your entrance and he's not stopping, he's not stopping.
You tense and moan and wish he would give you just a moment to recover, but this feels so good, everything feels so good. No one has ever had the desire or the resistance to do this to you and you like it. You like it much more than you should. Maybe the novelty will wear off soon, but now, in this magnificent fleeting moment, you're still high and you're still riding him, and you can't remember when you started rocking against his tongue again, but you are, you are.
You rock on him and he licks you and you hold on tight to the edge and moan so loud it borders on a scream.
You cum with a violent shudder. Your grip on the edge of the rock is cutting deeper lines into your palms and it hurts.
And he doesn't stop.
Fear hits you with a different flavor. You wonder if he's going to do this to you until you pass out. If it will continue until after that. He will pleasure you until it becomes torture and he won't stop. Not until you lose consciousness or offer your soul in exchange or answer his question about whether the sea is calling you...
Your eyes focus on that thought. Maybe that's all he wants from you – an answer. And this is the playful and cruel way to get it from you.
But he doesn't give you a chance to think of a response because he's adjusted the position of his head and now his tongue is moving again.
You’re so wet that his tongue finds no resistance whatsoever as he pushes into you.
You gasp again and grip the edge even harder and it hurts more, but the pain quickly disappears.
He rolls his tongue inside you. He rolls it up and shoves it inside you, as well as down your throat. Except he can put more of himself inside you now, as bizarre as that sounds. His tongue is thick and although the tip is thinner, the rest of it certainly isn't and he thrusts into you without remorse and you're getting tight now, you're getting tight but the muscle is wet and so are you and he pushes still more.
Hands on either side of your ass spread you wider.
Another inch of his tongue penetrates you. Still keeping you open so wide that your muscles start to ache, he pulls you back into him. He pulls you down onto his face and tongue while pushing the thing up.
A long stream of noise is escaping your parted lips like an uninterrupted supply of air bubbles escaping and you're talking loudly, you must be making a lot of noise. Squeaky noises and insurmountable sobs.
His tongue now reaches so deep inside you it’s obscene. This must be dangerous. This must be harmful to your health. You wonder how you will suffer because of this, because one way or another you will suffer, you are sure you will. You wonder how far he has stuck his tongue inside you and how it will feel.
He pulls you back to him and you don't try to fight it.
He licks you. The tip of his tongue licks your walls and you feel your toes twitch and curl under the water.
He pushes further into you. He's deep now. He's deep in it and he's feeling strange and also good and you're not sure if he should be so far away, you're not sure here in this cave. You stand your ground and try not to move.
He tightens his grip and pulls you even closer to him.
Your next moan is accompanied by a slight pain and an embarrassment that it is only 'slight'. You should be writhing in agony. You should be sobbing and biting your lip into bloody chunks. He's deeper than any previous partner has ever been, than any human could physically be. You should be hitting the rock below and scraping your palms in your desperate attempt to free yourself.
He licks you again and your toes curl tighter.
Once you're completely impaled on his tongue, he removes one hand from your ass and extends it in front of you. He puts it on your clit. But he doesn't rub or caress.
He just leaves it there.
And then you realize.
If you want the pressure and pleasure of being touched there, you'll have to do the work yourself. You'll have to take it from him while he holds you in place.
So you do.
You resume your familiar rhythm of rocking against him as much as possible. His finger is wide and, like his tongue, seems to dominate every part of you. But, unlike the tongue, the finger is smaller and more concentrated in one place. The air inside the cave is condensed and humid and when you pull your hips you feel a strong resistance and it is pleasant. You rub his finger and rock back to change the angle of his tongue inside you and it feels so good.
You rub his finger and rock back to keep changing the direction of his tongue inside you and push it down so that he presses against your ceiling and it feels better than good. You do it again, and again, and again, and it feels so good and lewd and forbidden that you're thankful you know his name so you can scream it out.
He squeezes your ass tightly when he hears it and makes every effort to help you keep your balance as you fuck yourself into him.
It doesn't take long for your eyes to close and your mouth to open and a scream pours out of you like oil on fire.
He holds you tight to him as you sigh, pant, squeeze and take it.
It takes a long time.
Your muscles gradually begin to relax and you eventually open your eyes, and your breathing rate finally returns to normal and that's when he starts all over again.
You moan and he ignores you and presses small slow circles on your clit with the finger that was still until then and his tongue is moving again, it's fucking moving again.
He's twisting everywhere he can reach in a constant routine of up, down and back and curling, the tip is curling and pressing and his finger is rubbing you like he can't fully trust you to do the job properly yourself, so now he's taking over to show you how it's done.
His rhythm is exquisite.
Your eyes are tightly closed and your face is grimacing against the surface of the wet rock and your muscles are rigid and there is a new tainted fire growing within you and it will consume you and all the water in all the oceans of the world will not be able to to put this. His finger and tongue work out of sync with you and don't stop and don't stop and don't stop and don't stop and now you think you're actually screaming.
You cum for the fourth time and your vision disappears. Little white stars pulse against the black texture of your eyelids and your breathing is loud and ragged and your mouth is dry and your heart is stuttering and you want (need) to drink some water. You want to rest.
His tongue flicks inside you and you whimper. He's definitely smiling at you. You can feel the curve of his lips against your skin. His finger starts moving again.
You grip the edge tighter and try to stand up and you don't feel any resistance from him. He's not trying to stop you. You pause for a second. And then you rise a little and have no choice but to rest. You can't catch your breath. You can't focus your trembling muscles. You can't extinguish the heat that's building in the pit of your stomach and that you can't seem to kill. You can't tell your body to stop betraying you and make it listen.
With an enormous effort of will, you rise even higher onto the edge. His tongue is still embedded in you. His finger is still making slow, perfect circles into you. His hand is still around your waist, supporting you as you stand, but not helping you do so. He will not let you fall, but he will not help you climb higher. It's up to you how far you want to climb or how deep you want to fall. It's up to you to decide if you want to stay where you are and put your life on pause again.
Maybe he knows the difficulty of facing an insurmountable peak. Maybe he learned the hard way that you can only trust yourself. Maybe he knows that the prize at the top isn't worth it, but the struggle, the victories and the attention when trying are what really count.
Maybe he just wants to feel you squirm even more on his face.
Because that's what you're doing. You're trying your hardest to get to dry land and trying hard not to scream in frustration or pleasure and you're failing in all three aspects and he knows it, he knows it. He knows you.
No.
He just thinks he knows you.
With a powerful thrust that sends a wave of white hot pain through every muscle in your arm, chest and back, you lift your body out of the water and fall to the edge and don't stop, don't you dare rest until you reach the edge, pulling and scraping the rock below - away from the edge, as far as you can stand and keep going, the muscles in your body burning and you keep going, keep moving, until your body shuts down. and you think you may have passed out from exhaustion.
A cold, rough stone presses against your cheek and you take a deep breath, as if you were a dying fish that had been sacrificed to the earth.
His tongue slides out of you.
You grit your teeth and hiss as the long length slides out of you. He has been following you. With every exhausting step of yours, he was there, clinging to you like a symbiosis. And only now it is interrupting your connection. He takes his time doing this. And in turn, he gives you plenty of time to rejoice and mourn his loss.
The tip of his tongue finally leaves you and you fall back to the ground for the second time. You didn't realize you were clenching your muscles so hard and arching as he withdrew. There is a great empty pain inside you now that he is gone. And at the bottom of this cave that is your body, there are coals that still glow. They did not receive enough fuel to ignite and burn, and it took too little time for them to die. They want more. They want to burn. They want it. They want him back. You want him back.
And that's how you know you're completely and undeniably fucked.
He takes his finger off you. You had forgotten he was still with you.
You hear him stick that finger in his mouth.
And only when you lift your eyes and meet his - only when you look at that narrow violet pool and the inert blue stone for more than a fleeting instant, does he suck it.
You close your eyes at him. He's too much to accept. This is all too much to accept. Maybe that never happened. Maybe this isn't happening. Maybe you're floating half-dead in a moonlit ocean and these are the final images your dying brain is displaying before it implodes. None of this can be real.
“Good, wasn’t it?” He doesn't ask you. He tells you, without any need for confirmation after four world-shattering orgasms.
He rests his hand on your waist and you tense up. He doesn't move it. He does not speak. He allows you to rest, recover and relax as much as you want. Which is disturbingly more than you'd like. The air in the cave is warm and soothing against your damp, red skin. The gentle lapping of the water against the ledge below you is soothing to your ears. The feeling of his hand on you is like a heavy blanket and it's comforting to your heart.
You swallow. And you can't open your eyes. You have always had a choice in everything in your life and now you are choosing to do nothing. You are very tired. And overloaded. And confuse. And restless. But resolved.
His hand presses against you gently, just a small increase in pressure. You know he is alerting you to his presence and reminding you that he is still here. He still has you. He's still waiting. He hasn't had his turn yet.
“Tell me,” he drawls, as you feel his face get closer to yours. He smells of warmth, ancient times and magnificence. "What would you like to do now, little human?"
You feel insignificant and invincible at the same time.
Your heartbeat is strong and steady behind your ribs. The muscle faced an unknown trauma, but this helped it to came out stronger. Your lungs inflate and deflate into your chest. They have a heavy hand on them, but they can bear the weight. The muscles in your body ache, pulse and become electrified. They were stretched and burned, but their efforts made them stronger.
Your resilience will make you stronger.
You squint your eyelids.
You have made your decision.
And you open your mouth to tell him.
“Aemond… please…” you whimper, his silent pressure making your head spin.
"Please what?" he asks, feigning innocence.
“More,” you pant, “I want more of you-”
You open your eyes fully and find the violet gaze and blue stone inches from your face. You breathe in surprise, but you can only inflate your lungs superficially because he puts both hands on your waist and that stops them. He freezes your lungs with his huge warm hands and is now dragging you back down, making all your previous efforts useless.
He drags you back down slowly and gently. He's the warped ocean you know you shouldn't swim in.
But you can't resist. And he knows. He smiles even more. You can feel the tainted heat radiating to your back. He continues to carefully pull you back into the water, and you continue to ignore the thoughts that offer you a sliver of hope that you will escape this.
You are wrong.
...
He is patient.
You are very wrong.
You always had a choice in this.
And now you've done it.
...
He kisses your neck softly. And drags you back to the starting position. Your feet are once again submerged in the water and your upper body is supported by your arms on the rock below. Only this time he's supporting you too. He wraps a long, strong arm around your front. But he is not standing still. He is adjusting and making methodical movements with his arm position. He's experimenting. He's testing something. He's determining the best way to hold his arm to protect you from the rough rock below before he starts moving.
Your blood cells swell and your heart rate increases.
You know what comes next. You know what he's going to do to you.
There is a thickness to the atmosphere that you can taste and it is all consuming. Your mouth is half open and you're already panting. You are tense. And you make a token effort to move. Escape. But he easily keeps you in place.
He doesn't try very hard to stop you, and that's because you don't try very hard to escape. You should do it. You really should do this. But you don't. You could tell yourself that it's because you're exhausted and that any attempt to escape will be futile. Except you don't know that. You’re not sure if he would have stopped you from leaving. You’re not sure he’d force you into anything you didn’t want. But you know you don't want to face the hard truth of it. You know you can lean on the crutches of physical and mental exhaustion for as long as you want.
The hand in front of you starts to move. Start stroking slowly. He spent time with you and now it's his turn, and since he gave, now it's time to receive. Your shirt and cardigan torn in the back rub against you as he moves his hand over your chest, the fabric wet against your wet skin. He sticks his fingertip into the collar of your shirt. He pulls it forward, freeing up space for him to slide his finger along your neck, as if he's tracing the outline of a necklace he wants to place there. It's disturbing how undisturbed you are by the idea.
Once the strokes are complete, he moves his finger from your neck to your shoulder, down your arm to your wrist. He helps you free your arm from clothes.
He could easily snatch it away from you. He could carve lines with the precision he demonstrated when he opened access to you from behind. But this specific way will take more time. That way, you will need to help him. This way it will be more fun. He wants your participation as much as possible.
You force your left arm to shed the second skin of fabric.
He places his fingertip on your fingertip and presses it with the slightest push. His finger is as wide as two of yours, black as coal. He runs his finger along your finger. Go back over your hand. Goes back along your arm, up the shoulder, and up to the neck. He ignites a field of nerves as he slowly moves along you.
You help him free your other arm.
Your body should already be shutting down in tired self-preservation, not preparing for what's to come. You can't fight him and you can't escape over the edge. He is very powerful and you are very tired, tired of what your body has been through and how many times your head is calling you a liar. He rolls your clothes down your chest. And down your stomach. And down your hips. The remaining rags of your shirt and cardigan slide through the water, swept out of sight.
Your entire upper body is now naked and exposed.
He traces patterns with his fingers, his claws carefully controlled. They feel smooth, safe, precise and electrifyingly strange. The tension in your skin doesn't ease and your body doesn't cool down. It's burning hotter, actually. It's burning stronger. Aemond writes a message on your skin in a language you can't read, like ancient runes - you don't know how to read it, but you can understand it clearly.
His hands move down you slowly. They grab the tattered remains of your leggings around your hips and pull them down. Down your thighs, knees, calves, ankles, feet. He throws away the ruined fabric, along with your boots. From afar, you hear a soft, echoing noise as it hits the water.
You are completely naked in the depths. This is not good. This is exciting. This is inevitable.
He places both hands on your waist and adjusts his position behind you. You are hot and wet and skin and muscle and will, because you want this, because you don't want this, because you want not to want this.
He spends his time running his hands up and down your sides. Maybe he wants you to make noise. To ask him for something. To beg him for something. You bite your lip and hold tight to the sharp edges of the rock. He slides a hand down you, fingers wrapping around your thigh and intertwining easily. He opens your leg. You bite your lip harder. He puts his other arm around your front. His arm covers most of your torso and will absorb shock and friction when you rubbed against the rock. You feel a warm firmness pressing against your entrance.
You close your eyes. And open them again. You don't know if it's worse to imagine what's about to happen or risk seeing flashes of it. Even if you're facing a dark cave and can only see the edges of him behind you, flashes of silver hair cascading down.
He towers over you. In one smooth movement, it rises and penetrates you, like a sea serpent breaking the surface of your world without any further warning. You gasp and hold on tight as his cock slides into you. You're well prepared and you're wet, so so wet, ridiculously wet, but he's not taking any time now, he's already given you that. Enough patience.
His cock is firmer than his tongue, but it's just as hot. It is equally wide. It is equally long. He pushes further into you, an inch at a time, and you gasp louder and pant faster as he fills you. You accept this more easily than you'd like, even though it stretches you beyond anything you've ever experienced. Your body was prepared for this, it's true, but so was your mind.
Your filthy, traitorous mind.
His grip on your thigh tightens and he lifts you up a little to get more access to your insides and as he takes you as he pleases, you can't help but wonder if his cock is as long as his tongue. You wonder which one will feel better when he reaches the end and starts moving inside you. You wonder if you could take both of them inside you at the same time. You close your eyes tightly and groan at the thought. You push yourself down. It's inevitable.
He pushes upward and doesn't stop and doesn't stop and hits something inside you with a hiss that sounds like rain. And even though your mind wants more and more, you feel like you can't take any more.
It's almost painful.
A slight feeling of panic washes over you as you begin to struggle to accept him.
“Aemond–” you pant heavily between your thrusts, “I–I don’t think I can, this won't–”
His control over your body increases.
“Oh yes, this will...,” he growls, as if he knows your body better than you do, “now stop squirming and just take it like a good mate, little human.”
God, that again.
Mate.
What does he mean with--
Suddenly, your shoulder explodes in white-hot pain as he sinks his sharp teeth into your flesh and you forget everything. A bloodcurdling scream escapes you. The strength of his jaws is so strong that you fear he might bite a piece out of you.
With one final cruel thrust, his hips snap hard against you as he bottoms out inside you, and your scream turns into an unhinged moan as you cum from the sheer sensation of being filled to the brim, at the absolute limit of your strength, the mind numbing pleasure only heightened by the pain of his bite.
Grunting, he holds himself still against you as your walls squeeze him with impossible strength, trapping him as your body spasms until the last wave of your orgasm washes over you.
Finally, his mouth releases from your shoulder and he turns your drunk, barely conscious face to him with a violent grip on your jaw.
His gaze is absolutely wild and unhinged, and your blood drips from his teeth and lips and stains all over his pale chin as he gives you a smile that is crazed; to say the least.
"See? I told you. I had no doubt that you would be able to take me, you were made for this..." he laughs softly.
His hand slides down your stomach, resting on the bulge that has formed on your abdomen.
"And look at this...you took every last inch. What do humans say anyway? Oh yes...you're a such good girl, huh?" he purrs, almost mockingly in your ear before pressing down on the bulge that his cock he created, eliciting another scream of pleasure from you. You're so sensitive and overstim right now, and everything is too much; but something seems to have popped into your mind the second he sank his teeth into you.
You're completely at his mercy and you can't even try to care anymore.
You're trying to catch your breath as you hold tight to the edge and work to adjust your body and your mind, because it's too much, everything is too much, every single thing about him is too much. He takes his hand off your chin and places it on the rocky ledge right next to yours. Your fingers brush against each other. He tightens his grip on the rock and crashes into you. You press your hand to the stone next to his and make a low, drawn-out sound that could be pain, pleasure, fear, or elation. There's no point trying to keep quiet.
He slides out and pushes back in. He's not fast and he's definitely not brutal, but he's relentless in his thrusts. He's wanted this for a long time and now he's finally getting it. Now he's finally with you.
He fucks you with undeserved confidence and a silent ego that smiles like it's screaming. He knows you want what he's giving you and he knows you don't want to admit it. Maybe he knows as well as you about not admitting what someone really wants.
He doesn't say much while ruining your body; maybe due to lack of habit, maybe due to sheer boredom of making an effort. Or maybe because he just doesn't need it. Maybe he knows you don't need his words.
Your two-way communication is the lapping of water on your body and the squeezing of your fingers. It's a quick, panting breath and you understand each other. You don't want to, but you understand. He's been in your head for a long time and now he's here in person and you want it, you want to be here. Right here, inside this secret cave, hidden in another world as far as you know.
In a cave lit only by an unknown luminescence and the blue pulse of his stone gaze. You don't know how big the cave is. You don't know how far this goes. You are a small speck in a world of darkness with a rocky ledge in front of you and a creature of myth and legend behind you. He holds you carefully as he fucks you and protects you from being scratched against the rock.
He presses his face into the back of your head and picks up the pace. He's wide and big, and even with your legs apart you can feel the scales of his tail fin drag against your skin with each thrust.
You are breathing deeply now, breathing deeply through your mouth. His cock slides out, presses and grinds against you again and again and again and now you're starting to see stars of your own creation, they're shining sodium white against your eyes. He placed you at a perfect angle so you can't escape or accidentally change position. He's reaching all the spots inside you that have been dormant and is now claiming them as his own.
He'll end up inside you, you know he will. You moan at this, a prolonged, high pitched sound that is submerged by the animalistic sounds he is making in your ear. His hands grip the rock and the flesh around your breast tightly and you wince at the sound his claws make as they scrape the stone, as well as in reaction to the near pain of the same claws on your soft flesh as he pushes up again, and again, and again. You're being filled perfectly, and there's something thrilling and forbidden about being dominated in the dark like this, by a creature that shouldn't even be real.
You wonder if he would stop if you told him you didn't really want this. You think he can. It wouldn't be as much fun to dominate someone who is crying for the wrong reasons. He is not a sadist. He is an opportunist. A strategist. He already knew you wanted this before it even started.
He wants to rule you. He really wants to rule you, but only if you bend the knee to him of your own free will, without threats and chains.
When he slides out of you, he does so carefully. When he pushes back inside you, he does so with precision. When your body changes position, he readjusts you, so that the next time his cock hits its target perfectly and you press into his arm for support and he's all you think about and everything that you feel. He wants to make you scream. He wants you to scream just for him. That's the challenge and the reward and that's what he's going to get from you, you know that's what he needs.
His arm around your breast tightens as he moves closer to you, licking away the blood still leaking from his bite. His breathing becomes more ragged as he climbs into you. His grip on the rock grows more desperate as he climbs onto you. He's holding you tighter, he doesn't want to let you go. You've become his anchor in this storm of his own making and it's taking him by surprise, it's clear. He's shaking and trying not to show it. He's gritting his sharp teeth and trying not to show it. He wants to go faster and harder, but he doesn't want to break you and he's trying not to show it.
You really don't know how you are so sure of this. You just know.
You place your hand over his.
He pushes you away and you dig your nails hard into his scaly skin. It doesn't do him any harm. You know it doesn't hurt him.
He tightens his arm around your torso and pulls you closer to him and buries his face in your neck. You're breathing quickly and deeply and making sounds without abandon, but your head is clear. Your thoughts are sharp and focused. He's falling apart behind you and you like it. He's moaning and trying to kiss your neck, but he can't aim properly as he moves in and out of you and you like it.
You like that he's coming apart.
You caress his fingers with a stutter caught in your throat, a new kind of euphoria coursing through your body, something primal. “I want - I need…” you try to tell him what you want, but you can’t.
This doesn't matter because, once again, he reads your mind and if you don't find your words in the correct order, he will rearrange them for you. “I know,” he says, his mouth hot and wet with your blood rubbing against your ear, the silky strands of silver in your line of vision, smelling of fire and salt and desire. "I know." You don't know how he knows, but you know he knows. He knows what you want.
He doesn't stop.
You're melting inside – hot and wet and slippery, and he doesn't stop. He will never stop. He will do this with you until the end of time, and that is how you will leave this world.
He's drooling all over you, slobbering on your soft skin like a predator. His desperate sounds have stopped and he's just drooling down your neck, unable to spare the energy or intellect to form words and sounds and he's been reduced, shrunk back to baser instincts as his world contracts and hardens into pure sensation. You stroke his hand again, slowly and lazily, before gripping his fingers tightly - just because you can. You feel his open mouth stretch further around your neck, right at your pulse point. You're not worried that he's going to bite you there, he knows about what he can and can't do to you. And this is just the sigh of the desperate and the dying. Of the cursed and neglected, condemned to something beautiful but obscene.
Every part of him tenses and tightens and he hisses and growls and cries and actually begs and he doesn't stop, he doesn't stop, he doesn't speed and he doesn't slow down and he doesn't stop and everything folds in on itself and confines itself to this very moment and he screams and you scream and there's a flash of light that blinds you. He ends within you and it is magnificent, it is ecstasy, the divider of realities. He makes you hotter and wetter and fills you up even more and it's out of this world.
You hang your head and groan, trying to think of how you will regain your balance. He lowers his head next to yours, and you know he’s thinking the same. He doesn't move for a long time. You don't move for a long time. The two of you don't move for what seems like a long time. You will never be cold again. You will never feel empty again.
Eventually, he lets go of you. His claws, his hands, his arms, his chest, his penis, one thing after another comes loose from you with careful precision. However, there is something behind these movements. There is another gentle flavor of thought. He presses his face against yours, slides his pale cheek against yours slowly and you inhale the obvious taste of his indecision.
He's deciding what to do with you.
You want to feel scared. But you don't feel it.
Time slides slow and lazy, like molasses between your fingers. You don't know how long the two of you stay there, silently contemplating your future. You don't try to interfere in his decision, you don't think you would have the strength to do so. Your tired eyes are almost completely closed, pushing you towards some much-needed sleep.
However, he makes up his mind at some point.
You feel the edges of your consciousness blurred as he wraps you in his strong arms, pulling you until you're straddling his back, legs wrapped around his scaly waist and your head hanging limply on one of his broad shoulders.
You inhale the scent of his silver hair and tighten your arms around his neck as best you can.
He doesn't sink with you, at least not while you're conscious. He glides through the water with his long, powerful tail fin, propelling the two of you through the sea for what feels like minutes. But it's all very imprecise for you, reality and fantasy seem to mix and, at some point, you lose geographical notion. It's as if you've blinked and slept at some point, missing the portal that separates these worlds; one moment you two were in the mysterious cave and the next you could spot your old boat again.
You notice, more calmly than you should, that your hair is wet, the drops slide down your forehead and the bridge of your nose; indicating that Aemond dived with you at some point. And you have no memory of it. It's a weird thing that you decide to think about later - you don't have much energy left at the moment to waste on it.
You're drowsy when he takes you in his arms, slowly and carefully, and helps you sit on the deck of your boat, your legs still in the water.
Naked, wet and a survivor of contact with a mythological creature.
You have your eyes closed when he rests his hands at your sides and bumps his nose against yours. He kisses your mouth then. He presses his salt-soaked lips against yours, purring when you respond immediately, opening your mouth for him. The sensation of his long tongue surprises you once again, but you accept it enthusiastically, curling your smaller one against it. You let him scrape his fangs across your lips, let him lick your blunt teeth, let him suck your lower lips...
He pulls away so you can breathe, but he doesn't get very far. Instead he lowers his head to press his mouth to your ear. The eight words he whispers to you are what make you open your eyes. You repeat them to yourself and you know he's not lying.
The hairs on the back of your skin explode in icy fire.
He inhales your scent, licks the marks of his teeth on your shoulder, squeezes your waist and sinks beneath the waves like a missile primed for action. He does not unnecessarily prolong his farewell. He doesn't make any noise. He's there and then he's no longer.
The night air is cold and calm, sending goosebumps across your naked body. The sky is the same color as when you left it. The moon is the same size and brightness. It's like you never came down. But you did. You know you did. You don't need to focus on the pleasant throbbing of your muscles, or the warm ache between your legs, or the lightness of your heart to know that everything has happened.
You roll onto your back. You goes, with patient and sleepy steps, to the cabin; where you puts on a coat twice your size and starts your boat's engine. You take your time, you basically let the waves bring you back to the dock. Let the waves carry you gently back to dry land, as if you were an emperor returning home after completing a journey no one thought you would survive.
When you reach the village, you walk home under the bright spotlight of the moon. It's another thing that doesn't leave you. The cove is hidden once again as you turn a corner and return to the world of concrete buildings, heavy gravity, and wide open spaces. You repeat the last eight words he said to you.
The words that answered your unfinished question of what would happen now. The question you always knew the answer to, but wanted confirmation from him. You smile like steam rising from water, soft and curled and lazily satisfied. You transformed from one state of matter to another and are now finally free, shaped by his promise.
“Don’t worry, mate. This isn’t going to end.”
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Tagging: @croatianprincess @delilah1990 @fan-goddess @hanihoney88 @supmymainhuman @navyblue-eternity @gothicxs @toodlesxcuddles @loving-enemy @ostricx @azperja @echos-muses @thedamewithabook @schniiipsel @snowprincesa1 @nezzlysixx @maximizedrhythms @maviee @ammo23 @dark-night-sky-99 @deeeeexx @hotdsworld @darylandbethfanforever9 @malfoytargaryen @qyoquixote @pick95 @moonxhunt @tired-ninfa @fcbformulaeri @daydreamy-me @vyctorya @lovelymoonkiid @babyblue711 @zondereleutheromania @diosademuerte @spookymicrowave @wintrr13 @namelesslosers @chainsawangel @beautbuck @arcielee @ratfromdeepspace @brianochka @greenowlfactif @qyburnsghost @rwdkarla @dontforgetoctober3rd @violetexpress1
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Had a vision about Alucard in a rockstar AU so i decided to make it everyone's problem <3
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 7
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A/N: I feel like an ass for posting this one, surely I am cockblocking, but this slow-burning is here for a reason! Enjoy regardless! Mentions of anatomy and some language, Y/N gets drunk and nearly blurts all.
Summary: To be loved is to be changed.
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Chapter 7
In the day, Adrian was as glorious as the sun. At night, as beautiful and haunting as the moon and its glow.
In the month you had been in the castle, you had turned the once secluded castle into a living, existing place, for you and Adrian to simply ignore the rest of the world in. It had grown not to resemble a tattered and destroyed ruin, but instead, a place Adrian could call home once again.
Adrian himself had flourished in his skin once more: where you found him to take up hobbies when you were not with him. Before was once a man, lonely beyond an age before the age of twenty, losing his parents and closest allies, now, a man you could look upon with admiration and pride. He had grown out from his enclosed shell, opening his heart to a stranger, trusting you with his life unlike those who betrayed him.
It hurt more to know that this was your final day.
You feared for Adrian’s wellbeing, whether he would grow reclused after you left him, or would he rather thrive with your farewell?
You had grown recluse yourself from the Dhampir, finding closure in the fact that you would never look upon the face of Adrian ever again. Where could you go apart from as far out from Wallachia? Nowhere was safe for a girl like me. You told yourself when you wished you could explain to Adrian—though the words would always freeze on your tongue any time you tried bringing it up.
It seemed that Adrian had almost forgotten about the promise too, and you couldn’t help but feel guilt when he spoke of promises he wanted to do for you.
“I’ll show you one day the town nearby,” he said one night, curled up by the fire as he stared into its flames. “I know you’d like it. We could buy anything you’d like: spices, dresses, jewellery.”
He spoke of a future not just with him alone, but with you co-existing beside him, and it thrilled and destroyed you to know that this promise would crumple like sand.
The day came for you to leave, silently waking with dried tears still stinging your red eyes. You had spent all that night crying before you fell to sleep, dreaming of being with Adrian, laughter shared and memories to be made. You had even kissed him, your heart fluttering as he muttered words softly in your words that gave away he did not want you to go.
'Always and forever.' His words were soft and dying in the air when you faced the morning, and your lips could still feel his against yours, a dying dream never to be lived.
You tip-toed around to not wake Adrian, gathering anything you could and folding neatly the dresses you had been given to him. They were too lovely to be ruined and deserved to be in a place that could keep its beauty.
The only things you carried on you were the same dress you came to the castle in, rags that had been sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for the day you would have to wear them. The air grew heavy with a feeling of forlorn as you walked to find the kitchen, setting yourself by the counter and waiting for the person you dreaded to upset.
It was not long until you heard familiar footsteps drawing closer, familiar honey-blond locks coming into view as the man appeared. It snapped your heart in two to see the softness in his golden eyes as if you were better than the sun itself and you were his star. That all fell apart when his smile dropped, the uncertainty washing over his face when he saw the glumness on your face.
“Has something happened?” He did not waste two seconds stepping closer towards you, giving a small gap between the two but enough that you could be up close to him. In the four weeks, it had taken some time for Adrian to grow used to touch once again, always coiling away from your closeness, before he had taken the time to build trust and reciprocate first. "Y/N?"
He was quick to reach out to you first, extending for your arm as he pulled it towards him. He was warm to the touch, and you dared not want to look upon his concerned gaze without knowing you would blubber into a mess once again.
“You remember the promise, correct?” You lamented, watching for a moment as he took in your words carefully. It was as if everything poured through just from the question, and you could just about read every emotion visible in his eyes; melancholy, regret, grief.
“Where will you go?” His voice was quiet. Don’t go, it read in his eyes.
It didn’t dawn on you, no matter how many times you came to think of it. “Some place where it is warmer, perhaps east. But that means…” your voice cracked momentarily, “Wallachia will not be a home for me.”
“But how do you know?” His calmness cracked, and beneath you could see the grief-stricken man appear, though you did not think he would be holding concern for you of all people.
You didn’t want to answer his question, despite the unknowing questions that boiled, the silence was deafening, and it hammered in your chest like the chiming of a hammer.
“I will have to leave whilst there is still light,” you squeezed Adrian’s hand before it slipped from his, “Thank you for allowing me to use your library, and… to call you a dear friend.”
You didn’t know if that pained you more to call him a friend when your feelings had bloomed for him during your time there. A friend was the only thing you could call him: why would he want anything else with you? He’s immortal, he will have lovers come and go, but none will ever be you.
“Don’t,” he called to you when he stepped out of his reach, not expecting him to call you. Your name was a whisper on his tongue, hanging in the air as if he wished to say something more to you, “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I would be overstaying here, Adrian.” You could feel tears slip from your face, but you braved not to look at him, even when you knew he was staring at you. “You said a month-”
“Please,” there it was. Pain in his voice in the way he pleaded, desperate and gentle that you didn’t think you’d see this side of him, “I don’t think… living within these walls would ever feel the same with you gone.”
He stepped out to you again.
Closer.
His hand gingerly found your chin, raising your head to meet his gaze, delicately wiping the tear collecting at the corner of your right eye. You were both silent, only staring at one another, and never did you think anyone would stare at you the way he did with you.
“You wish for me to stay?” Forever?
Your mother had told you what that feeling would be like, though she had been young and never knew the experience herself. Did Alucard’s parents experience the same when they first met?
That feeling grew within your chest, butterflies you couldn’t stop from feeling: the great emotion that one day would bless you in having. Why was it that the moment you had to leave was when it came?
‘People come and go,’ your mother told you one day when you asked about it, naïve and full of hope. ‘It hurts when it grows for those you care for.’
Yes, you understand now why it came at this moment and all the times before.
It hurt.
Love hurt when it was about to leave for the first and final time.
It was his smile, so gentle and warm, so inviting and bright – full like the sun and the beginning of spring – that you could not decline his offer.
“I would very much like that.”
-
Telling yourself you had gotten used to the castle was an understatement.
The rooms you were more familiar with were the ones you kept to, never straying that much to explore. You knew that there were many rooms even Adrian never went into, telling you that they held too many memories, either good or bad.
You were understanding, knowing how much the castle – his childhood home – could hold a lot of disturbance to what he went through. He told you one day that his childhood bedroom was off limits: it was after all, where he had killed his father. He mentioned it was a place too “dampened with gloom” that you knew something else had happened for him to keep that part of the castle off-limits.
It had only gotten the best of you when you told Adrian you were going to do some cleaning, leaving him as he cooked in the kitchen.
You sprinted with much glee and inquisitiveness: the endless hallways could lead you anywhere!
Roaming the halls, you remembered to stay away from the rooms you were not allowed to go to, including his old and current bedroom. It was quite easy to get lost, taking to the upper floors, where the light grew dimmer, more eerie.
The rooms as you found them didn’t hold much for you to be intrigued until you passed what was another room in another endless hallway, you spotted that this room had its door ajar.
This was certainly a room you had not been told of by Adrian.
Bravely, the room seemed to be more of an intrigue to you than any other room. Slowly peeling the door back, you stepped through.
The room is dimly lit, with a sense of sweet orange that lingers in the air. It’s his scent, sweet, alluring, inviting; just like what surrounds you. There are books of all assortments: astronomy, philosophy, ecology, history – to name a few. Knowledge spanning from decades to thousands of years back, of all cultures and dynasties long gone and remaining. Maps hung around the room, some of the entirety of Europe, the world and one finally above his desk of Wallachia.
It took longer to find literature, where you find poetry, prose, children’s stories and old fables. You’re shocked when you stumble across some romance novels, not expecting that to come from Adrian.
His desk is a display of many things: papers, books, and journals. You dare not look in his journals knowing his work is private, but something catches your gaze. Since when was Adrian into drawing?
You find one first that makes you pick it up, a sketch of his mother, only a fine-line sketch that is only shaded and not with much detail, but you recognise her from the portraits that decorate the castle.
Will you be needing a muse anytime soon? You think to yourself, jokingly. You knew it was rude to snoop, and knowing you had come across Adrian’s study, you knew you had the best chance to look around when he wasn’t there.
But when you find his sketchbook, all nosiness takes over.
The leather-bound book is beautifully decorated, with its pages filled to the brim from use. The beginning of the pages were those you recognised simply by objects that Adrian used for inspiration: a stag beetle shell, many plotted plants and flowers some you recognised from your mother’s herbs. You read the dates that dated back to almost a decade ago, impressed by his skill at such a young age.
The more you draw the pages further into the book, the older the dates get, and his practice grows. His inspirations change from objects to anatomy. You’re impressed by the way Adrian draws the human body so well. Some sketches of hands in different positions and poses, full body sketches of a mixture of men and women, some clothed and others nude.
You could feel your cheeks darken, and though it was surprising to see the natural state of the human body, art was still captivating in showing it, Adrian drew with a way of conveying vulnerability. His mother was a doctor after all.
Other pages were of human faces: more drawings of his mother and father. Another was of a different man and woman: the woman had short hair whilst the man had a scar over his right eye and a shadow of a wispy beard on his face. You now had a reference to Adrian’s friends and allies: Sypha and Trevor.
A Belmont, scholar and sleeping soldier, Adrian told you, all out for different clauses and paths but joined to meet on one path; to kill Dracula.
You had forgotten to make sure you were still alone and not spotted looking through his things when you reached the last few of the pages, recently used. Wait a minute. You had to do a double take, imagining you were seeing double. This isn’t… who I think it is.
Those eyes, were similar to you, not that you could remember where you had seen them last. It dawned on you quickly why they were a distant memory: they looked like your mother's eyes—but that was impossible if Adrian had never met or seen an image of her.
But, as if looking back through a mirror, a glimpse through time, those eyes weren’t just hers, but yours as well.
Oh. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you dared not drop the book to draw attention to where you were. You didn’t close it, despite feeling that this was intruding—it was too late for that now.
He had gotten your likeness in a way you didn’t think he could: as if you had been captured in a moment, ready to come back to life on the page. Another sketch of you, reclined with your nose in a book and laying in a way that could’ve been uncomfortable to anyone else. Another of you tying your hair back, the ribbon dangling in your mouth, eyes in heavy concentration. The final one took you by surprise: a moment where you were snuggled into the armchair, a blanket wrapped protectively around you to keep you warm.
Have I been so blinded this entire time? It seemed like this wasn’t right: did Alucard… fancy you? You scoffed, absolutely not, there was no way—though you the more you spiralled, the more it had you questioning everything.
You had been so preoccupied with what you had discovered, that you failed to suspect the presence behind you, someone standing just on the edge of the doorframe.
An awkward cough brought you back to your senses.
“Forgive me!” You stumbled, throwing the papers behind you to hide them behind your back, in hopes you were quick on your feet. You were clumsy, ineptly whipping back to look at the blond Dhampir standing just a few metres in the doorframe. “I did not hear you come in.”
Adrian was dressed simply in his shirt, trousers and boots as he did if the weather was not too cold. It was only a small subtle detail that his dark trousers were coated and dusted with a light cast of flour, as if he had nothing else to wipe but on them. His hair was also tied up, revealing his slender neck, wisps of blond tresses falling to frame his handsome angular features.
How long had he been waiting there for? You panicked, knowing that he could’ve used his speed to reach you, using his inhuman scent of smell or to pick up your heart rate to find you.
“Yes, well, you did seem rather… occupied.” Adrian teased, though his face was incomprehensible, his movements leisurely as he ambled into the room, inspecting if anything looked out of place.
Was he just as embarrassed as how you were feeling? Regardless if he was or not, he was very good at hiding it from you.
He stopped just to the side of his desk, eyes quickly scanning as he spotted the disarray of papers, his sketchbook ‘neatly’ placed back where it looked to have been before. He did not say anything about it, instead, resuming conversation as if nothing was out of place.
“I was asking if you were free to help me downstairs. I needed assistance in deciding which spices to add to the cakes.” He continued, watching the way you shuffled to block what you were putting back on the desk.
You were not subtle in the slightest but Adrian did not make any remark for you to be snooping, rather, he watched on in visible amusement. The refined look when he raised an eyebrow, the small smirk that made you even more flustered when you were caught.
“Okay, ready.” You gestured for him to walk in front, hanging back as you took a final glance back, wondering when Adrian started drawing you.
-
 It’s his idea when he decides the two of you should share a bottle of wine.
Though you think it’s not good to have the entire bottle, Adrian agrees upon a glass or two, sharing thoughts as the night grows dark with the creatures of the forest outside, and your worries melt for a moment on your tongue.
The wine is sweet, not though you like it, and it's hard to consume something that feels so foreign. Adrian drinks it as if it's water, and you struggle to keep up. You’re a lightweight after all, and though you’re slower, you can feel the haziness that crawls in your vision, and you swear you’re almost seeing double.
Your laughter is warmer, chatter easier, and you notice he’s closer beside you by the table when he first brings the bottle and glasses.
“This is nice,” his voice does not slur as he speaks, and you’re shocked just by how content he is in drinking glass after glass if he could. If perhaps you didn’t say anything, perhaps he would, “It’s been some time since I stopped drinking.”
“When did you stop?” You can feel a headache begin to dull your senses, and you’re feeling bolder.
Adrian seems hesitant when he looks back at you before he answers. “I stopped after a couple of days after your arrival.” He’s nervously swirling the glass in small circles on the table, a distraction. “I’m sure the smell of piss and blood wasn’t helping.”
You chortle, “No, it didn’t, but I don’t suppose I was any different. A girl smelling of chickens.”
“I did wonder why.” He says in a dry tone, but his eyes are sincere, and you find yourself staring periodically down at his lips, the glint of his sharp teeth some distraction from the wine.
“It seems funny when I say it now, but I used to have two, and they had names.”
Adrian seems surprised by this, that of all things to have named were chickens, but he coaxes you with a raised brow, intrigued, to say the least. “Tell me they had normal names.”
“Henrietta and Duchess.”
“Oh, my God,” Adrian laughs quietly, “Next you’ll say you had a pig called Duke and a horse called Lieutenant.”
“Well, the pig was called Truffle.”
“Seems almost cruel,” Adrian laughs at the idea, “I don’t think I was any different. I did have a stuffed wolf called Fluffy.”
“Hey, that’s cute though.”
You laugh at the idea, but you’re carrying a sad smile as you continue to sip slowly at your drink. “I loved those chickens. It was weird, but I treated them like humans rather than animals—livestock. They were much nicer than-” You stop yourself mid-sentence, unsure if you’re ready to continue.
Your stomach coils as if ready to lurch, for you to leap from your chair and leave to your room, but Adrian is calm and patient, running a soothing hand over yours to console you.
“Take your time,” he says with quiet empathy, and it’s enough to pull you back to reality. “I’m here.”
“After my mama’s death, I fled to the nearby town—I was on the streets for some time, hiding behind buildings and sometimes getting shelter from a sweet old lady, before I was old enough to sell myself as a servant to any passing man who needed my service.”
You felt sick to your stomach, and the wine was not helping. “I stayed in his service for almost a decade, serving his son and wife who was no older than me.” You confessed. “It all boiled down one day when I was fed up with the fucking treatment. I was beaten if I did something incorrect, slapped if I spoke when not spoken to, and something… snapped in me. I… hurt him when he hurt me.” You pushed the wine away from you, eyes welling with tears. “I wish I did more.”
“You survived,” Adrian said with a sad grimace, “You’re much braver than most I know.”
“I didn’t feel brave then,” you admitted. “I felt like a stupid little girl, not capable of anything.”
“Hey,” Adrian seems clumsy in giving close comfort, but he tried nonetheless, leaning closer to finally embrace you. He smelt of oranges and lavender, and you nearly broke down into his shoulder, “you’re the strongest person I know. The bravest witch.”
He seemed tongue-tied with his next words, eyes moving across your face as if he wished to say something that you yearned to hear. “I’m proud of you.” He finally said, but in your mind, it didn’t seem like it was what he wanted to say as if there was something he was holding back.
Was I overthinking? You thought as you pulled away from his embrace, so tempted to lean across the table and kiss him there and then, but you pulled enough restraint to not horrify the man. “Thank you, Adrian. I’m thankful I have you.” You finally said.
“I’m thankful too.” He confesses, quickly realising what he’s just said and the blush on his face is obvious as he tries to change the subject. “I will leave you to catch some sleep. I thought it would be a good idea to head into town tomorrow morning. Gather some more supplies. What do you say?”
You smile sadly, “That’s a good idea.” You’re on your feet fast enough as you say goodnight to one another before you’re speeding down the hallway to your room, wiping the tears that have not dried from your face.
When you reach your room, you slink against the inside of the door. Your head is hammering, vision is hazy. Damn for drinking so much. You groan, only listening to the crackling of the fire lit in your room, the soft luring sound of crisp pages of a book being shut as a lovely interference.
“Ah, there you are.” the voice that pulled you from your thoughts was the one thing you needed to hear, sweet as honey as the figure emerged to stand close by from where you stood. His soft locks are pulled back from his face, and he’s practically glowing in the soft ambers of your room, the fire gently burning to keep the warmth.
Your lips are pulled into a tired smile, which the Dhampir notices quickly enough to soothe you for a night of sleep. “You’re exhausted, my little witch.” He’s yanking you by your hand, directing you to your bed. “You need sleep before it comes for you first.”
“Was it so obvious?” You laugh dryly, and the lack of sleep is fast indeed; your eyes are heavy, limbs sluggish as your mind slows from the alcohol. “I can get myself to bed by myself, you know?”
“I don’t doubt you,” he scolds lightly, the way he moves you is more persistent. “Dreams help everything go away, isn’t that what your mother said?”
“Yes.” You drawl quietly, silent in watching Adrian move around you, sitting you delicately on the edge of the side of the bed. He is gentle in getting you settled for the night, removing your outer layers of clothing until you’re left in your chemise. There is nothing overtly sexual in the way he undresses you, more so there’s such a tenderness to his touches that it almost leaves you weeping.
When you’re ready, he follows, undressing until he stands in his nightgown. You watch as he goes to as he crawls onto the other side to lay there. Shutting his eyes, his light blond hair cascades around the pillow like a halo, his body silent and still as stone.
You’re staring for some time before he speaks up, aware even without having to open your eyes. “Are you going to watch me sleep or are you going to join me?” He cracks one eye open, full of mirth as he catches the exact moment your face brightens.
“Right.” You scootch over closer, lying stiffly beside him on your back, not daring to get any cosier before he stretches like a cat, catching you by surprise as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in close.
“You’re shaking like a leaf, little witch.” He jokes, humming as he rests his head into the crook of your neck. This is all so real, and you dare fear if you fall asleep, it’ll all be gone, a fading memory to die in the back of your mind. “Am I that cold?”
“No,” you finally relax in his hold, having turned to face him, a feeling you wish not to ever forget. “It feels nice.”
“I’m sure one thing could make you feel better,” his eyes are open, watching you almost hawkishly, scooting himself closer. “Though, I’d have to know what you think.”
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer you directly, but his eyes tell you what you’ve been waiting for. It’s the way his gold eyes glance from your eyes down to your lips, way too slowly before coming back up to meet your flustered state.
Neither of you make the first move, your heart is hammering too fast that you can barely keep up with your racing thoughts. You know he can hear how fast it's pumping, thunderous and dreadful against your ribs. It feels like it could explode any second.
Should I wait for him to lean in? Or would it be better for me to meet him halfway? To see how he reacts.
With your mind racing, your body moves on its own, ignoring your many questions and moving with little patience. A hand finds his cheek, stroking his cheekbone in contemplation, soft to the touch that you gasp from just the exhilaration alone.
You’re not waiting for him when you’re leaning close to him, closer and closer until his face is inches from yours. Your noses bump as you catch the final moment where his eyes flutter shut as you’re copying, stretching over until your lips meet his.
You didn’t know how long you had been counting for this moment to happen. Drinking him in, he is the sun, and you are a secluded plant, waiting for his rays to keep you from shrivelling. His lips are soft, neither warm nor cool as your contact is chaste and quick, and all that is gone when you’re not chasing for more-
“No,” you rasp as you pull yourself from him, leaping up to sit on the edge of the bed. “This is wrong.”
“Oh?” He doesn’t seem dissatisfied or enraged, rather it seems more like a question. He is calm when he asks, voice a soft rumble. “Is it wrong because you wish to continue? Or because you wish to experience this with him?”
You slump in your spot, guilt overflowing your body like a wave, ready to drown. “It’s wrong because… I’m using him.” You hug yourself, ready to weep aloud from it all. “I’m using him for this twisted fantasy, just to feel happy.”
This fake version of Adrian is collected, reaching your side of the bed as he places a consoling hand on your shoulder. “Happy… that you want to imagine a future with him?”
“Yes. Is that so wrong to have?” You sigh exasperated. “I want him to be happy, but I fear… I will never give him that happiness.”
“He’s been through so much already.” You continue. “I think of him all the time: like how the sun can’t live without the moon.”
You’re completely consumed by Adrian: mind, body and soul and it aches that this crush will continue to remain as one. His acts of kindness have completely floored you, confusing you to the point that you were left over questioning every small act he did for you.
The night is long and you’re left distraught, conjuring a version of him that you hope can give you comfort. “What do I do?”
“Tell  him the truth.”
Your head snaps almost drastically to glare at the fake version, who simply looks just as perplexed as you. “I’m just a manifested form you created of him in your head whilst inebriated. I’m the wrong person you should be talking to.”
Sighing defeatedly, you look to him for security. “I’m… confused.”
“How so?”
“Well, I know he sees me as a friend, but he’s just so thoughtful. He carries me back to bed, and we spend all day together. I mean, he drew sketches of me for fuck’s sake—that’s saying something, isn’t it?”
“He seems lonely too.” ‘Adrian’ answers, but it’s a reasonable answer that could be what you’re looking for, regardless of how you’re feeling.
“I know, I know. He’s awkward, but it can’t just be out of friendship.”
“Tell him in the morning,” he says, “you can’t see for yourself if he’s quick to reciprocate your feelings for him. Perhaps then you’ll be able to cuddle something that’s flesh and bone.”
You chortle at his words, knowing how uncanny and realistic he is sitting beside you. “Can we just- can we just cuddle for the rest of the night? Just so I don’t feel so lonely.”
Alucard gives you a sorrowful smile, pulling you into a side embrace. “You realise I won’t be there by morning?”
It’s a sad realisation, but you come to accept it. “I know. I just… want to imagine feeling something for once.”
“Of course, my little witch,” he kisses your forehead lovingly, leading you both back down to lie on the bed. The bed doesn’t feel as big when you share it with another, now in the fond embrace of the Dhampir you conjured in your mind.
“Sleep well, Y/N.” He tells you all the right things you want to hear, the lull of sleep pulls you in deeper and deeper, his voice growing quieter. “I’m still here with you, no matter what.”
“I love you,” you slur as darkness consumes you, the heaviness of your body pulling you into a sleep you need. You don’t feel upset when you don’t hear a response, just the arms of his embrace.
By the time early morning comes, the other side of the bed is cold, and the ghost of Adrian’s arms remains.
It’s not just knowing that the person on the other side of the hallway would never know how you felt, but the sense that you could never go back to seeing him just as a dear friend.
-
A/N:
This was a long one to write, but I hope you enjoyed it!
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Hi peach, I just wanted to say that I absolutely love LOVE your account!!!! So much!! I came across your account about a year ago and I have read every single post!!!🔆🔆 your way of writing fantasie is truly amazing. I always thought that maybe I’m weird for linking these kinds of story’s but you really changed my mindset on it!!! Much love, L
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Hi L! I really appreciate your message and thank you for the support! It means a lot to hear! And no worries at all, I'm happy to hear my stories can leave an impression on those! Have a good day!
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 6
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A/N: God, I just replayed Måneskin The Loneliest on a 10-hour repeat while writing this. Some warning of language and hinted sexual wording, but more of the case it's just Alucard being mentally a teenager.
Summary: Teasing ensues, history is unlocked, and questions begin to be asked and answered.
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Chapter 6
“Let me help you with that.”
The vegetables from Alucard’s garden had flourished and it brought in bountiful meals for the both of you to share. The pantry had grown with a wide array of vegetables, fish and sometimes certain meats Alucard had gathered whilst hunting. It had become a routine for him to hunt and you to help when you could, and share mealtimes and cook with one another.
“Thank you.” He murmured, his fingers were in the dirt when he scooped out another carrot, gathering it into his basket whilst you helped pull another potato. Your hands would occasionally touch accidentally, mistaking one another for the root vegetable, laughing it awkwardly off.
Your days in the castle were dwindling, and you could not forget the promise Alucard had given to you. Sanctuary from the outside world would soon meet you, and you would have to find your way away from Wallachia. You didn’t want to think much of it, despite it being on your mind daily and when you went to sleep. Where would you go anyways? One that looked like you was very hard to find, especially with the rise of witches being burnt by the Catholic church.
Your spell studies came with ease the more you practised, tending to forget about sleep in the early hours of the night when Alucard came and reminded you that it was better to rest with a clear mind. But you knew it was for the best: whatever was out there, you had to be ready, no matter what.
“Spring will surely come.” You spoke after some time, gathering what was necessary and slowly making your way back inside the castle. The days had still been short, nights long and air chilled that you had to wrap closely with the necessary clothes Alucard had been nice to give you. “I look forward to the warmer weather.”
“I hope it brings new beginnings,” says Alucard, “Spring represents rebirth after all.”
You can tell he’s speaking about himself in some way, that there’s some part of him that wants to move past whatever had occurred with the twins, but you know there is something that slumbers deep within, dormant and not ready to resurface.
You also wish to tell him that your time with him is dwindling, to remind him that you will not be able to stay much longer due to your promise and that one hurts within you. No matter how rocky your beginnings were, you have grown fond of the Dhampir, and you’re worried there is something within Alucard that will be thankful to see you gone, to grow recluse once more.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to bring in new stock from nearby towns,” you suggest, but your words do not include you within them. Alucard seems quiet, though you notice that something lurks within his honey-coloured eyes. “I suppose bringing in new stock would help liven our food when we can stray away from soups.”
“Soups are very nutritious! It’s the perfect time to have them this time of year.”
“They are,” he chuckles softly, “only if you’re elderly or lacking teeth. Or both.”
You hear his playful tone, though you’re quick to tease him back, “Not something you can sink your teeth into?”
“I’m in no need to feed on blood,” he specifies, and you catch the glint of his sharp fangs when he speaks that keep you hypnotised to them. “It is not something that I need to give me constant substance.”
It makes sense why you haven’t seen him have a glass of red for dinner, more so just the regular kind or white that you both share. It does bring questions to flood your mind: if he doesn’t need blood and can eat regular food, does he still need it as if it’s a last-minute option?
Would you bite into my neck, or have you ever thought about doing so? You want to ask him, but the question remains glued in the back of your mind, forever locked there in case you offend him. You do not doubt that he would’ve ripped your throat out at your first encounter, though is it an occurring thought to him? Does he catch looking at your pulse from time to time? Does he look at your neck, hear your heartbeat and ponder the thought?
“It’s a good thing you’re only half then,” you grinned sheepishly, following into the kitchen to prep the vegetables for dinner. “Like how I am only part witch, not even one who found her true potential.”
“Half is better than nothing at all,” he adds, handing you the knife as he saunters off to the sink, grinning back at you with the smallest of smirks, “You’re still fully human and those vegetables need chopping, little witch.”
You groan which only brings both of you to laugh at the expense, “Yes, chef.”
-
When you find time before dinner and after chopping veg, you spend time in the library, practising to perfect the craft of astral projection. You're rather proud of yourself and don’t freak out as much as you did the first few times. You find you happen to do it more often in your sleep, floating just above your sleeping form as you float around your room. The first time you realise you can still study whilst in an astral form is game-changing: you can study at the desk, whilst not even feeling one bit exhausted from an entire night of reading.
You also find a spell that brings you to contemplate what right you should use on someone. You think you would do it to yourself one day, but the thought brings you to feel guilt more than anything else, especially if Alucard finds out. Instead, you keep it hidden under your pillow, ready one day you decide out of morbid curiosity.
When you’re not reading into the late hours of the night, you’re floating through the castle, like a ghost haunting the halls. You find the castle at night, in the depths of utter darkness are the most haunting, and you’re frightened by the darkened portraits that stare back at you as you go by.
You stick to the rooms you know, opting to float in the hallway as you contemplate if Alucard is still awake at this hour. His room is not far from you, but you always promise yourself you keep to his words and not venture in there, regardless if he’s in a state of consciousness or not.
It’s after dinner when Alucard hands you a cloak, his words gentle as he holds out a guiding hand to you. “I’d like to show you something.”
“Outside?” You say aloud, and Alucard chuckles lightly at your disbelief. “We won’t be attacked by night creatures, will we?”
“Not with me around.” He says, and you watch his longsword fling itself from one part of the castle into his holster. You’re thankful he has it to protect himself and you from whatever is out there, and also more thankful you don’t see it so often when you’re with him.
You both step out and the chill greets you and travels down your dress, making you quietly gasp, clinging to Alucard as if he’s the shield to keep you protected from all. You awkwardly step a bit further from him, but he does not say anything.
“What is out here that is of interest to you?” You ask though you would rather be indoors by the fire, rather than shivering into the night’s air.
Alucard doesn’t say anything as he leads you just beyond his garden, close to the forest but not too far that you cannot see the castle. He stops by a river, letting go of your hand as he turns back to you. “Wait here, the surprise is here.”
“Wait, where are you going?” You ask, and the fear heightens within you, like a tendril that gasps and pulls at your heart, making its way like icy death. He can’t be serious, can he? But from having known Alucard for nearly three weeks, in such a short amount of time, anything he’s said and meant, he’s been serious in doing.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he reassures, and his golden eyes seem to be glowing in the darkness of the trees. They are the only things you can see when your eyes are failing to adjust to the darkness. “I promise it to you.”
You believe him, he’s your only protection after all, and you sit by the river when you hear his figure leave, but you cannot hear him. You’re shivering either from the cold or fear alone, and the seconds feel like minutes the more you wait.
Your fear has spiked when you’re listening closely to the noises of the outside: of the water trickling, the crickets chirping, the wind that howls and the snapping of a twig close by
You jolt up, survival instincts kick in and you feel like a deer almost caught in a trap, eyes looking everywhere and anywhere they can seen within ten feet of you.
“Alucard?” You rasp, and you hug yourself more when you hear no response.
Oh fuck.
You’re trying to listen closely, but all sounds blend as one as you debate whether running back to the castle is your safest option. If it’s a night creature, you’re dead and you don’t think running from one would be beneficial to you, knowing full well that it could outrun you.
Would Alucard be able to run to catch up with you?
Whilst you’re debating what to do, something else catches your attention, and from just across where the river bends, you see something that has emerged from the bushes. Your body freezes, and you traverse to that time in your youth when you’re staring down those eyes, fangs flashing as you run as fast as your legs can carry you.
Your breathing has hitched as you take in the figure, and realise… it’s massive.
Despite the darkness, you see that its fur is white, its legs are powerful and could easily outrun you. It’s majestic, powerful and evermore agile and dangerous than any creature you’ve encountered. Your eyes trail up from its legs, up past its huge torso and up to its head, eyes staring back at you with the same inquisitiveness you had staring back at it.
Golden eyes that had engulfed the sun.
“Easy.” You say aloud, and the wolf doesn’t do anything but stare back, watching with as much hesitation as you show in your body language. You’re certain it’s not going to attack you: just from how its ears are pinned back and it's not snarling at you as a threat.
It’s only with the minutes ticking by, that you realise, oh, God, it’s approaching.
“Whoa, erm… stay back.” You warn, but it falls on deaf ears when it crosses the small path in the river, coming as close as it can towards you. Even whilst you sit on a slope, it’s towering over you, and you can only do is stare back into its eyes, soulful, wise eyes.
It takes two and two to be put together, and then you’re saying aloud, “Alucard?”
The wolf huffs as if to respond ‘finally’, slouching next to you, his large body slumping to rest against you, sniffing your hand before resuming to rest his head on your lap. You freeze, before your hands come up to experimentally run through his fur. You gasp in surprise, giggling to yourself as you gain the Dhampir’s attention.
“You never told me how soft you were.” You ran your hands just over his snout, above his brow line and in between his ears, which earns him to snort before he relaxes more into you. Your other hand is stroking down his back and across his broad chest, cooing to tease him further.
“Aww, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”
Alucard – if at this moment was human – huffed in a moment to stop your antics, and you could only laugh knowing you had embarrassed him with your words. It wasn’t long before the Dhampir you knew was back in front of you, glaring at you with those familiar golden eyes.
“Very funny,” his cheeks are a pink hue but he’s thankful you can’t notice within the twilight. “You enjoyed that too much.”
“You’re cute as a wolf.” You add, and you erupt into laughter as Alucard covers his face, groaning from further humiliation.
“Oh, my God.” Alucard is rasping between laughs, his eyes glossy compared to the moonlight that shines above, “I’ll never hear the end of this.”
“Nope, you will now be called ‘little wolf’.”
“Oh, god, no.”
“Ooh, or how about ‘little pup’?”
“That’s even worse,” you’re laughing with one another and the atmosphere is lively and warm despite the chill that surrounds you. It feels as if you’ve known Alucard your entire life, and it’s just you two in the universe.
“How did you know you could do that?” You ask when you can finally speak again.
“It just happened one day,” he hummed. “My father has always been a powerful man, and the gifts he carried over his lifetime he shared through to me naturally. I think that day it happened, I gave my mother quite the fright.”
“I can imagine.” You laugh sadly. “It’s still amazing that The Dracula fell in love with a human woman. Dhampirs are a rare occurrence, some not living as long as you into adulthood.”
“It amazes me too,” Alucard agreed with the words as if it had been in his mind the moment he came into the world. “I suppose I was just lucky.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here though,” you add, trying to hide the way you blush from your compliment, though it hangs in indignity by your words. “I mean—here in this moment, not you know—"
“You’re lucky my parents… copulated?” He teases.
“Oh, God, Alucard, you’re not an eighty-year-old man. You can say use a more natural term for it.” You’re next to copy him by burying your face into your hands. You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with him in the first place!
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tongue-tied,” he eases, nudging your shoulder to look back at him. “It’s amusing.”
Your heart hammers in your chest and you shamelessly make out the shape of his lips in the twilight, the way they’re curved in a soft smile. Looking away before you’re caught, you’re certain he’s noticed but does not say anything.
He’s quick to change the subject, directing it to you this time. “Tell me more about your mother, what was her origin?”
You’re surprised, he’s never been one to ask about your origin, for you didn’t think it mattered. “Well, my mama was fairly young when she had me, I think around the age of sixteen. I didn’t know much about my father or who he was. Mama told me our people came from Cabo Branco in Africa. They were taken by the Portuguese and shipped to their land, where I assume some managed to find their way east, as far as Wallachia. My father, I assume, was fully Wallachian, though I don’t know what his relation was to my mother.”
Alucard listens attentively to your words, only asking questions when necessary. “Do you think… he kept her as his property?” He asks quietly.
“Perhaps,” you hug yourself, “she was young after all, relying on him for shelter and food, and I have no doubt he was the reason she fled with her life away from him.”
Alucard hums in thought. “You sisters… tell me about them.”
“Oh, they came from everywhere.” You seem a bit more comforted to talk about them, though you mourn them just as much as your mother. “Some were slaves, fleeing with their mothers, sisters and daughters. They established themselves in Wallachia a few centuries back, a powerful coven that had spread across Europe. But their numbers dwindled over time. Vampires and witches have never liked one another, and one day, one vampire decided he was to lead an army to dimmish their power, and their numbers. They were halved to what they were originally, further hiding themselves and isolating from the land in fears of being caught.”
Alucard’s words aren’t that smooth and soft, rather raspy and hoarse. “This vampire, was he-”
“Yes, your father, Dracula.”
“I… apologise,” he consoles, and it takes you by surprise. “I apologise on his behalf for what he did to your people. Many have suffered from my father’s hands, and yet, it feels odd to call him my father.”
“He was regardless of everything, Alucard, was your father.” You comforted, reaching to take his hand into yours. “Mourn the father he was, not the man he was known for.”
Alucard is taken aback by your words, and for a moment, you believe you will see him cry just from the softness of his eyes. “Thank you, it has taken some time to remember my father as what my mother saw him as. A scientist, a traveller, a loyal husband and father.”
The two of you sat in content for a moment, staring out at the river, listening to the calmness of the night. You could feel Alucard’s gaze fixated on you from the corner of your peripheral as if he wanted to confess something to you.
“My mother named me Adrian, for she did not like the name of Alucard used to compare me to Dracula.” He mused, squeezing your hand gently. “I’d very much like you to call me that too.”
Rouge reached your face as you nodded, knowing that you would keep your promise, despite the despair in your heart growing, knowing one day, you would never see him again.
“It’s a lovely name, Adrian.”
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 5
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A/N: Gosh, this chapter was enjoyable to write. Feelings are beginning to brew and I can't wait to see where it goes!
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Chapter 5
Days pass with the rising and falling of the sun, and soon you find that your stay at the castle has reached a fortnight.
They blended into one whilst you were there, and you sadly had to admit, you had grown used to living there.
It was the fact that your time was coming up (that was one of your many worries), but the fact that you’ve grown rather accustomed to being in Alucard’s presence.
You wonder if he’s the same: having seen him more often and gotten the chance to speak with him on the daily.
You wake to the calling of your name from him outside your bedroom door, sharing meals and helping to the garden outside. When the evenings come, you help one another cook dinner, before you either find yourself buried in the books in the library or sharing the fire in the reception. It took some convincing but he also took the time to take down those corpses, giving them a proper burial and to ‘put that moment in the past and look forward.’
You did not judge or ask further questions, only if he wanted to talk more about it.
You didn’t know those people, but he told you their names: Taka and Sumi. They hailed from Japan, an island country far from here that you had heard of but had never seen their people before. You could say the same about yourself, for you don’t think you had seen someone with as dark a skin complexion as your mother for a while.
No, you had gone for some time not seeing someone like you, being a witch and woman of colour. But you couldn’t help but feel that it didn’t matter when you spent your days with Alucard.
He was very mature for his age due to the lack of children his age. You had come to be told that his body had matured quicker than his age, so in tell, he was mentally younger than you at 18. It made sense for his boyish humour and rather immature toilet jokes. He told you he got them from Trevor, a Belmont through and through.
It was the little things about him that you had grown so used to, that you didn’t realise how much you would miss them when you had to go.
It was a yearning in your chest, one that grew with each day, and the more you spent your days with Alucard, laughing, it felt like you had known him for an entire lifetime. He will want you gone, you told yourself when you remembered; He will grow bored of you. It hurt, but the more you pushed yourself away or tried to, the more you found yourself coming back for more.
Instead, you stuck to your spells, learning by the hour until your back was sore from hunching over them.
Alucard had found you once, way into the night, surrounded by books once more, fast asleep with your hand still over the words you were reading. He could not help the small smile to grace his features, muttering to himself softly, ‘This is where I always find you now. Nose deep in some book.’ He leant over you, careful not to disturb you, listening to the rhythmic beat of your heart, your skin flush from the warmth in the room. Your face was half-smushed into the pages, but Alucard found it more amusing than scolding you for ruining his father’s books. He had been the same, pouring into his books as his mother had done when she carried him. His father spoke about how Lisa must’ve swallowed a candlestick and book to get him started, but Alucard found he enjoyed sharing the two gifts his parents loved. And now he got to share it with someone else. No, Alucard had found it rather endearing to see you like this most nights, enveloping you into his arms as he carried you to bed like a child, watchful in making sure the book in your hand stayed by your grip. He found your room and set you on the bed, gathering the sheets to pull around you, as a protection from the outside wonders and dreads of the castle.‘Sleep well, little witch,’ he had come to use that nickname on you often. ‘Dream of the broomsticks and caldrons you can use to conjure great spells.’
When you would wake from a sleep of comfort, you would find yourself in your bed, a warmth spreading over you and into your chest and the day would repeat again.
It was this morning when as the two of you sat over breakfast you asked Alucard an important question.
“The hold—the Belmont hold – you told me about it once– is it okay if I can go down there?”
“It is yours,” Alucard is quick to answer, almost too quick to your liking for someone he’s grown used to sharing the same four walls with. “No one has used it for some hundred years. It may be a requirement for me to help you reach it though.”
“Oh, why is that?”
He seems almost bashful with his answer, a crooked smile gracing his handsome features. “The stairs down were destroyed, due to… an unfortunate encounter with some creatures of the night.”
“Ah, makes sense, how would we get down then?” You crunched into your stale bread.
“We’ll jump.”
“Jump?” You nearly choked on the food in your throat, staring at him as if he had grown ten heads. “Can I remind you I’m fully human? I don’t think I’d survive a fall that high.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says, and the look in his eyes is serious, and you half dread, half inquisitive about what he has installed for you.
-
“I don’t know about this, Alucard.”
“I have you,” Alucard stares down the abyss as if it's nothing as if he’s dropped from heights like that a thousand times before. “I will not be letting go of you.”
“You say that,” you don’t want to match him and lean over the broken bannister, staring down before you chicken out, “but I’ll be the one screaming all the way down.”
He gives a gentle smile and a reassuring hand, “Would I ever let you fall?”
Never.
“No.” You blush easily now when he’s charming, his voice soft and soothing.
“Good,” he’s ready, but you’re not. “I’ll carry you if it makes things easier.”
“O-Okay,” you shakily perch one hand onto his shoulder, squeaking as he scoops you up with ease into his arms. He doesn’t even break a sweat, holding you bridal style. His chest is warm when you thump against it, inches from his face and very aware that you’re staring dead on at him.
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he laughs to make you feel at ease, but you’re more shaking as to what is to happen next. “It’ll be over in eight seconds.”
“Eight seconds is a long time to fall,” your voice rises the closer he inches, and your holding onto him is not very ladylike. To Hell with the ladylikeness, I’m dangling off the edge, ready to fall. “Oh, why didn’t you install new stairs?”
“That would’ve been easier.” Alucard muses, and he stares down at you momentarily. “I’m here, I’ll never let you go, remember?”
“I know-” you squeeze your eyes tight as before you can even finish your sentence, the ground leaves you both as Alucard steps off, and the air holds you momentarily still. You await for gravity to meet and plunge you down, your stomach somersaulting, but instead, you open one eye to stare at the Dhampir owlishly.
“You can-”
“Fly? Yes, well, I wanted to keep some of the thrills.” He ponders good-humouredly, and you’re almost gaping like a fish when he begins to slowly descend with you in his arms down into the hold.
“It’s a good thing I wasn’t screaming.” Your skin is alight with a furious blush, aware now that your nerves were basically for nothing, but you still felt at ease thanks to Alucard’s words. You don’t miss the way his face blooms into a pale pink hue that spreads across his face.
The two of you reached the bottom and gingerly, Alucard let you back to the ground, your legs shaking when they met the floor. When you look up, you see how much of everything is in disarray. The staircase leading up is completely destroyed, its remaining stones a heap just inches from where you both stand. The many paintings on the walls are slanted from being knocked, and others are smashed to the floor and ripped to shreds. Only one hangs in perfect shape: a man in opulent and gleaming gold and white armour, a fur-white trimmed cloak hanging off him and a longsword he holds. He has the same hair colour as Alucard, though he is shorter in length and his eyes seem blue.
You squint at the portrait closer, “Is that-”
“The one who started it all, Leon Belmont. Unfortunately, his one living descendant runs amok Wallachia.” Alucard frowns, “God forbid having more Belmonts running around.”
He does like to talk highly of his friend and fellow vampire hunter. You think, before the two of you continue onwards.
Alucard opens the door, slamming it open as if something blocks the way, and you’re welcomed into what could only be described as a large pit, filled with wonder and knowledge.
Though some of the books are thrown about, shelves destroyed and much of the content that has been stored is ruined, you very much feel in awe, standing in what is years of history.
“This place is amazing! The years it must’ve taken to gather so much knowledge- so much history!” You beam, not knowing where to start. Alucard doesn’t share your excitement and you’re quick to look back on him, staring back at him with fondness. “What is the matter?”
He does not speak but only directs your attention to what stands on a shelf close by, and you look in horror and realisation at the shelf with skulls, all similar sizes with teeth not similar to that of a human. The shelf is a decorative collection of vampire skulls, and you understand quickly.
“Oh.”
“You can imagine why I have little warmth for a place like this.” Alucard grimaces, his face a wall of acceptance. “It was the place of knowledge in destroying what was known of vampires.”
I have upset him. You realise. “Forgive me, I overstepped with my excitement. I’m a fool for not realising.” Though the Dhampir is quick to forgive. He steps close, and the proximity makes you feel lightheaded from the sudden closeness.
“You need not apologise, little witch,” he soothes with his dulcet tones, “I’m not one to be offended quick… not by you.”
You relax to hear your words, and a bit happier to know that. “Okay… well, I won’t keep you too long. Just wanted to gather some more books.”
Alucard is happy to help, gathering the necessary ones you need that can be helpful. Who would’ve thought that the Belmont clan had so much information about so many monsters, including witches?
Your happiness with your selection brings you to take everything back up, as you track back through and up to the world of the living. Though it is a great place, you can’t help but feel how there was a sense of doom that lurked in a lonely place like that. It is a surviving gravesite. You tell yourself as you’re carried back up by Alucard.
The rest of the night, you find yourself in the reception, reading quietly with Alucard elsewhere in the castle. The crackle of the fire is the only thing that resounds in the room, all whilst you lay there, a sense of tiredness lurks in your bones. You’ve not had time to yourself, and though your mind screams to remain awake, your body is slower, and you find your mouth slurring with the words that grow quieter.
“Requiesco. Requiesco… Requiesco.”
.
.
.
You don’t know how long you’re asleep for, for your body floats in a state of limbo, rolling the way you move to get comfortable, like waves undulating in the ocean. You groan though you do not feel the softness of the Corinthia beneath you until you groggily open your eyes.
You find your body lying rigidly, hovering just inches from hitting the ceiling, see-through and translucent enough to see the wall next to you. Bubbling to your throat, you scream, scrabbling as you adjust to the situation, before looking down. “Am I… dead?”
You look down below you, to see… you. You’re laying as if asleep, the book lying within your lap, eyelashes curled with no knowing if your body is conscious to be breathing.
“No, no, no, no. I can’t be dead.” You gasp, screaming out to call for Alucard, knowing you would not be able to be heard. You were an apparition it seemed, though you did not die, you think—no, tell yourself.
You float down closer to your body, clawing at the air as you swim closer. Your body was indeed alive, though it was as if you were staring back at yourself as a spectator rather than a participant.
Curiously, you tentatively reach out to yourself, watching in horror as your hand moves right through you, going right through your body.
“How did this happen?” You kept telling yourself over and over, not aware that the door had opened, and in came a figure.
“There you are.”
“Alucard, I can explain-” You reached for him, but the Dhampir walked right past you, walking towards your sleeping form. “Alucard?” You reached to him, touching his shoulder and expecting to go through him as you did with yourself, except your touch recoiled the moment you touched him as if you had been electrocuted.
He was cold, ice cold like a corpse.
“What are you reading this time, little witch?” His voice is a soft lull, pulling your attention when he tenderly pulls the book off your lap, taking in the pages you were reading. “Astral projection? This one is new. Though, I do hope you don’t take to acting as a ghost within these walls.” He chuckles wryly to himself. “This castle holds too many already.”
You watch the act, the way he is tender to you, and you never realise just how he was when you were asleep. Your heart leaps when you watch him collect a blanket from a nearby chaise, pulling it over you as he makes sure you’re comfortable and cosy.
“Sleep well, little witch.” He whispers, a hand gingerly coming to coil around one of your curls experimentally, retracting quickly as if he was scared to be caught.
Alucard stands and steps past you again, walking out of the room to leave you alone and you can only watch at the tenderness you just witnessed. If you had not believed it had been you he was making sure was comfortable, you believed you could’ve grown almost… jealous.
That could wait, you needed to get back into your body. The only thing you could remember from the pages was to place your astral form back into your host form. You crawled back onto the seat, laying just as the way you were sleeping, feeling the tugs that came when you tried fitting your legs and fingers into place.
When you laid your head after feeling comfortable, you screwed your eyes shut, and suddenly were flooded with light and hazy surroundings that came from your body jolting mid-sleep. Your lungs burned with air, your eyes watering from the sight of the fire, sensitive to the brightness, before you looked down at yourself.
When your hands came up to your face, aware that you were back, the grin that reached your face was bright and gleaming.
-
Latin Translations:
Requiesco – (I) rest
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 4
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A/N: Thank you for your patience! This chapter will be to begin the brewing tension! Hope you enjoy it!
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Chapter 4
Three days pass after you come into Alucard’s castle, and you realise just how secluded the Dhampir liked to be.
Alucard kept to himself most times: tending to his garden, gathering food for when the days would get shorter, nights longer. You would also occasionally see him train with his sword in the front. He was one with the sword, and it acted almost as its being, moving on a whim without him telling him where to go next.
You could only imagine how much he had seen to fight so well, or how or who taught him to fight like such. A true warrior with a gentle heart.
It was a lonely occurrence, living with someone you barely saw, so you tended to find your nose stuck in a book rather than be truly alone within the tall walls.
You stuck to Dracula’s library, pouring over and collecting as many books as you could. You were surprised just by how many spells you could learn: astral projection, levitation, puppetry, the list was endless! It truly brought hope that you could pour as much learning in before you would be sent away from the one place full of knowledge.
Who knew Dracula had a fascination with witches?
It was only for breakfast or dinner you would have the blessing of sharing with him, and your conversations were to a minimum. Not much was spoken apart from going over your days, and then one or both of you would help tidy and clear the dishes, before going off to different parts of the castle for the rest of the evening.
Aside from the books, you craved a chance for normalcy, a chance to connect with someone who never wanted to open up to you. There were times he spoke about the things of his life, his mother and what his father did. It was a rare time when he spoke of the two friends he gained, Sypha and Trevor.
You couldn’t stand to be like this for the rest of the month, stuck between walls with no one to chat to, no one to feel human with. It was only fair you tried making it up to Alucard: to thank him for all he had done so far. After all, he could’ve killed you the first chance he had, instead, he had fed you, given you clean clothes, hot water to bathe and the library with books on vampires.
The morning started like any other day, except you had awoken to the bright light pouring through the thin curtains to your room. You would find yourself waking in time to go down to the library before remembering to eat something, but you knew it was now or never to do what you had to do.
You didn’t know if Alucard was awake before you (his room was luckily two rooms down from you) and he warned you from the beginning to not disturb or come to his room. Odd as it was, you obeyed his one rule, hoping that you wouldn’t need aid before he was out in time for breakfast.
You gathered your curls into a bun, tying a ribbon through to keep it up as you grabbed the closest dress to your dresser. Alucard offered more dresses to you, and the more he did, the more you came to realise that these dresses he did not buy. You did feel guilt wearing his mother’s clothes, but he did not complain.
 Slipping out of your room once dressed, you hurried through the endless, winding corridors, trying to remember your way back to the ground floor, and once you found that, you could find the kitchen.
You passed through the doors, entering the rather chilly room before you decided quickly to get to work. You knew you’d get scolded by Alucard for making a mess, but raiding the cupboards and shelves for spices and items made your workspace rather dirty very quickly.
Alucard cooked everything: from breakfast to dinner, he fed and fuelled your mind to keep reading into the many books, rather than be exhausted by the time breakfast had finished.
If he can cook, I can too. You had prepared meals for Bogdan and his family previously, but they had been picky with their meals, keeping to basic porridge and a slither of goat, ham or bacon if lucky.
You gathered eggs, dried meats, bread that had gone a day stale and a whole cupboard full of spices, setting up as you thought the best thing to make was everything there was. You tried to keep it quiet for some time, carefully recreating the meal you had eaten made by Alucard. It didn’t look perfect, but it could taste just as good if you tried.
You got influence from your mama to include different herbs, ones from spices in the southeast, others from across the entire globe, past Wallachia. It amazed you how much of the world there was to explore, rather than being stuck here, surrounded by vampires and demons.
Maybe I could go travelling. You thought, and the very idea brought a chill to run down you. Part of you thought it could be a thrill-seeking adventure to travel halfway across the world, whilst the other part of you warned that you were not suited to a sailor’s life.
Breakfast came hot and ready in the end, and whilst you prepped the plates with the food, you failed to hear the door creak open, a pale figure walk through, half dishevelled and unexpectantly looking to what you were doing.
“Oh,” you jumped back, holding two warmed plates in each hand, surprised to see him standing there so quickly. Perhaps the smells had brought him to come down earlier. You weren’t expecting him so soon. “Good morning. I hope you don’t mind I made myself useful in cooking us something?”
“Why is that?” Alucard rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his blond locks were frizzy and tousled, and you watched as he sat at the table, his plate being handed to him. “I did not know you could cook.”
“Well, I thought you cook so often for me, I’d cook something for you,” you shrugged, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible, but you knew your heart was racing. Racing for his validation? A compliment for your cooking?
Alucard nodded, scooping some of the egg onto a fork and taking a long chew at the stale bread, but he still gave a look that read he was considerate for your time. “It is most thoughtful of you. Thank you, Y/N.”
Your shoulders had been so tensed you realised, after relaxing them from awaiting for so long his verdict. He said your name, you realised, and you couldn’t help that feeling in your chest, swelling with an unknown emotion. As if you had been waiting all your life to hear it from someone again. You smiled nonetheless, taking a bite of your food and being overwhelmed by the spices you remembered your mama cooking into meals.
You spoke about your plans for the day, and how you were close to beginning your training, and it even seemed to pique some of Alucard’s interest. “I will stand by today,” he announced, gathering your plates when they were finished. “Just in case something happens.”
“I should be fine, really.” you didn’t want to pressure him into being with you if he had other things to do, and you certainly didn’t want to make him feel uneasy about your spells- or lack thereof.
“I insist,” he says, his voice a hue of melancholy, “when it comes to witchcraft, there is a chance something can misfire. I’m only making sure you don’t set the books on fire.”
You blush easily but find his joke to make you laugh. “Very funny. Even if I did try to burn it down, I would certainly not start in there. There are too many good things in there. It would be a waste of knowledge, turned to ash within the blink of an eye.”
Alucard hums in agreement, though he does not speak further on the matter, instead, only awaiting for you. “Shall we then?”
-
“I heard it is hard to put a Vampire into a trance?”
You concentrate, staring from the pages up to where the Dhampir stands, tracing a finger over the aged pages. The two of you have spent many hours going through abilities that would be of use to you, and though you try to conjure them through word, nothing comes of it.
“It is true,” he answers earnestly, “the stronger the mind, the harder is it to break- so to say.”
“Vampires have a mental block or something?”
“Some do, it makes it harder to read their minds, to know their auras or get information out from one.”
It gets you thinking, and your curiosity gets the better of you, and you’re asking him the question you’re dying to know. “What about half vampires?”
Alucard quirks an eyebrow, “Half vampires?”
“Yeah, does it work on you? You’re half vampire, half human, after all.”
“You want to give it a go?” There is something that flickers in his tone when he asks you that, one that plays into amusement, and it makes your heart flutter in a way that has you half-guessing yourself and stumbling over the right words. “I can tell you one thing, I’m quite hard to read.”
You’re already stepping up close to him, “I do quite like a challenge.” It’s only when you realise up close, how tall he is. You’ve never been this close up to him, and from here, you can see the smallest of subtly in his movements, the way his eyes flicker around the room quickly, as if always on high alert for trouble.
Alucard takes in your smug stance as he stares you down, a neutral expression falling over his, before he leans in ever so closely, his fangs poking out from his lips. “Boo.”
“Haha.” You rolled your eyes, knowing full well he was trying to make you lose concentration. It’s hard, not just to crack through to him, but to look at him this up close. He’s handsome, you admit it, and there’s that ethereal beauty to him that makes him look eerie compared to other humans.
You try to ignore it as you stare into his comely face, rather than concentrating on just his eyes and eyes alone. Were his eyes always this bright? A golden contrast, like golden leaves of autumn, or smooth honey. Eyes are the windows to the soul, right? So why did you find it intimidating to look through his gaze and look through him as a person?
It feels like the smallest of cracks to a mirror at first before you can even reach the first layer, and you’re met with a heavy, hard-hitting wall.
What on earth? You tug and pull within your mind, amazed at just how mentally strong Alucard is.
You can picture it as standing in front of a locked door, needing a key to pass through. You were so close, yet so far, and when you blinked out from your trance, Alucard chortles in what sounded like victory to winning. “Quite the challenge, isn’t it?”
“Just what exactly were you thinking of?” You tilt your head, “That witches have pointy hats, or fly on broomsticks?”
His laugh is airy and it fills you with hope that maybe, you will be able to crack at him one way or another. “You could say so.”
The two of you continued your readings, and you noticed that he was a bit closer to you, sharing a short space with you as the two of you looked at the same shelf. Though Alucard was always the gentleman and remained a lengthy distance away from you, he seemed at ease.
“This may be of interest to you,” Alucard pulled forth a book from the shelf, handing it over to you. You grabbed, accidentally reaching, your fingers touching. He was oddly warm for a half-vampire, not like a stone-cold, cold-blooded creature. “Maybe we could start here.”
“This could work,” you prop the book up as you go to the right page: the act of telekinesis. “Though, I don’t think I’ve used it before.”
“I’m here in support,” Alucard takes a cautionary step to the side, pointing to the stack of books in the middle of the room, some that had been read through. “Start with one of them.”
You looked between him and the pile, and a feeling of instant negativity washed over you. “I don’t know—”
“I believe in you.” Alucard praises you gently, and for a moment, you can’t concentrate on anything else but the way he supports you. You feel your cheeks flush, and you suddenly want to hear more of his approval.
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and shutting the world around you out. You’re in a dark room, with no air or light, just you focusing and holding out your arms. Concentrating on your breathing, you focused on nothing but what was in the room. When you finally opened your eyes, you spoke the word clearly. “Prodire.”
The stack didn’t move at first, and before you were to even complain to Alucard for your lack of power, you heard the sound of books flipping through to shut, and a lone, heavy-leather bound book lifted clumsily into the air, hanging a few inches off the air but floating.
Your excitement is loud when you gasp in amazement, looking to the Dhampir for approval, whose eyes are already on you, impressed. You look back to the floating book, motioning with your hand in a “come hither”, watching as the book – as if had been picked up by someone – slowly took in your words, approaching sluggishly.
Nice and steady, like water. You told yourself, focusing on bringing the book towards you. It was not even halfway towards its previous spot and when it stopped you sighed intensely, overwhelmed as your face burst into awkwardness.
“I didn’t think this would happen,” you offer an awkward laugh to ease the air, watching with a glance to Alucard, who didn’t seem so embarrassed by this little mishap. He was one to encourage you more. “You’ve got this,” he spoke, “pretend I’m not here if it helps put your mind at ease.”
That’s easier said than done. You thought, and you spoke again, “Prodire.”
Nothing came from the book as you sighed in defeat, your frustration rising with the way your tone did as well. Alucard was quick to try and step in. “I think you should—”
He didn’t get the rest of his sentence out when something surged forward towards you. Not just the one book that had been already floating, but the many others that had been still on the floor. They flew at you with such speed that you didn’t have time to react to even what was coming at you.
Bracing to be hit was your only way to react in time, but something grabbed you around the waist, pulling you backwards against a hard surface, before seconds later the sound of books colliding into the nearby shelf shattered your ears.
Your heart was racing, and it resonated against the surface your back was pushed against. You didn’t realise you were holding your breath, your adrenaline was slowly settling.
“Are you alright? The voice of Alucard was oddly close to your ear, and within seconds, you realised he was the one who pulled you out of the way from the flying books. You turned to look back at him, very much aware your body was burning from his touch, very aware of how close he was, the way he smelled so sweetly—
 “Yes, I’m okay,” you managed to pull away, still feeling the warmth of his hands around your waist, trying to regain a level of composure. Your hands are sweaty and you’re wiping them across your dress urgently. “Thank you, Alucard.”
“What happened there?” He asked, and despite the softness in his dulcet voice, there was still concern in his words. “Your mind was elsewhere.”
“Yes, I think so. You were correct though,” you confirmed. “Magic can misfire.”
“It will come back to you with some time,” you watch the way Alucard’s throat bobs nervously, “I believe you can do so.”
His kind words are a shock to you, and you’re not so certain why he is so suddenly praising you constantly. Part of you thinks it’s out of kindness, whilst the other part of you tells you he just wants you to be out of his castle quicker, and in hopes you’d learn in time before your month ends.
I will learn, no matter how long it takes. You tell yourself, and you tell Alucard that perhaps you will stay in the library for a bit longer to improve.
Alucard does not seem exasperated at your choice, though you may mistaken the look of disappointment that floods his eyes. “Very well,” he drawls, and he’s slow to leave the library, leaving you to yourself.
Sighing heavily in defeat, you pull the books you had failed to bring towards you, pulling up the correct page as you went to try again.
-
Latin Translation:
Prodire – Come forth
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Can you do prompt 33 with like a creature wanting to adopt a human lmao
I'm very late to finishing Monstober over the month I had! Here goes nothing! Monster uses they/them pronouns!
https://itstheendofthegoddamnworld.tumblr.com/post/663839364948918272/monstobermonster-sentence-starters-nsfwsfw - Monster sentence starters
33) I will protect you with my life.
"You're being serious?"
"When have I ever not been serious, my love?" Your lover, a long-legged, eight-foot-tall harpy spoke, hugging you tightly in a clutch of the nest they made. It was a mixture of soft pillows, their soft feathers and twigs, making up a large portion for the both of you to rest in.
"I don't know, I just thought, if we couldn't have children naturally... would you've been angry?"
You watch as your lover's face contorts into one of concern, being upset by your words. "You know I could never be angry at you, my love." They snuggled into the crook of your neck affectionately, murmuring. "I'm just saying, imagine a youngling, running around, one that looked like you."
That was one thing that melted your heart, but you could only giggle softly at their words. "We can't just find a child that looks exactly like me, darling."
"I know, I know, but you like the sound of that?" They beamed, feathers fluffing and becoming more puffed out. "What do you think though? Adopting a little human?"
"What about a harpy? Wouldn't you want one of your kind?"
"We could always get one further down the line, but I'd like a human, first." They said, chirping happily into your hair, and kissing you affectionately.
It was only when they pulled back from you to stare into your eyes that you realised their next words were serious.
"I will protect you with my life." They said with all sincerity, "You and the youngling. I'll protect you with my life."
"I know, my love," you cuddled into their chest, hearing the deep chirps that reverberated all throughout their body and through yours, "I know."
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 3
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A/N: Thanks for the wait! The last two weeks have been a rollercoaster for me, and this is the only place I can go to escape. This POV will mainly be from Alucard's perspective.
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Chapter 3
He's glad you don't see his face when he leaves - rushing out with any excuse under the sun.
In his mind, it's a mess, his senses frantic, elevated to a pulsing rush that he can't tell if the rush of a heartbeat is his or hers.
His skin feels alight in almost agony, every step he takes gives him more reason to be rid of the witch he’s allowed into his father’s castle—no, his castle now. He can be quicker than her to get rid of her before she finds any weapon to use against him.
He could make it fleeting the pain- he was not cruel like his father - he was always quick with giving death to those, it was maybe the human part of him who saw it the same way as giving an animal mercy.
She will find some way to boil my blood, he told himself, crush my bones to make powder. He could not stop the frantic part of his mind screaming not to be so kind to her, not to provide her the things any host should.
He couldn't trust humans again - he told that to himself over and over again - not those whom he allowed to understand the knowledge of his castle, even those who had killed his mother had become a bitter memory. Alucard was no fool, it was the same pain his father felt the day his mother left them, but even his pain, grief and rage burnt him into the man Dracula was always meant to be. Alucard was not as certain if he could possess such vengeance on humanity so soon, but he had tried being sympathetic and it had gotten him scored and beaten. It burnt him all the same, and the betrayals would keep coming to him, over and over again.
Maybe it was his human side, the side of his mother, that was telling him to be a good host, to tend to her injuries and give her refuge. She would've done the same if she was here. Though he was not just part human, and if his father had still been living or had she stumbled into any other vampire's home, it would’ve been in the blink of an eye before his father had her innards spilt and hung as decoration, her throat slashed before her fist could make contact with the doors.
It had worked with his mother though, would it be a coincidence if it could happen again?
Human or not, Alucard knew she had been a witch the second she entered his father’s castle. The stench of witches was ancient and as old as the earth itself. It was one of old power, dormant yet ready to strike. It was stronger on her compared to other creatures he had come across.
Alucard was knowledgeable about witches' hatred for most creatures: humans, creatures of the night, and vampires.
They were familiar with their kind, keeping to themselves, sometimes nomadic and travelling until they could find a place they called their own.
But this girl was far from her coven, muddied and riddled in cuts, she looked half from dead by the time she arrived at the doors of the castle. Alucard did not doubt that if she had not been any sooner, night creatures would've found quick work of her body, he would've been little to no help at all at this point.
Running a hand through his golden locks, Alucard sighed heavily, defeatedly, staring off to the side at the portrait, half-covered and drawn from the sight of his mother. Her lovely, kind smile brought him to feel the guilt first, then the resolution. "You will call me harsh," he said aloud, in acceptance of the unfortunate situation, "but giving her one month of refuge was enough-- even Father would have called me brash for such a thing. No doubt agreeing her body would be spiked alongside the others." 
He does not dare look at her in the painted gaze, knowing that despite it being a painting, her knowing gaze is enough to make him feel further shame. He does not regret his choice of words or his apathy. It's rough work to trust again, and he thinks he will never open his heart to a stranger again. He will keep her at arm's length before her final day comes, and then he'll send her on her merry way, never to be seen here again.
He could imagine his friends, even hearing their precise words in the back of his mind, nagging him. "You should be kinder, Alucard." Sypha is first to console with gentle words, but hers are just like his mother's. "You do not know how far she has come."
He thinks and he agrees before he thinks to his other friend's opinion. What do you think, Trevor? He regrets asking in his head, to the exact reasoning, he knows how the Belmont would answer, "I'm not sober enough to be having this fucking conversation."
The Dhampir sighs dejectedly, finding reason to begin with slowly finding parts of the castle to keep to, in hopes of avoiding her.
-
The awkward exchange was enough to make you feel even more threatened than before. Just as you thought you had been able to see the smallest of cracks in Alucard's personality, he shut you out. You didn't feel angered by that though, you knew killing your father was enough to make anyone feel a sense of sorrow to hang for the rest of one's days. 
You decided to clear up the plates and then find where Alucard spoke of the guest bedroom, where, to your delight was a better place to stay than anywhere you had stayed for all your days of living. The room was far too spacious to be one that belonged to perhaps a member of staff, with silken sheets and dropped curtains, the bed looked lavish enough that you feared you would never be able to rise from again if you dared lay on it.
Thanking yourself for being clean before you threw yourself onto the bed, your body screamed in joy when the softness of the sheets hit you, and you were overcome with a smell of light lavender, soothing and sweet. You could almost imagine hitting the pillows right away and having the best sleep of your entire life, but you knew that that had to wait. Exploring awaited.
It was perhaps a blessing that you didn’t run into Alucard as you wandered the long halls, taking in the aged beauty of the castle. You took in the paintings, the décor, the statues that made you know that life once hung in the halls. It hung like doom how the drab ruin and cracks in the walls told you the castle would never be the same. You told yourself that if you were allowed, you could help tidy some of the rubble.
Your gaze caught a painting you hadn’t seen before: caught in secrecy with a red curtain, covering the majority of the oil painting. Taking glances behind you and in front, you drew in closer, pulling the curtain back to reveal the beauty of the canvas.
The two figures you didn’t recognise, but they looked like opposites. Light hair and dark hair. The sun and the Moon. Human and Vampire. You knew the vampire was Dracula: from his dark locks and wine-coloured eyes, he was drawn closely to his wife, whom you now knew was Alucard’s mother.
The woman was comely and time had not taken away her beauty. Her lips were curled in a sweet, soft smile, holding in her arms a buddle of blond curls similar to hers.
You stared as you looked at the babe, his innocent beaming smile had small fangs poking out, his golden eyes were joining his duel backgrounds, and though you feared the Dhampir, you could not help but find the baby version of him to be adorable.
What made you what you are now? You thought.
Continuing from the corridor, you entered the closest room with its door slightly ajar. It was dark when you entered, the tall curtains drawn. You didn’t wish to disturb the room as it already was by pulling back the curtains, you opted for a better solution.
Looking back through the door you came through, you cupped your hands in front of you, speaking a gentle tone, “Ardeo.”
Your flame came with better ease, yet it acted as the needed torch and light to help you see better. You can now take in the room better: amazed by the very sight in front of you.
You knew Dracula was a man of knowledge, but the room you stepped into was one of grandeur no living man would ever comprehend. Despite the mess of some bookshelves, its books scattered everywhere, the room was very much one that left you in awe.
Observing closer, your curiosity got the better of you (your mother always told you that), and walking over to the books you could see. Using one hand, you scanned the spines, taking in the words. Some were foreign to you, others in the language you knew, but were that not even the church could understand.
This… was far more than just common knowledge, and you were amazed by how much any subject could be used. You grew interested in Dracula, which had books on different species, one you had in particular.
Humans, vampires, dhampirs, speaker magic. Witches.
In the face of being so absorbed in the books in front of you, you failed to hear the sound of a door creaking open, the fluttering of a cape, the sound of footsteps approaching with such haste, that you didn’t have time to look-
“What do you think you’re doing in here?” The voice barked, a hand pulled you away from them, and from the small flames in your hand, the face in front of you erupted from fury to fear.
Alucard had every right to be angry at you in this moment: you did after all cross into a room you were not supposed to go in. It was not that that made your heart rate spike, but the fact that his sword was once again by your throat, cold as a kiss of death against your flesh.
He did not speak, but even if you tried to, the blade made it difficult with how it dug into your skin. You cried out, both of you mirroring one another with expressions: horror written in your eyes.
How when you had seen his baby picture as adorable, you wanted to take it all back, now was replaced with the sight of his fangs flashing in front of you, hissing like a feral cat in distress.
You felt his hand leave your shoulder, and the strength alone was brutal in how tight his grip was. He was not as close to you now, only did you see those golden eyes staring directly into the flames you held as if it was a normal phenomenon.
“I’m sorry,” you rasped, shaking the fire away as the room was engulfed in darkness once again. Only, you were thankful that you could see the outline of his figure still there, watching you in dread and anticipation for what you would do next. “The door… was open—I’m sorry, I overstepped.”
Alucard did not speak, for it seemed he was struck with a fear you had felt many times before. Only did you direct his attention to the book in your other hand, did he seem not to be so rigid.
Witches: The Natural Guide to Magic, Witchcraft and the Occult
His next act startles you when you feel the blade of his sword loosen just enough to allow you to breathe, and he stares between the book and yourself. “Why would a witch need a book like that?”
You stared at him as if you had been slapped across the face. It seemed only a coincidence you couldn’t cast spells, and him being part vampire would’ve noticed too if you had intent on attacking him.
He speaks again, eyes squinted on you. “You could’ve killed me at this point, a hundred times over.”
“I could’ve, but I didn’t… even with the generosity, you offered me refuge,” you calmed yourself enough to speak the truth. “No, I’ve simply lost my skills.”
Alucard stares at you sceptically, “You’re a witch who can’t do spells?” He motions to your hands, “What were those flames then? Some Parlor trick? An illusion?” Regardless of how for a moment ago, threatened you, his voice is sardonic and light.
You could only laugh bitterly, “You’ll think I’m mad.” But the look he gave you told you he already thought so. He was still hesitant of you, you could tell, from the way he stood, and that he was not afraid to use that longsword, always by his side. Whatever he had faced, he still had the mental scars he could not heal.
If I want to get into his good graces, I need to prove I’m not the crones he’s heard of.
You collected yourself, to tell somewhat of the truth. “The coven I was brought into, they were powerful sisters. They welcomed my mama when she was at her worst, and when she had me, they spoke of my destiny, my worth. I was young when they were all slaughtered—slaughtered by”
“Vampires,” Alucard concluded, and his face did not read with the content of knowing that you may have disdain for him.
“I lost my abilities, my skill to heal, to bring back something from death, that was all gone that day, the day I found my mama’s body, drained of all blood.”
“I do not expect you to like me,” Alucard began, and you noticed the way his sword retracted from your neck, floating by his side. “I have certain books that could help you, to help you when you leave. It is one thing I can offer, the books.”
You remembered his deal, to be here for a month before you were sent on your way: one month to gain as much knowledge as you could, as many things you could remember to do or be taught. It was a chance you could only have once, and you were not wishing to reject it when it was being presented to you on a silver platter.
“You would help me?” You questioned.
“My mother would’ve helped you gain your strength, your confidence once again. She was a healer after all, and helping was her job.” There was that softness you noticed he had when he spoke about his mother, and it ripped your heart in two to think of your own.
“You’re not so cruel as I thought The Alucard would be.” You quipped, gathering the books that had dropped to the ground as you began to help tidy. Unbeknownst to you, the smallest of smiles graced the dhampir’s lips, his eyes glowing with a warming amiability.
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 2
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A/N: Thank you for your patience! I've been very busy with Monstober and have taken time to focus more on this story. Hope you enjoy it!
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Chapter 2
In your dreams, you’re whole again, and the happiest you’ve ever been.
You jolt in a familiar bed, one cold and worn from the years melting away: a bed too small. Yet, it’s not the bed you had when you were under Bogdan’s roof, and it brought forth fond memories.
Your mother was situated by her workbench, humming a soft tune you remembered from your childhood. Standing behind her, you could only watch, observing how she had not aged since that day, and she looked as you remembered.
“You are very hard to communicate with, sweet girl,” your mother spoke, her dark dress swayed in the deadness of the air, keeping her back to you. “Your mind has been elsewhere.”
“I don’t understand how I’m speaking to you,” you wavered, holding a hand hesitantly but pulling away, afraid of touching her again, “you are not here anymore, mama.”
“I and my sisters are in the ancestral plane, my girl,” she continued. “I have always been with you, in mind and spirit.”
You could only choke on a laugh, bitterly replying, tears threatening to spill. “Then I must have failed myself for losing all my powers. I’m not the prophecy you spoke of.”
Your mother turned so you could see her face finally, and a veil covered her face, darkness shrouding her appearance. Despite not being able to see her face, you knew she was smiling.
“Why do you think that?”
 “I cannot do anything,” you held your hands out in front of you, trying to concentrate on anything, flames or cold to reach your fingertips, yet nothing came, “I am hopeless.”
“You are speaking to me through a veil of limbo, are you not?” She questioned and there was sadness in her tone, as if you had disappointed her.
It made you question her words, thoughtfully reflecting on them. “You did not teach me about astral projection—or how to reach the veil of the ancestral plane. I… did not know it existed.”
“It belongs to us,” she sang sweetly, “it has always belonged to us, my Y/N.” She reached towards you and placed a hand on your shoulders, her grasp as cold as death.
“There is one thing that has always made me proud of you, what has made the sisters believe in you,” she spoke, and you felt the chill spread like wildfire through your chest. “You were everything they needed in a witch.”
-
The comfort of dreams and darkness spat you out until you felt exhausted, shuddering back life into you.
Your mind felt as if it was in the middle of a fog, slowly clearing up as your heavy eyes opened and shut with the contrasting brightness. The burning sensation seemed to dwindle from your chest, and you were replaced with the cold that came harshly.
You shivered, groggily taking in the sight of flames that brightened the already dark room. You seemed to be in a reception or lounge, the Corinthia you were laid on was a deep crimson colour, and gold leaf trim took part most of its decoration.
“I see you’re awake.” The same voice cut through the sharpness of the air, startling you to stare at the entrance. Oh, right, your saviour—if you could call him that. You could still remember the blade, as cold as ice, pressed against your neck before you passed out, and you were suddenly very aware that you were alone with this stranger; a stranger with a habit of murder.
“Where am I?” You groaned, clutching your head as you found beside you a glass of water already by the table, gingerly picking it up and debating whether to drink from it. If he wanted you dead, he would’ve killed you by now, and the liquid was already being chugged, cooling and crisp down your throat.
“I’m surprised you didn’t even think twice before you stepped a foot inside these halls,” the dulcet voice sounded both bored and irritated by your mere presence. His silhouette moved like a black cat, sticking closely to the doorway. You heard his voice closer to you this time. “I can’t tell if you’re brave or a fool for coming here.”
It dawned on you finally and slowly that you were still inside Dracula’s castle—that the Vampire king himself owned it. It brought a shudder down your spine, but the curiosity in wanting to know why he was there.
“You don’t seem afraid to be here.” You questioned vigilantly.
“No, I would be if this had not been my home.” The figure finally emerged from the shadows, and you almost squinted at his appearance. The first thing you noticed was his wavy long pale blond hair, reaching past his waist, skin pale as moonglow. It was his eyes that were the most beautiful and eerie: golden as honey or the same colour of leaves that fell in the autumntime.
There was something unnatural about him: not exactly human that you could place, a sombreness that hung over him. You did not know what he had seen in his lifetime, but you could see it in his eyes.   
The handsome stranger was dressed in black leather trousers and boots, a simple shirt that showed some of his chest, and a long drawn scar was visible, grotesquely large and haunting.
It was only when you saw what was floating beside him, a long, thin sword, glinting brightly with silver and ornate beauty as it stood vigilantly by his side.
He seemed to notice quickly your eyes darting between him and the weapon beside him. “Will you put that thing away?”
He did not answer you but the sword pulled back from him to stand by the door as he inched closer towards you, watching you with suspicion. “Who are you?”
The stark contrast of his words was not as soft as they had been before, and with the sword standing in the background, you chose to answer him honestly rather than risk being another body staked outside. “My name is Y/N. I come from a village not far from here—”
“You do not speak the truth.” He snarls, and something glints as he opens his mouth wide enough, but is gone within seconds. The blond’s nose scrunches in almost disgust as if the most revolting stench fell over him “It reeks of sorcery,” there’s something feral in his demeanour and the way the sword flickers to move closer to his side, “witch.”
“Yes, I am a witch,” you reply honestly, eyes darting between the sword and him again, your life dangling on the edge. “Please, I don’t have anywhere else to go—I wouldn’t be here for long if you—”
“I do not have anything for you. Leave at once.” He interrupted tersely, circling you, posture tense as if he was either ready to lunge at you or flee. “I do not welcome strangers.”
No, if the bodies were not a warning already. You gulped. “I have no choice but to leave there. I had to for—” Your words stilled on your tongue, nervously tracing your fingers along your wrist in feeble comfort. “I cannot go back there. They… I fled for my life.”
The blond man doesn’t speak for a moment, instead, he watches in hawkish contemplation, studying you, examining if you are telling the truth. It felt as if you could be set on fire by his gaze alone, and finally, he looked away, eyes taking to the hearth.
“Very well,” he says after some time, “you have one month to stay here. One month, and then you can find your way somewhere new.”
Your heart leapt from your chest, ready to almost jump into his arms with gratitude. You watch as he turns, before saying over his shoulder. “There is a bathroom on the second floor, the last room to the left. You stink.”
There is no time to speak your thanks to him, as he’s gone in a hurry, away from the room you occupy. You don’t go looking for him, following up the winding hallways as you follow his instructions, finding the room after looking for some time.
The bathroom is as splendid as the rest of Dracula’s castle: all marble and gleaming white stones and a bath! You take your time to make sure you’re alone, before finding the way to get water through. It’s utterly incredible to witness true science, how hot water comes through without ever needing to gather it from a source. You laugh to yourself, believing how undeniably insane you look in front of his man, and how you too, would be wary of your presence.
It was obvious by your state when you looked in the mirror: your hair was tangled and difficult to even run your fingers through, with the odd chicken feather poking out. Your skin was riddled in mud and bruises covered your thighs and arms. Your cheek is still sore from when Bogdan smacked you, though it is not as red when you see splatters of red across your clothing.
My God, I look mad. You pluck the feathers as you try detangling your hair with your fingers, before stripping off your clothes as the water grows to a level that is good enough for you to get in. The water almost stings from how hot it is, your skin grows pinkish from the heat as you sigh in relief, submerging your body as the water grows clear to a greyish-brown hue.
Grimacing, you occupy yourself with the shelf of many bottles by your side, picking out shampoos and conditioners as you begin the long process of washing your hair. Your curls hid many secrets, as well as the knots that take forever to untangle until they’re smooth and soft to the touch. You dip your head to lean the suds, scrubbing your entire body with the bar of soap until it's red raw.
Not wishing to get out, the water grows cooler, and you grab a towel for your body and head, wrapping your hair up securely as you gather your dirty clothes. You debate on putting them back on or awkwardly trying to find the man of the castle, opening the door to feel something wedged in front.
You inspect the neatly folded clothes, a dress as seaweed green and looking a decade or two out of fashion, a clean chemise and stockings. You dress quickly in the bathroom, finding the kirtle fits you nicely, and you can feel that the material is good quality – as if it’s not been worn before.
Questions dance in your mind – why does he have dresses? Did they belong to a previous wife?
You kept them to the back of your mind as you let your hair air dry, keeping everything as neat as possible as you wandered back to where you could hope of finding the oddly handsome man.
You checked rooms on the second and ground floor: to no avail, was he around, until you found the kitchen on the ground floor, empty, except for the beautiful smells that wafted through the room. You didn’t realise how hungry you had been, not when the food smelt as amazing as it looked.
“You found the kitchen fine then.” A voice interrupted you.
You turned to find the culprit, the blond man was carrying a basket of apples, passing you as he placed them in the middle of the table. The apples were so large they didn’t look real!
He noticed you staring, looking at you for a moment up and down. “The dress you found I see?”
“Yes,” you gathered the material, feeling its softness, “it is very beautiful. Was it your wife’s?”
You see it for yourself, his pale cheeks erupt into a brightness you’ve never seen before, and he averts his gaze from you. “No, the dress is actually my mother’s.”
“Oh.” You say, awkwardness filling the room as he continues sorting out a meal. “Is fish okay for you?” He asks to break the ice.
You nod, watching as he preps two plates, filled with vegetables you’ve never seen before, as bright as anything that could be harvested. The two of you gather your plates as you go to sit at the table, and you fill your stomach with food before it reaches your eyes. The food is rich in flavour and you almost cry from having something so filling in your life.
Neither of you speak as you eat, and though you wish to keep asking him questions, he is quick to speak. “My name is Alucard.”
You choke almost on your fish, staring wide-eyed at him. “Like The Alucard? The one who defeated Dracula?”
“I do rather not like being used that title, but yes, I defeated Vlad Dracula… my father.”
It suddenly dawns on you: his pale skin and unnatural eye colour, how he moves on a whim and as fast as the wind. There was an ethereal beauty to him that you could not place at first, and you were now certain you weren’t losing your mind when you thought you saw fangs in his mouth.
“Oh.” That is all you can say, and Alucard is quick to scrunch his eyebrows at you incredulously, with a look that reads ‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’
“I’m sorry for your loss.” You finally manage to say, and you think you’ve said the wrong thing, but the look that flashes across Alucard’s face is one that you think he’s not felt before.
“No one has ever said that to me, that they were sorry,” his words are soft, tired from a life of grief. You can understand him, yet you wish for him to warm up to you. You notice his sword is still in the room, floating in the corner like a sleeping soldier, idly waiting for orders to strike. “It feels quite relieving.” It takes you a moment to realise that he’s trying to joke from the solemness of his tone.
The tension is still there, and quickly you notice that his softness is replaced by the cold exterior once again, as he stands from his spot, cleaning the dishes. “If you’re to be staying here as a temporary guest, you should find the bedroom on the first floor to the right is free to use.”
Watching him pass from the room and disappear is enough to make your heart sink, from the loneliness of the castle, and from the pain of having to share it with a living,  broken ghost.
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conquerers.
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47 idc what creature as long as it’s lgbt
I was gone for a bit, but let's continue Monstober before October is over! This monster is a minotaur.
https://itstheendofthegoddamnworld.tumblr.com/post/663839364948918272/monstobermonster-sentence-starters-nsfwsfw - Monster sentence starters
47) Stop pushing everyone away.
He sulked as he moved, a heavy mass of muscle moving as one, crashing things in his way.
It was similar to a bull, bulldozing its way through to destruction, and it could only take you to stop him.
"My love, your anger will not stop my concerns." You wavered, watching cautiously as your lover whipped his head around back to you, steam seeming to pour off his body.
"It's easier said than done," he grumbled, pawing his large at the ground to assert more dominance. "Calmness is not my forte."
"I know, I know," you had to decide quickly whether to stand in front of him or allow his rampage to continue, "but perhaps we could talk this through a bit better-"
"There isn't much to discuss," he grunted, "you worry always too much."
Your heart clenched at his words, and you chose to ignore his insult. "I worry for a reason, my love. I care about you-"
"Like I said, you worry too much," he laughed wryly. "Leave me to it."
You could feel your anger begin to slowly match his. "Do you seriously think I'm going to allow you to destroy our bedroom? I would much rather talk to you than have you bottle your feelings."
The minotaur looks at you for a moment in disbelief, as if your words are as foreign and spoken in dead tongues that he had to understand.
"I just," you clamoured, "I worry about you and I don't like seeing you like this, nor do I like being left out of this. We're a team, aren't we? We talk our feelings through." You sighed defeatedly, "So, please, stop pushing everyone away."
There is an awkward pause between the two of you, and you can't decide to walk away and let him cool down, but you're surprised when you're embraced in the warm arms of your lover.
Hugging you tightly to his broad chest, you practically smushed as your feet dangled off the ground.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles earnestly, and you're surprised to hear the pain in his tone. "You're right, you've stuck with me through thick and thin, and I push you away so often. I'm sorry, my love."
You blink stunned, embracing him just as tightly as you can back. "I know... how about we start off slow, and talk how you're feeling through?"
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