shiklah

[shiklah]

soulless

American Horror Story

James Patrick March x reader

Red. Nothing but red. A red so deceitful and all-encompassing that it made her dizzy. She leaned her back against the cold door, feeling her legs give way beneath her. Her hands trembled, her breath quickened, and her heart pounded furiously, like a caged bird desperate to escape.

She had just witnessed her own death.

In the middle of the room, he stood. Proud, upright, satisfied—as always. And covered in blood. His gray suit, white shirt, even his black leather shoes gleamed under the dim evening light. And everything was red.

At his feet lay… someone. Someone who had surely been loved, longed for, never forgotten. And now they lay there, their stomach ripped open, spilling their insides onto the floor. That beloved someone lay at the feet of the man she had loved most in the world.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. Her knees, shaking under the weight of her realization, buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor with a thud, her hand still pressed over her lips.

And then he looked at her. At the object of his deepest adoration, the woman of his life, the only person who had never repulsed him. He watched her fall—like Christ under the weight of the cross, which struck him as oddly poetic. After all, he felt like a god, trading lives like currency, drenched in the love of killing and the euphoria it brought him.

But when he saw the tremor in her hands and the panic in her eyes, he knew something inside her had died, too.

“My dearest,” he began, taking an uncertain step toward her. But when she lifted her terrified gaze, empty and hollow, a shiver ran down his spine. A shiver of hatred and disgust—the kind he had never seen in her eyes before. Eyes that had once held nothing but admiration and devotion now burned with revulsion and grief for something that could never be regained.

“Disgusting…” she whispered, her unfocused gaze locked on the blood still seeping onto the floor. He wasn’t sure if she meant him, the sight before her, or the lingering euphoria in the air. But he had never before heard such cold contempt in her voice.

When she looked at him again, she felt her soul slipping away. She no longer saw her husband, the man she had devoted herself to, the one she had entrusted with her soul, mind, life, and well-being. She saw a stranger—just as dangerous, just as foreign as any other monster she had crossed paths with. And she felt her trembling heart slowly cease to beat, crushed by sorrow and terror, sinking into the void inside her chest.

He exhaled, glancing between her and the still-warm corpse. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

“This… is what I do.”

She began to choke, gasping on her own breath and his words. A violent cough wracked her body, spasms shaking her as she rose to her knees, pressing her hands against her chest, struggling to draw in even a single breath.

Blood—she felt it everywhere. In the air, in her mouth, in her lungs, on her skin, beneath it… It pulsed, roared, churned inside her, making her stomach twist with nausea.

She shook—she shook all over. From her toes to the crown of her head. Her fingers tangled in her hair, pulling in frustration, in fear, in disbelief. A scream tore from her throat, so raw, so despairing, that he had never heard anything like it before. He had taken so many lives, but her death looked and sounded more painful than any of them.

Wordlessly, he knelt beside her. His trousers soaked up the blood, the fabric clinging to his skin as he took a deep breath. He clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ached. And he watched as the only soul that had ever mattered to him slipped away.

[shiklah]

MASTERLIST

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚CASTLEVANIA˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Alucard: sinners resurrection reciprocation {NSFW}

Hector: sacrifice

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ AMERICAN HORROR STORY ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

James Patrick March: soulless

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚SUPERNATURAL˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Dean Winchester Valentine's Day

[shiklah]

sinners

part II

{part I}

Castlevania

Alucard x reader

After a few days, she was feeling much better. She was tired of lying in bed, even though Adrian kept her company for a few hours each day. To keep from going mad, she asked him to bring her books, anything he had on hand. By now, she had read through most of the local fauna and flora, a multi-volume collection of poetry, mostly tragic rather than uplifting, and even some excerpts from the Bible.

However, idleness was weighing on her more than the illness, so when the morning seemed warm enough, and the sun was still low, she announced that she was ready to continue her journey. She put on her cloak, which, by the way, she had carefully cleaned during those few days of inactivity.

But he wasn't pleased. He had gotten somewhat used to her presence; she kept him occupied, and he took advantage of that. It was hard for him to admit, but he might have even liked her. He realized that he was once again putting himself at risk, and he wasn't sure if she was worth it. His intuition, which could also be wrong, urged him to give her a chance.

He saw that she was tired of staying in one place, but he appreciated that she followed his instructions. He tried to keep her occupied with conversation, short, casual stories from his life, and he brought her books. He was surprised that she could read; she didn't seem to be of noble birth, but he concluded that being able to read was almost necessary for someone who practiced magic.

He liked listening to her talk about her family. About the books full of spells, poison recipes, antidotes, medicines, and elixirs, passed down through generations. She told him that the women in her family had been teaching magic for generations, trying to help other women who needed it. They supported the poor, those rejected by the church and society. They taught that there was always a way out of any situation, and he couldn't help but think how much she reminded him of his mother. So innocent, with a good heart and an open mind, fighting for those who couldn't fight for themselves.

He behaved as coldly and cautiously as he had the night they met, yet he was completely different. His hair was clean and combed, cascading down to his collarbones. His shirt was washed and smelled of soap, fitting snugly around his shoulders and back. His gaze was still menacing, but not as tired. Back then, she could have sworn he was nobility. The grace with which he carried himself, the way he responded to every question, how his pale, delicate skin bore no marks of hard, peasant labor, and how his well-groomed hair shone in the sunlight. Or perhaps all vampires were like that? Proud, cold, beautiful, and noble.

When he led her to the exit, not as firmly as the first night when he took her to the room, she finally had a chance to take a better look at the castle. It was still frightening, but he too looked different. The disarray was gone. The interior smelled of water, desperation, and herbs, the dust covering every possible object was swept away, and even the crookedly hung paintings had been put back in place.

And then a bold thought crossed her mind. Since she had been in the castle, so much had changed, and she hoped it was thanks to her. She could see how hurt and lonely he was. Maybe they didn’t have to become the best of friends right away, but she could make his days a little better, just as she knew best—through conversation, silly jokes, good food, and simply by being there. After all, no one wanted to be alone forever.

"I know I’m asking a lot," she began as they descended the stone stairs. He stopped in mid-step and looked back at her, sending her a questioning glance. She gripped the banister, but didn’t take her uncertain gaze off him. "Would you let me stay here for the winter?"

Something inside him screamed not to agree to it under any circumstances. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t let anyone deceive him again or offer help without expecting anything in return. But was this help truly without any expectation? He provided her with food and shelter, but he used her presence whenever he could. He didn’t want her to leave, something he couldn’t fully admit to himself.

"Alright then"

***

She loved to cook, and she did it exceptionally well. Almost every evening, she busied herself in the kitchen, preparing dishes from whatever he managed to buy or hunt.

At first, he would bring whatever he could find at the village market, which was several miles away from the castle, or whatever he managed to hunt in the woods—fish, leftover vegetables, grains. And she never once offered even a word of criticism. She could conjure miracles from anything he brought her.

Previously, he hadn't paid much attention to what he ate; he was more concerned with simply surviving. He ate whatever he could find every few days, just enough to not starve. But with her in mind, he started bringing her tastier and more expensive products day by day. He brought rabbits, venison, or wild boar, treated her to wine and mead, and more and more often bought spices. She still never commented on it, but he could see the satisfaction on her face.

“The last time I ate this well was probably at Louis's court,” she said dreamily, washing the sweet words down with even sweeter wine.

They sat at a small kitchen table. The evening was dark and cold, but she had grown tired of the artificial white light, coaxing Adrian to light some candles. He complied without protest, so only the table, their nearly empty plates, two wine goblets, and their relaxed figures were well-lit.

"You liked the aristocracy," he observed, looking at her with amusement. She often spoke of her visits to various European courts. He didn’t feel she was boasting about it; she just considered it an interesting part of her life. And he listened with interest. He hadn’t had the chance to see much in his own life, so her vivid descriptions of nature, people, and their cultures definitely brightened his winter evenings.

“No. I liked their food, the respect they gave me, the colorful fabrics, and the shiny jewelry. But I honestly despise the aristocracy.”

He laughed low, shaking his head in disbelief. She could read, was intelligent despite not being formally educated, and could find her place in any hut, on any court, in any village or town. Her stories were always interesting and funny, full of flair. If it weren't for the fact that she had admitted to being a witch, he would have been sure she worked in a traveling theater. She had so much charisma that after only a few weeks spent together, he couldn’t imagine a day without her company. She seemed to fill the room with her presence, yet she still respected his space. She didn’t invade his comfort zone, didn’t press him for personal details, and didn’t expect confessions. She simply existed, and he was beginning to feel like she existed just for him.

***

Day by day, he showed her more and more. He took her to the library, large and spacious, filled to the brim with books, mostly about magic and herbalism, which didn’t surprise her too much.

He showed her his father's workshop, full of colorful glass, maps, and instruments with names she didn’t know. She didn’t know if every vampire was a witch, but his father seemed to be one. Or maybe it was his mother who practiced magic? She had no idea, didn’t want to ask, and honestly, it shouldn’t have concerned her. What mattered was that Adrian had freely allowed her to settle into that workshop.

So, nearly every day, she spent several hours expanding her magical skills. She wasn’t a sorceress; she couldn’t weave the elements like some mages could. But she could prepare spells and curses, conduct rituals, and celebrate sabbats, which she used to spend with her family.

And he liked to sit in the workshop with her. They would get lost in books, she would tell him about family traditions and herbs, make potions, some more successful than others. He couldn’t take his admiring eyes off her when he saw her joy, enthusiasm, and eagerness to learn, to continue what generations of women before her had passed down. She was so full of life and happiness that he envied her dedication.

***

She saw how, day by day, he was changing a little. More and more often, he greeted her with sweet smiles rather than venomous glares. He let her move freely around the castle, even showing her his modestly furnished room. He gave her books that he knew she would be interested in. He found herbs for her that she could use. He complimented her cooking, her work ethic, and her literary taste. She felt that he was blooming, that he was starting to show her his sweet, sticky, pleasant side, which he had once hidden like the greatest treasure. And she couldn’t help but fall for the man he was becoming.

However, that was one of the secrets she wasn’t going to share with him. He was kind, understanding, non-judgmental. He listened to everything she said and remembered every detail. He was simply a charming man, one she was ready to lose her head for.

“I found an entire book dedicated solely to wormwood,” he began, entering the room—the same one where she had spent her first night in the castle. The fire was crackling merrily, just as it had that night, and the evening was as cold and deadly as it had been, but this time, she wasn’t sitting on the carpet. She was in one of the red chairs. “Are you really interested in it?”

“I’ll let you know once I’ve read it.” She smiled and took the book from his hands. He laughed softly and sat in the chair next to her.

“Will you tell me what happened to your father?”

He instantly turned his horrified gaze to her. However, her eyes were fixed on the family portrait hanging above the fireplace. She knew that little child had to be him—he had the same shiny hair and eyes, so innocent and good. He was cradled in the arms of a woman, dignified but so pleasant to behold. She was beautiful, delicate, rosy-cheeked.

And towering over them was he. A tall, dark figure with red eyes, long nails, and pointed ears. He looked like a demon pulled from the depths of hell, but she wasn’t afraid of him. His expression was calm, filled with all the love he had for his family.

Adrian often spoke of his mother, always in the highest regard. In his stories, he portrayed Lisa as a lover of science and people, an idealist who, even in the last moments of her life, begged for mercy for her captors. Someone inspiring, loving, and compassionate.

He never spoke of his father. She didn’t even know his name, but she realized that it was a sensitive topic for him. A subject that was the source of his despair. She was sure that Adrian had witnessed much cruel death.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“I killed him.”

Silence. Heavy, muffled, gripping his heart, stopping his breath. He shouldn’t trust her, shouldn’t open up to her so naively, shouldn’t expose himself to pain and suffering again.

She leaned forward in the chair, taking his cold, trembling hand in her warm, delicate one. He first looked at their intertwined hands and then into her eyes, where he saw no hatred or disgust. He saw compassion, which was also reflected in the gentle half-smile on her face.

***

When he lay alone in bed at night, without her cheerful personality, her sweet voice chattering in his ear, or the warm smiles she graced him with at every opportunity, he felt most keenly the impact she had on his life.

He loved making her happy, and she didn’t need much for that. He cherished the brief moments when their hands brushed while reaching for the same book, or when she deliberately intertwined her fingers with his while dreamily reminiscing about her late loved ones. He adored it when she complimented his long hair, sometimes absentmindedly running her fingers through it. He couldn’t shake the memories of the moments when she looked deep into his eyes, unable to stop talking about their peculiar color. He gladly took part in all the rituals that meant so much to her. He helped her gather the herbs she spoke of with such passion.

She had become his entire world. He fell asleep thinking only of her, and when he woke, she was the first thing he looked for. He longed to be close to her, to have her entirely for himself, forever, so no one could ever hurt her again or make her feel unwanted, out of place, or unnecessary. He wanted to gather her into his arms, hold her as tightly as possible, and whisper sweet words of comfort in her ear so she could do the same for him. She was the one he waited for, the one he desired. The rest of the world could cease to exist if only she could stay by his side.

But winter was coming to an end, and she spoke more often of leaving. She stocked up supplies, transcribed passages from books, and generally kept herself busy. What else could he do but support her? So he gathered and transcribed alongside her, just to savor her presence for as long as possible.

"The snow is melting, and the days are getting longer," she remarked one evening as they sat down to dinner, as they had grown accustomed to doing. He only nodded slowly, not saying a word. He knew what her words meant. "I’m planning to leave at dawn."

The fork slipped from his hand, clattering loudly onto the plate. He knew she intended to leave, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

"Are you sure you want to leave tomorrow?"

"Would you prefer me to stay longer?"

"Yes."

His straightforwardness, so uncharacteristic of him, caught her off guard. She looked at him in surprise but was far from displeased. It was exactly the response she had hoped for—simple, giving her the reassurance that he wasn’t tired of her presence, but rather the opposite.

"If you leave, I’ll commit the greatest sin I can imagine – letting you disappear from my life."

[shiklah]

sinners

part I

{part II}

Castlevania

Alucard x reader

She knew that the storm was approaching inevitably. The wind was so cold that she felt it crawling under her skin, biting at her uncovered ears and fingertips, blowing against her black cloak, which spread out behind her like wings.

The forest was dark despite the silver shield of the moon, which flickered somewhere behind the clouds of grey. Her horse had died long ago, succumbing to the darkness and the chill of the long, deadly winter. Still, she trudged forward, clinging with all her might to the remnants of hope that she might survive the night.

She had nothing left—no food, no money, no will. She had become an animal, and the one at the very bottom of the food chain. Weakened, hungry, nearly unconscious from the cold, she kept taking slow step after slow step on the creaking snow. She could see nothing beyond the tip of her nose; the first flakes of stormy snow began to twirl against the backdrop of the night sky, and she began to hear sounds she could never have imagined in her worst nightmares.

She wanted to think they were hallucinations brought on by exhaustion. That the howling of animals hiding behind the pitch-black tree trunks was just a delusion, that the snow falling in her face was merely a nightmare, that everything was just a terrible, monstrous illusion, her personal hell. She was so afraid of death.

In the distance, she saw a light, though it might have been an illusion, or perhaps just flickering stars, yet she had nothing to lose and could gain much.

The closer she got to the light, the more she noticed. The light, however, was not from stars, but from the warm flames of candles placed in the windows of a massive, gloomy castle. Its long, black towers seemed to stretch up to the very moon, overwhelming her with their size and sharp design. She had never seen such a structure, one that looked as though it hadn't been built by human hands. She didn't even know such buildings could exist, for the castle’s towers appeared to almost levitate. Everything seemed so unwelcoming, dangerous, treacherous. Yet, in that moment, even that felt better to her than the tragic death of hunger or freezing to death.

As she approached the massive castle doors, she felt a little better. The wind no longer bit as painfully, and the snow no longer crept down her collar. She knocked confidently, as loudly as her aching hands allowed. Silence. She knocked again, and behind the door, she heard a rustling.

"Please, help me! My horse died miles from here, I have no food left, and I’m dying from the cold. Please, let me stay for at least the night," she begged, leaning her exhausted weight against the door. She could feel her teeth chattering, and the numbness creeping into her feet. She wrapped herself tighter in her soaked cloak, hiding her face in its folds.

The gates creaked open slightly with a long groan, and a man appeared in the narrow passage. She saw only part of his face, but she could tell he looked inhuman. His eyes were sunken, his face as pale as chalk, and strands of matted blonde hair fell over his forehead. He glared at her with a threatening look, and she saw menace in his yellow, cat-like eyes.

"Get out of here," he snarled, trying to close the door in her face. However, she quickly stopped him by placing her cold hand on the door. He didn’t resist, and she saw that he was stronger than her, so she took that as a sign that she could continue her possibly fruitless pleading.

"Please, sir, there is no village nearby. Leaving me here would sentence me to death. Please let me spend the night in the castle."

She saw his displeased gaze, noticed how he sized her up from head to toe, and caught the grimace of disgust on his face. Nevertheless, she stood her ground, still keeping her frozen hand on the door, fighting for her life.

After a moment of silence, he stepped aside, opening the door wider. Encouraged by the invitation, she quickly stepped inside, and he shut the gates behind her with the same force.

Finally, she could see him fully, no longer hidden behind the ornate doors. He was tall, despite his hunched, worn posture. He wore a tattered, wine-stained white shirt. His hair was long but tangled, falling untidily over his shoulders and back. She had dealt with nobility before, but even then, she had never seen a man like this. Despite the neglect that surrounded him, he resembled a porcelain doll. His skin was smooth, pale, and shiny, his hands well-maintained and untouched by labor. She could tell he had been through a lot recently.

The room she found herself in was vast, dark, and terrifying. There was disorder everywhere—red carpets were dirty with grime, dirt, and blood, and in every corner, she saw clouds of gray dust. But what intrigued her most were the lights. They were not candles, torches, or anything she had seen before. The yellow light surrounding their figures had to be the result of magic, something she had never heard of before.

"Thank you, sir," she finally spoke, looking at him with eyes full of gratitude. Despite the pain searing through every cell of her body, she smiled warmly at him. "I promise I will repay you."

"I don’t need your gratitude," he muttered, his expression unchanged. "Who are you?"

"[Y/N], I come from the north."

She knew he wanted to know more, she saw it in his expectant look, his raised eyebrows betraying his suspicion. But she had no intention of sharing the details of her failed journey with a stranger.

"And you? Who are you?"

"Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl," he snarled, moving dangerously closer to her. But seeing her shrink under the weight of his harsh words, he quickly regained his composure. "I wasn’t expecting guests, I have no room for you."

"I don’t need a room, I can sleep on the floor," she quickly responded, not wanting to anger her grumpy host again. She had met many men on her journey—some cruel, others bitter or vengeful. But she knew his type best—it was better to avoid them, and when she had no choice but to interact with them, she didn’t want to get under their skin, especially not in a moment like this, when she was entirely at his mercy

"I’ve lit the fireplace" he finally said. He turned on his heel and, with a confident step, started walking toward the stairs. She quickly followed in his footsteps, not wanting the stranger to disappear from her sight.

The path to the aforementioned fireplace was long, as the castle was vast. However, she felt as if they had been walking down the same corridor the entire time. The same marble floors, the same cracked stone walls, the same dim lamps providing feeble light.

She could feel the remnants of snow melting on her clothes, soaking into the fabric. Her coat became heavy, pulling her backward. She, however, didn’t say a word, trying to keep pace with the man.

The chamber they entered was the coziest of all the rooms she had seen so far, though it still didn’t fully invite her to spend much time there.

The fireplace was indeed burning, or rather, more like dying out; she saw that no one had added firewood for a long time. The walls were decorated with shelves full of books bound in colorful leathers. In the center of the room stood two chairs, wooden, ornate, covered with red, tufted velvet. On the floor lay several open books, stained with wine, the bottle of which also rested nearby. There was a red carpet on the floor, blood red.

"Warm yourself by the fire" he ordered, seating himself in one of the chairs. She sat down on the carpet, as close to the hearth as possible. She took off her coat, placing it on her lap. She blew on her red, frozen hands and rubbed her stiff legs, trying to restore proper circulation. She could feel the wet clothes sticking to her like a second skin, though she hoped they would dry by morning so she could continue her uneasy journey.

She heard the man slide a glass bottle with his foot, and it tipped over with a crash. However, he didn’t react much, only sighing gloomily.

"What’s a woman like you doing alone in Wallachia these days?" he asked quietly. He didn’t sound particularly interested, perhaps he wanted to break the silence between them, or maybe he didn’t trust her and, to calm the suspicions racing through his mind, needed to learn more about her.

"A woman like me?" she replied with a question of her own, positioning herself sideways to the fireplace so that she could see his face. She pulled her knees to her chest, feeling the flames warming her shoulder and back.

"Defenseless, lost, unprepared for a journey" he remarked, looking at her from beneath his lashes. She studied him suspiciously, trying to read his motives and emotions that drove him that night.

He was distrustful, gloomy, and gruff. It had been a while since she had been treated this way, but nonetheless, the presence of any human being was a welcome relief after weeks of solitary travel. So despite the coldness he showed, she tried to enjoy his company.

"I need to get to the other side of the country to my teacher" she finally replied cautiously, still not revealing too much about herself. He nodded and turned his gaze to the dying fire. He stood up from the chair and, skillfully avoiding her sitting on the carpet, added more wood to the fireplace. The fire crackled cheerfully, and he didn’t take his eyes off it.

"Don’t you have teachers in your lands?"

"Not like these."

He nodded again and then took his seat in the chair.

And silence fell. She wasn’t bothered by it too much. The warmth of the fire was enough for her, his grumpy, distrustful presence, and the comforting knowledge that she wouldn't die buried in snow or torn apart by wolves or other creatures that roamed the land.

"Do you live here alone?" she asked quietly, still hesitant to look in his direction, remembering how he had reacted to her last question. "No servants? I haven’t seen anyone in the castle; it’s rare for the master of the house to greet guests" he continued, not hearing a response to her previous question.

"You’re not my guest, you’re an intruder. I invite guests and expect their arrival."

"It seems you haven’t been expecting any arrivals for a long time."

He smiled under his breath at her audacity. But she was right; he knew that he looked as miserable as the castle. Yet he didn’t feel like thinking about it at all.

Trevor and Sypha had left him a long time ago, the bodies of Sumi and Taka impaled on wooden stakes had almost turned to dust. Since then, he had drowned his sorrows in alcohol, hunted, and tried not to lose his mind with despair and loneliness, burdened by what he had done and could have prevented. He didn’t know if all this despair was doing him any good, but he didn’t know how else to cope with the situation he was in. So he did what he knew and was good at – he drowned in loneliness.

"We’ll spend the night here."

"We?"

"You didn’t think I’d leave you unsupervised, did you?"

She sighed and laid her head on her knees. She didn’t know what to expect, after all, the man had shown himself in the worst light. But she at least wanted to believe that he had some better side.

The warmth and the comfort she felt for the first time in many weeks allowed her to relax a little. She closed her tired eyes, tempted by the convenience of not having to worry about whether she would make it through the night. The situation was certainly not ideal, but it was better than anything she had experienced recently. And for that, she was forever grateful.

She curled up on the carpet, moving even closer to the fire, and soon he heard her steady breathing. Again, he looked at her with distrust, wondering what kind of devil had possessed him when he let her into the castle. He had lived through this story before; he didn’t know why he had been fooled once more. Still, there was no turning back now. This time, however, he knew he had to be more careful. Much more careful. People liked to prey on his sweet, innocent kindness, but he wasn’t going to let himself be used again.

***

The night was long and cold, yet the warmth of the fireplace made it one of the best nights she had had in some time. When she woke up, snow was still hitting the windows, and the fire had long since gone out, leaving behind only the remnants of charred wood.

She raised herself to her knees, and her dry coat slid off her shoulders. Slowly, she stood up, stretching her stiff muscles. She looked around cautiously, but he wasn’t in the room.

She felt pain, sharp and intense, stabbing through her body like a cold dagger. She collapsed back onto her knees, feeling the dizziness come over her. She breathed shallowly, trying to calm her frantic thoughts.

She must have fallen ill. She hadn’t survived the long journey in wet clothes without consequences. She knew she wasn’t fit for travel in this condition, but she had no idea what to do, knowing that her gruff host would not be inclined to allow her to stay in the castle for even a few more days.

"You’re up" he observed as he entered the room. He gave her a piercing look, noticing something was wrong. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands were trembling, and she was breathing heavily. And that could only mean one thing. "Are you unwell?"

"Sorry, but the journey took its toll on me" she rasped through her tight throat, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead. She was burning with fever, and each word was painful and difficult to speak. "I’m sorry, but I must ask you to shelter me for a few more days. I’ll recover and you won’t see me again…"

"No" he interrupted her firmly, looking at her with the same gaze he had used when he denied her entry to the castle. "Be glad you didn’t freeze to death last night, and get out of here."

She only nodded, perhaps deep down believing that he was somewhat right. He wasn’t obligated to help her, and they were living in tough times, where trust was a reward she clearly hadn’t earned.

Clumsily, she got up from her knees, throwing the coat over her shoulders. She moved toward the door, dragging her heavy legs. As she passed him, she sent him a weak smile, trying in some way to thank him for the scraps of mercy he had shown the previous night.

"A few days" his steel voice stopped her in the doorway. She turned toward him as quickly as her dizziness would allow, resting her hand on the doorframe, giving him a questioning look. "You can stay for a few days, but then I don’t want to see you again."

"Will you tell me your name?"

"Adrian."

***

He prepared a room for her in an even more secluded part of the castle. She slept under a white, warm duvet and never left the room, a rule he strictly warned her about. He brought her bread and warm milk, gave her herbs, and lit the fire in the fireplace. Once, he even offered her wine, which she particularly liked.

Despite the coldness with which he still treated her, he liked her presence. She gave him something to do, and he somewhat treated her like a pet that he had to take care of. He also enjoyed talking to her. The more time he spent in her room, the more she told him about herself. She spoke of her journey, the people she'd met along the way, and the horrors she'd experienced. Despite her condition, she spoke of everything so lightly, warmly, encouragingly, and smiled for both of them.

"Your teacher must be something special if you traveled such a long way for her," he remarked one evening, handing her another cup of yarrow and St. John's wort infusion, the dried herbs he had found in the depths of the pantry.

She only nodded, dipping her lips in the hot liquid. She always became quiet when the subject came up. He didn’t know the reason for that, but he wanted to get something out of her by any means. Perhaps he still didn’t trust her, or maybe he had truly become curious about her, just as a friend becomes curious about another friend.

"She's a witch," she finally answered quietly, without raising her gaze from the steaming mug. The man tensed, not taking his suspicious eyes off her. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began reaching for the dagger nearby. "I am, too."

Silence. Long, filled with heavy tension and her short breaths. She still didn't lift her lost gaze, but he could tell she was tense. He quickly dropped the idea of involving any weapons in the conversation, wanting to listen to what she had to say in peace, so he could make any decision calmly.

"Actually, I'm not traveling, I'm running away." Finally, she looked at him with glassy eyes and clenched her hands around the cup. The memories of that dreadful night came rushing back like a tornado, even though it had happened many months ago. "They burned... they burned my mother, grandmother, sister. They burned them like dogs, like subhumans. And yes, we practiced magic, but for good. People thanked us, kissed my mother’s hands when she saved their loved ones, whom the church had long since cast aside. Or when she poisoned the vile husbands who beat, raped..."

She spoke faster and more desperately. And he couldn’t say a word, because for the first time, he felt like someone might understand him. Someone who had gone through what he had gone through. Someone whose despair tore their heart just like his, and maybe, just maybe, someone he could share that despair with, or perhaps even heal from it?

"My mother was a healer, an intelligent woman whom the church hated. They killed her too," he admitted slowly. "In their eyes, she was sinful because she married a vampire."

The cup slipped from her hand and shattered on the cold floor. With trembling hands, she covered her mouth, holding back a scream that wanted to escape from her throat. Adrian was peculiar, that was true, but she had never imagined that he was the child of such a sin. In her land, vampires were considered a legend, a fairy tale used to scare children.

However, she didn’t say a word. She took a few deep breaths, calming herself slightly. She smiled sweetly at him, and he felt a great weight fall from his heart, though he didn’t really know why. Still, he didn’t want her to be afraid of him.

"I understand."

And that was all that was needed for both of them to breathe a little easier.

[shiklah]

Valentine's Day

Supernatural

Dean Winchester x reader

She sat on the dirty bed in the dingy motel, listening to the hum of some show—probably House M.D.—playing quietly, merely shyly reminding her of the existence of the television.

She was reading a book she had found in the nightstand, though it didn’t really captivate her. Not enough for her to forget what day it was.

Her red-painted nails tapped absentmindedly on the already battered cover of the book as she waited for the door to burst open and for him to stand there—with a bouquet of flowers, movie tickets, and a bottle of cheap red wine.

And then, a moment later, it happened. The door slammed open, and Dean stood there. But he wasn’t holding flowers, tickets, or alcohol. In fact, he was barely standing on his feet, leaning his shoulder and forehead against the doorframe. The smile on his face seemed to almost spill over.

Right behind him, Sam stood in the doorway as well. With the same lazy smile and the same problem keeping him on his feet. And that’s when she realized that the men hadn’t been injured on the hunt as she had initially thought. They were simply drunk to the point of near incapacity.

Without saying a word, she shot both men a furious look, then stood up from the bed, walked into the bathroom, and slammed the decaying wooden door behind her. She twisted the rusted key in the lock, then sat on the edge of the bathtub. She placed her hands on her knees, thinking about the conversation she had been living with for the past year.

“I feel really lonely,” she gasped, as his hand pulled her closer to his warm body. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Don’t tell me you were expecting something,” he murmured sleepily, burying his face in her hair. She pulled away from him, sitting up so abruptly that he lifted his heavy head from the pillow. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at her, irritated.

“What do you actually want?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Dean. I know we didn’t make any promises, but I need to feel special, just once a year.”

“I didn’t promise you anything. I don’t understand why you were setting yourself up for anything,” he shrugged, then laid his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes, hoping that by doing so, he would end the tiresome conversation.

They had met two years earlier on a loud ghost hunt in Lancaster. At first, Dean had been a nuisance to her. Loud, too confident, annoying, stubborn, and flirtatious. They kept getting in each other's way, and Sam, like the best diplomat, had to play mediator. However, after spending a long week together, full of arguments, they finally came to some understanding. And then they celebrated the fact that they hadn’t lost any limbs and that the body count was low—a successful hunt, in other words. They celebrated so well that in the end, they ended up in bed. Since then, the Winchesters and she had been inseparable.

She had fallen in love with him long ago. His loudness no longer bothered her; now it seemed expressive and funny. He wasn’t overly confident anymore; he just knew what he was doing. He wasn’t stubborn; he was focused on the goal. Even his flirtatiousness didn’t bother her anymore.

However, in moments like this Valentine’s evening, it didn’t change the fact that he was still irritating. In fact, in her opinion, he was cruel.

She was like a little puppy. She was there for him only when he needed her. She stayed silent when he wanted and spoke when he asked her to. She was loyal, even though he wasn’t. When he told her to stay, she stayed; when he told her to leave, she left. She wasn’t demanding, and Dean loved that.

He had what he needed, without ever considering what she needed. When he wanted, he had a friend, and when he asked, he had a lover. He didn’t think much about her. She was something constant, something that would always be there, no matter what he did. Like a puppy. And she did it in the hope that she might win even a crumb of his love. That, for just a moment, he would treat her with the same care he gave to Sam. Or that he would consider her opinion as he did Bobby’s. Or that he would respect her the way he respected Ellen. Or that, just once, he would look at her with eyes full of understanding and affection, without anger, irritation, or cold desire. She wanted him to be only for her, just as she was only for him. She wanted to be his whole world, his shining hope for a better tomorrow, his ray of sunshine on the darkest days, the person he thought of when he laid his head on his pillow at night and when the blinding morning light woke him. She wanted to be all the things he was for her.

But Dean didn’t know that yet.

“Sorry I wanted to go out on V-Day with the man I’ve been sleeping with for a year,” she said sarcastically. Dean opened his eyes again, and a scowl was painted on his face. However, he took two deep breaths and calmed down a little. That conversation was definitely not worth his sleepless night.

“Okay, next year I’ll make it up to you with flowers, chocolates, candles, rose petals, or whatever you come up with.”

“Dean,” she said calmly, but firmly, and the blonde merely mumbled in response to show he was listening. “You need to show me there’s something worth waiting for.”

She looked down at the old bathroom floor. Her bare feet clapped against the beige tiles, and not a single stupid tear rolled down her cheek. And that’s when she realized that maybe she didn’t love him after all.

***

The pain in his head woke him. Throbbing, unrelenting, and penetrating. He slowly sat up, gently resting his head against the bedframe. He reached for a glass to wash away the dryness in his throat, but the glass was empty. He glanced around the room. First, he saw the closed blinds, the table with stacks of pizza boxes, the turned-off TV, the open bathroom door, two beds—one a mess, the other neatly made—until his gaze finally landed on Sam. Sam was sitting deeply in an armchair, resting his chin on his folded hands, holding a phone. He stared into space, as if not really present at all.

“Did someone die?” Dean joked, flashing a mischievous smile. Sam, as if awakened from a trance, quickly turned to face him, shooting him an angry, almost venomous look.

“Hopefully not,” Sam hissed, then stood up from the chair and began pacing around the room. Dean leaned toward the nightstand in search of medicine. He opened the drawer but found nothing except an old, worn copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s Poems. He sighed loudly, and the headache only intensified. “This is all your fault, idiot.”

“What’s your problem now?”

“Don’t you think something’s changed?”

Dean looked around the room again. There were no meds in the drawer and no water in the glass, both of which were always there when he had a hangover. There was no fresh breakfast smell, no music, no show playing on the TV. There was no laughter, no sound of the shower, no sweet perfume. There was no warm, female body in his bed, no touch of soft skin, and no silky hair. And that could only mean one thing.

“Where is she?”

“Great question, I’ve been asking myself the same thing for an hour,” Sam said. He paced the room again. “She’s gone. Left me a pathetic note on the nightstand and sent a text with a photo.”

“What did she write?”

“She said she wants to hunt alone, that she’s leaving, that she’ll miss us, and we shouldn’t worry,” Sam started listing, collapsing back into the chair. “She said we shouldn’t look for her.”

“What does that even mean? Someone must have kidnapped her, something must have happened to her,” Dean said, jumping out of bed as if burned, forgetting about his headache for a moment. He quickly put on his pants and reached for his jacket to go out and start looking for her, but Sam’s voice stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Sam said, standing up quickly and showing Dean the photo she had sent earlier that day. She was sitting behind the wheel of her car, wearing the gray hoodie Sam had given her for her birthday some time ago. Her face was framed by a pair of sunglasses, and the wind from the slightly open window blew through her hair as she smiled widely.

“One stupid picture doesn’t mean anything,” Dean shrugged and reached for his leather jacket again.

“She told me…” Sam started but hesitated for a moment. He took a deep breath and continued. “She told me some time ago that she wanted to leave.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean grumbled. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Hell, can you blame her?” Sam stormed around the room again and sat down at the dirty table. Dean sat across from him, waiting for an explanation, any shred of information about the woman or where he could find her. "Every time you went out to the bar or on a date, without a word, she’d put a bottle of whiskey on the table, then pour us glass after glass. She told me a lot about her life, about her grandmother and little sister, about the cottage in the countryside where she always spent her vacations. She asked me about our parents and the house in Kansas. You spent so much time together, and she didn’t even know you were born in Kansas!’

Dean turned his face away and shifted in his chair, slightly irritated. But he didn’t know what that irritation was caused by. Was it that she had disappeared without a word? That she left Sam a letter and sent him a text message, and he seemed invisible to her? That Sam knew more about her than he did? That they spent so much time together while he was absent?

He wasn’t irritated. He was just jealous.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Have you gone completely stupid? She loved you, Dean."

He knew. Of course, he knew. Only a complete idiot wouldn’t have figured it out. But oh, how easy it was to pretend and convince himself that he didn’t know. How easy it was not to think about her feelings, about how he hurt her, about how he treated her. He never cared whether she’d be upset, whether she’d leave him, or what she’d think of him. He knew two things—she loved him, and he never promised her anything.

He had become a master at deceiving himself. Every day he told himself that her smile didn’t make him happier, that her little gestures—like making breakfast or taking care of him when he was sick—didn’t make his heart race, that going to bed with another woman whose name he couldn’t remember didn’t make him think only of her and how he was breaking her heart.

"You probably think it’s stupid, but she kept talking to me about last year’s Valentine’s Day. About how you promised her something special—and at least, she was expecting something special. And you came back... WE came back drunk, not even noticing that she locked herself in that disgusting bathroom for a solid two hours."

He knew what he had promised her. And he also knew what, between the lines, she had promised him. He was once again deceiving himself that it wasn’t true, but he knew she’d leave him if he disappointed her again. And maybe that’s exactly why he got so drunk. So he wouldn’t have to endure the pain of being abandoned, a pain he fully deserved.

***

A month passed. The brothers continued living as they had before meeting her. They went from case to case, got a little bruised, drank a little, fought a little. Sam missed her, as he had in his nature. Dean didn’t care, as he had in his nature. Or at least, he seemed not to care.

For the past month, Dean’s life had been governed by obsession. Although he told himself it was driven by concern. He thought he was just worried about the woman, that surely something bad had happened, because what other reason could there be for her disappearance? Or for not hearing from her in weeks, even though she was supposed to be there forever? Or for her not even saying goodbye, not telling him, at least for that one last time, that she cared about him? Something must have happened.

So Dean had an obsession. Honestly, he had it long before the woman disappeared. The problem was that now it had spilled out, with all the hidden jealousy, a mass of unspoken feelings, resentment toward her and toward himself.

He wrote. He wrote to her every chance he got.

Sometimes he wrote light-hearted messages. He told her jokes, talked about hunting situations, or encounters with old friends. Sometimes he mentioned his childhood or family, trying to make up for lost time.

Sometimes he wrote sadly. He told her who had been hurt during a hunt and what exactly had happened. He kept her updated on who was dead and who had nearly died. Once or twice, he mentioned his parents’ deaths, but shortly after that, he regretted even bringing it up.

Sometimes he wrote with anger – the way he used to address her. He reminded her of everything that had come to his mind. How she yelled at him when he needed her support, when he had sold his soul. How upset she got when he came home drunk. How she ran away from him. But each time, he regretted those angry messages more than anything else in the world. Still, he kept writing them.

And she never replied.

Sam had dimmed a little. He didn’t know what he expected, he didn’t really know what he felt. He truly and deeply loved her, and he knew she loved him, even though they’d only said it once. That time, when Dean almost died for the the umpteenth time. They clung to each other, crying silently, unsure of what else to do. No words were exchanged; they simply wept, holding on tightly. And they fell asleep like that, curled up together, with traces of tears on their cheeks, full of regret and longing for someone they both couldn’t, and were afraid to, lose. So, it could be said with certainty that their friendship was built on the love for Dean Winchester.

Sam knew that Dean was in love. He knew, he saw it, but he didn’t say a word. Who was he to interfere? He supported her when she suffered from an unrequited love and tried to understand Dean when he saw how he was hurting her. But when the woman decided to break out of that vicious circle, Sam was filled with a strange calm. He knew that she had chosen not to love either of the Winchesters, whether romantically or platonically, but to love herself.

***

Six months passed. Sam received a picture. She was leaning against her car, wearing shorts and a sweater, the same glasses still perched on her nose, her hair, now a little longer, was blowing in the wind. In the background, there was a wild beach by a lake, and she was smiling, calm, and happy…

Under the photo was a short message: I took a little vacation xx

Sam debated for a long time whether he should even show his brother what he had received. He didn’t want to bring him down any further or give him false hope.

Six months had passed, but Dean’s obsession only intensified. He was sending fewer messages and decided to take action.

He tried to track her phone, but all his attempts were futile. He went to Bobby for help, but Bobby sent him away with the words: Leave that poor girl alone. He didn’t even want to discuss it with Sam, he knew his opinion.

Dean thought a lot. The past two years spent together replayed in his mind like a movie, and he always reached the same conclusion – that girl was very stupid.

He couldn’t explain the fact that he had rejected her time and time again, each time more harshly and painfully, and yet she always returned, like a boomerang, with even more patience and love. He manipulated her, treated her worse than an intruder, just to exchange hot kisses with her in the privacy of his beloved car in the evening. He would pull her in, then push her away, as if testing the limits of her endurance.

He wasn’t surprised she was in love with him. This thought didn’t come from vanity but from the fact that he had wanted to make her fall in love with him.

He knew she liked poetry. So he learned a few poems, which he would recite to her in his quiet, deep voice, cuddling up to her back on cold nights. He knew she liked horror movies, so once a week, almost casually, he would turn one on the old motel TV, just so she would cuddle into his arm with a smile on her face and stay that way for the next two hours. He never cared about the movie. He reveled in her scent, the feeling of her hand tightening on his forearm, the soft closeness that made his heart race. He knew she loved lakes, so as they drove from case to case, they would pass one, and she would sigh with admiration, which always made a small, satisfied smile appear on his face.

“Dean,” Sam finally spoke, slowly getting up from the bed. Dean raised his gaze from the file of some ancient demon they were dealing with at the time.

The brunette handed him the phone, and the man saw her face. Something pricked his heart when he saw her smiling and free from worries. Free from him.

He decided to let go.

***

She was crawling backward on her wounded hands, and the deathly pale silhouette of the woman was approaching her relentlessly. She knew this was the end. Bruised, tired, and terrified, she just closed her eyes, resigned to her fate. However, death didn’t come.

Instead, there was a loud shot, and the ghost dissolved into the air like an unpleasant memory. The woman quickly turned, and over her shoulder, she saw none other than the Winchester brothers, who, once they recognized their old friend, stood frozen.

A few long, silent seconds passed before Sam rushed to her and hugged her tightly to his chest. She gave a soft moan, to which the brunette loosened his grip slightly. He pulled her away, holding her by the shoulders, as if to confirm that it was really her, his closest friend, whom he hadn’t seen in a year, sitting on the floor of a dilapidated basement in one of the abandoned buildings in New York.

“Hey, Sammy.” She gave him a faint smile, despite her bruised cheek. Sam, seeing her pain-stricken face, quickly picked her up and headed toward the Impala parked outside.

Dean was boiling inside, but he just stood there, watching. He should be kneeling beside her, stroking her bruised back, pressing her cold cheek to his, whispering words of comfort, giving her a moment of relief for her tired body and soul. Yet, he just stood there.

“You need medical attention,” Sam murmured as he passed by the other man, holding her in his arms. She gave Dean a blank look before tiredly closing her eyes and nestling into the younger of the brothers.

The past year had been the freest she had ever been. If she wanted to go somewhere, see something – she just went and watched. If she wanted to meet someone – she just met them. If she needed a break from hunting, she took it. She was free, not having to consider anyone else’s opinion, rules, or approval, or the lack of it. No one’s feelings mattered except hers. The last year had taught her to be selfish.

The drive to the motel was quiet. The woman rested her head on Sam’s shoulder, who sat next to her in the back seat. Dean, on the other hand, drove uncertainly, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror to get a closer look at the woman he hadn’t seen in months. She hadn’t changed much. There were a few new tattoos, her hair was dyed, a bit longer, maybe she looked a little paler than before. Aside from that, and all the bruises, scratches, and blood, she looked pretty ordinary, just like before.

They entered the motel, and the woman immediately claimed the bed closest to the door. She awkwardly collapsed onto the pillows, and the familiar scent of the perfume she had once known hit her nose. The perfume she had long forgotten. It no longer evoked the warmth, safety, or desire it once had. Now, it was just a pleasant scent, but not unforgettable.

Dean, still not saying a word, took a beer from the fridge and opened it effortlessly. He took a long sip, then set it on the table. He sat down in a chair, staring at the woman who was resting on his bed.

His heart was breaking. Watching her so hurt, bruised, and suffering. He felt the tears welling up in his eyes, but swallowed the sadness that had gathered in his throat and drank away the despair with cold liquor.

Sam, on the other hand, came out of the bathroom with a large first aid kit. The girl turned onto her back and pulled her shirt up to her chin, revealing her badly wounded and bleeding chest.

The younger brother measured her body with a worried look, then sat on the bed. He first carefully scanned her hips, stomach, and breasts, and Dean felt a surge of anger. No one, however, paid attention to his frustration, and Sam began cleaning up the remnants of her once porcelain skin.

“Maybe I’ll do it,” Dean finally offered shyly. Both Sam and her focused their gaze on him, and silence filled the room.

“No,” she decided firmly, glancing back at Sam. He almost imperceptibly nodded and silently returned to his task. Dean turned away and took another swig of alcohol.

“You really got banged up,” Sam remarked when, after wiping away the dried blood, a long, though not too deep, wound appeared before him, running from her sternum down to her left hip. The woman snorted briefly, feeling a sharp pain in her lungs.

“Not the first time, and not the last.”

“Are you really not going to talk about it?” Dean finally snapped. He jumped out of the chair and slammed the bottle onto the table. “You just ran off, disappeared without a word, melted away like fucking camphor! I’ve probably sent you a million messages, and the only thing you could do was send a stupid picture, and not to me, but to Sam? Did you two sleep together as well or is there something else I don’t know about?”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell in the room. Sam looked at both the woman and his brother, waiting for the next development. Maybe he should leave?

The silence was broken by her laugh. It wasn’t the pearly, warm, and sweet laugh it used to be. It was mocking, sarcastic, unpleasant. Dean lost his composure, furrowed his brows, and stepped back a little.

“I wasted two years of my life on you, and you want me to give you more.” She looked at him scornfully. “I forgot that Dean Winchester is the center of the world and…”

“I love you.”

Sam stood up without a word and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

“But I don’t love you anymore, Dean.”

It rooted him to the spot. He could almost physically feel his heart drop into his stomach, and his throat tightened uncomfortably. His hands instantly grew sweaty, and his eyes glazed over with sorrow. He wiped his hands on the legs of his pants and cleared his throat nervously. He looked down, seeing the dirty, worn-out carpet. He gave a slight nod, trying to sort out what exactly he wanted to say. He took a breath, releasing all the disappointment, self-loathing, and anger from his lungs. He sat on the bed next to the woman, and she closely observed every one of his movements.

“I know. You don’t have to. I don’t want that.” He took another deep breath and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you remember that night when we went to play pool in Louisiana? You wore that plaid dress, the one I knew you only wore for me. Your hair fell over your shoulders, you used those sweet, fruity perfumes, painted your nails black, and everyone paid attention to you.”

The woman only watched him in silence. She remembered that night. Dean surprised her like never before, inviting her on a real date (though he never called it that). She had tried for him, hoping that something would change in their relationship. But that night ended like every other one.

“When you were asleep, I lay there for a long time, inhaling that perfume... And I really felt at home.”

More silence, but this time, it was less suffocating. The woman slightly lifted herself on her arms, leaning against the headboard.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I knew you loved me, and I knew I loved you. I guess I didn’t want to admit that to myself because... because thinking about you made me dream of something I’ll never have. I started thinking about a peaceful, settled life that I’d really love to give you. I wish I didn’t have to worry about whether we’ll survive another horrible day, or if by the end of the day, I could hold you again and tell you how much you mean to me, or if every morning I could wake up with you in my arms. I knew I was hurting you, and I knew you’d leave one day, but I preferred to convince myself that I didn’t know. Because it was easier. And I’m sorry I chose the easier option, that I gave up the fight for what we could have had. And I don’t want you to take me back. Treat me like air. Like I’m not even here, but I want to stay with you and make sure you survive another day.”

“There’s this poem,” the woman sighed, staring into the space in front of her. She placed her hands on her battered thighs. “With a farewell kiss, When the time for parting has come, Today, I no longer hesitate to admit: You were right - now I know - My life was a dream... Happy Valentine’s Day, Dean.”

[shiklah]

sacrifice

Castlevania

Hector x vampire!reader

She loved to peek into that room, shrouded in darkness. She would watch him in secret as he brought to life another hellish creature, which writhed at his feet with a cacophony of noise. She observed his face—focused, grim, and gray.

No human had ever been so close to her, even though they hadn't spoken much. Yet he fascinated her to the point where she could watch him for days. He was proud, intelligent, a creator... No king or monarch, willing to give up their treasures for a mere glimpse of her attention, could compare to him. He had no wealth, only talent. Oh, but what talent it was.

"You are magnificent," she finally spoke, seeing Hector set down the hammer on the stone table and straighten himself with a heavy movement. She stepped deeper into the room, and he gave her a tired glance. "I didn’t mean to interrupt, but truly, you are fascinating. What you do is fascinating."

"I saw you watching me," he replied at last, crossing his arms over his chest. He leaned against the stone counter and measured her with his eyes, from her feet to the top of her head. She wore a purple gown that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Her hair, partly styled in intricate braids at the back of her head, partly flowing down her shoulders, framed her pale face. Her lips were accentuated by dark lipstick, which emphasized the whiteness of her sharp, dagger-like fangs—something that had caught his attention when she had laughed with a delicate, pearly sound at his words.

"I must admit, I thought I could get away with it," she shook her head as if somewhat embarrassed by the fact she had been caught in the act. "But why didn’t you say a word?"

The man lowered his gaze from her and fixed it on the stone floor. A silence settled, interrupted only by his steady breathing and the rustling of her precious gown. She studied his pale hair, simple robe, calloused hands, and couldn’t escape the thought that they were so very different from one another.

"Your gaze flatters me," he admitted in a soft, deep voice, and she felt a sudden shiver run down her spine. She smiled instantly and walked even deeper into the room, maneuvering between the patches of dried blood staining the floor.

He saw her figure glide toward him like a swan over the calm surface of a lake, but she only seemed real when he felt her presence beside him. Usually, vampires stirred feelings of unease and disgust in him, maybe a specific kind of fascination, but she was different. Just one of her glances, sent through a small crack in the door, could give him so much confidence and spread through his body a warm, unexpected wave of safety and love he had never felt before. He wasn’t even sure if it was love or if he simply didn’t want to name that feeling.

"You’re kind to me," she suddenly said, placing her cool, delicate hand on his rough, warm one. He looked into her dead eyes, noticing sadness and worry in them—feelings he hadn’t expected. She was a cheerful soul, which was rare in their times. That made her even more special and fascinating to him. "Know that I know very well what Carmilla advised you to do. I knew from the very beginning."

He didn’t know why he was surprised. Her and Carmilla were sisters. They ruled together in Styria, came to Dracula’s castle together, made decisions together, and planned every step together. He realized that she must have known about the dishonorable proposal that Carmilla had made to him and that he had been pondering so intensely.

He was surprised, however, that she had also brought up this topic with him. He couldn’t reconcile her delicate, pleasant nature with betrayal, war, and death.

"If you ask me, I will agree without hesitation," he whispered at last, confessing all the feelings he carried inside him, feelings he hadn’t dared name. He felt her slender fingers tighten on his hand and sensed her exhale heavily as she traced her thumb along his wrist.

"Don’t agree, Hector," she finally said, closing her eyes. She released his hand and sighed deeply. "Carmilla is an excellent strategist and a woman of great intellect, but her heart is as hard as stone. Beware, she will use you without mercy and treat you like a dog when the time that favors her comes. Don’t let her deceive you, and leave this castle as soon as possible. Flee the land of Wallachia."

Her words seemed not to reach him. How many times had he thought about how he could start a new life, with her by his side? Maybe it was naive thinking, but that hope was the only thing that could bring even a shadow of a smile to his face.

"And forgive me," she sobbed, swaying on her feet. Hector caught her almost limp body and held her tightly to his chest, not letting her fall. "Forgive me for agreeing to be a part of this plot. Carmilla was my whole world, I knew nothing but her. This may not be an excuse, but know that I wish neither anger nor death upon you. So I advise you to flee, and it would be better if fate never brought you across my path again."

Her despair seemed almost theatrical, but he knew it was sincere. He pulled her tighter to his body, squeezing almost all the air out of her. The woman breathed heavily again and quietly cried, pressing her hands to her chest.

"Run away with me," he suddenly proposed, pushing her away from him by the length of his arm. She staggered in his still strong grip like a doll, struggling to regain her balance. "I know you don’t desire war and conquest. I know you don’t need fame and power. So run away with me."

She heard footsteps on the stairs and immediately broke free from his embrace. They both carefully watched the entrance to the room, expecting the appearance of an unexpected guest or someone who, with ill intent, had overheard their emotional conversation. And it didn’t matter whether it was someone connected to Carmilla or Dracula, in both cases, they would be deprived of their lives.

"We are too reckless," she finally said when the last echo of the footsteps disappeared into the darkness of the gloomy corridor. "If I run away with you, I will remain your problem for a long, long time, if not for eternity. Are you ready for that sacrifice, Hector?"

[shiklah]

reciprocation

Castlevania

Alucard x reader {NSFW}

It was dark, silent, unsettling. She could see the outline of his tall figure lingering in the doorway of the chamber. His hair cascaded over his slender shoulders. His breathing was shallow, weary, uncertain. With a graceful hand, he leaned against the doorframe, as though guarding himself from collapse, yet his posture was confident, upright, proud. His piercing gaze traveled over her face, her legs, her bare chest. She exhaled seductively, pressing her hands into the mattress. Arching her back, she tilted her head, exposing her long, pale neck. The light reflected off her skin, making it appear ablaze. She took a deep breath, then a slow exhale, and didn’t need to look to know where his curious eyes had wandered.

He adored her perpetually cold body—the thin, veiny skin, her lifeless eyes, the bony hands with long, delicate nails. Only the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, her quiet sighs and feline purrs, the sound of blood flowing through her veins, and her calm, languid movements reminded him she was alive.

She lay on the grand bed, draped in red velvet, which he had brought at her request. She looked as if she were floating in a stream of scarlet blood, a vision he found irresistibly alluring. Her delicate movements maintained the illusion, never allowing the fabric to slip from her body for even a moment.

She reached for a goblet—a large, golden, expensive one. Raising it to the light, she examined it from every angle. The vessel glinted in the moonlight, and a brazen smile played on her lips. Adrian noticed the desire in her eyes, a hunger that frightened him more than any other emotion. Perhaps because she was usually indifferent, cold, vengeful. She relished inflicting pain, consuming completely, sparing no one.

Except him.

He felt it—no, he knew—she loved him. She gave him so much goodness, so many beautiful experiences that left him utterly lost, so many cool kisses whenever he asked, so many dispassionate embraces he could only dream of. And he worshiped her madly.

“Be mine tonight,” she purred in that feline way that made his knees buckle. As if entranced, he approached her bed and climbed onto it clumsily, never breaking his gaze from her. He could hardly catch his breath, watching how her steely eyes slid over him, how she tilted her head coquettishly as if scrutinizing him even more closely, how her fingertips traced circles on his skin, diverting his attention from the gravity of the moment.

Her eyes, though still icy, were now filled with a lust that terrified him. She tilted her head coquettishly, but a threat lingered in her gaze. Her fingertips barely brushed his skin, drawing small circles, as though trying to distract him from something far more daunting—the truth that each touch brought him closer to something irreversible, something that would change them both forever.

“I love you,” he choked out, tension mounting within him. She rested her hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes. Her gaze was empty yet resolute. Everything seemed in its place.

“I love you so much…”

“I know, Adrian,” she purred, and a shiver ran down his spine. The way she said his name made him ready to do absolutely anything for her.

She enjoyed using him, asking for miracles and watching as he struggled to fulfill her increasingly demanding whims. She felt appreciated and fulfilled, knowing she held such a powerful, naive man in her grasp. She adored men like him—easy to manipulate yet authoritative. She never hid this, demanding much but giving everything she had in return—knowledge and her meticulously tended body.

Most women didn’t look kindly upon her, considering her a kept woman, a sweet fling, a delightful moment of forgetfulness. Few, however, could afford her; she valued herself highly.

Adrian was exceptional. Beyond his peculiar background, he was the first man in her life capable of holding her attention for more than a moment. The first man who wanted to hear what she had to say, and she had much to say. She knew he adored her body, driven by the same desire as many before him, yet he was never repulsive in his lust.

He enjoyed giving her pleasure more than receiving it himself. She was not particularly expressive in any aspect of life, so her stoicism during intimacy didn’t surprise him. However, he attuned himself to the faintest sighs from her lips, learning how to improve. He observed her face, searching for the slightest grimace, understanding what not to repeat.

He loved pleasing her, whether through intimacy or showering her with gifts, both of which he provided often.

Before they met, he had heard much about her from Trevor, with whom she also shared a history. From Trevor’s stories, she seemed consumed by greed and power, incapable of feeling any other emotions. But he soon realized she was simply human—hurt, trying to use what she had been given. He could never hate her, though he initially wished to.

As much as she loved extravagant gifts—jewelry, ornate dresses, carved furniture—she equally loved expanding her knowledge. She gave herself to him for the first time on the day he gifted her stacks of books and notes that had once belonged to his parents. That was also the first time her eyes weren’t empty and steely; he saw tenderness he was desperate to claim at any cost.

Adrian was rather clumsy as a lover, which was new to her. Yet, she appreciated being his first unforgettable adventure. Moreover, though she didn’t show it overtly, his initial uncertainty melted her. She guided him slowly through every stage of their peculiar relationship, which only invigorated her more.

“Please, stay here with me forever,” he almost whimpered, placing one hand on her hip. Her cold skin was the most soothing balm to his frayed nerves, the perfect remedy for his tangled thoughts. She was everything to him.

He wasn’t the first to declare his love, yet he was the only one worthy of her attention and time. She didn’t know if she loved him, but she was certain she had never been so happy. No objections, no demands, no jealous wives, insults, or beatings. Just peace, a beautiful, understanding, and naive man, comfort, and countless books she had yet to read. Life with Adrian was her dream.

“I don’t make promises,” she reminded him sharply, removing her hand from his face. He inhaled sharply, tightening his grip on her hip as if afraid she might flee, angered by his plea. She fixed him with an impassive look and, sensing his unease, smiled faintly. “Don’t think about the future now. I’m here to help you forget.”

The man nodded quickly and visibly relaxed. He felt her cool hand on his cheek again, slowly moving down, touching his jaw, tense shoulders, torso, and stopping at the lower part of his belly. Adrian inhaled sharply, his eyes fixed on her hand. His already hard member twitched restlessly, craving her touch like nothing else. He felt a drop of cold sweat trickling down his back, but he dared not move.

They had made love so many times, yet he still felt that youthful anxiety. Perhaps it was because every time was completely different, unique, allowing him to experience many new emotions and fall in love with her even more.

Seeing his stress, wanting to tease him a little more, she once again removed her hands from his body. She placed them behind her back, thrusting her chest forward. Her breasts moved seductively, and she smiled coyly. Adrian did not know which of these things made his heart momentarily lose its rhythm.

He tentatively extended his hand and ran the tips of his fingers over her delicate skin, brushing against her nipples with just the pads of his fingers. She did not take her eyes off him, though her gaze had softened a bit, letting him know that his actions were not unwelcome.

This time he moved more confidently on the bed, towering over her delicate body. The woman instinctively leaned back against the pillows, her hair tickling her back and shoulders, causing her to shudder slightly. Only then did she feel the tingling cold on her face, coming into the chamber through the open window. But that was not what occupied her thoughts at that moment.

"You deserve love" she whispered almost inaudibly, tangling her fingers in his hair. With a decisive move, she pulled him closer, connecting their thirsty lips in an almost rehearsed kiss.

He felt a shiver run down his spine, the taste of her sweet lips on his tongue, her sharp teeth grazing his lips. Her small hand tugged at his long hair, making that kiss seem even more intimate. He felt her slender fingers near his manhood, a touch so unexpected that he gasped into her mouth.

She pulled him even closer, wanting to feel the weight of his warm body on her. Her cool breasts touched his torso, his member brushed against her core, to which he sighed with affection. He pulled away from her lips, breathing deeply, and stared into her eyes, sparkling in the moonlight, filled with emotions he had never seen there before.

"Show me that I am yours" she murmured, getting closer to his ear. She tugged on his hair again, this time more firmly, expectantly, almost painfully. He tilted his head back, and a nearly animalistic groan escaped his throat.

Her sweet, sweet words echoed in his head. She was his, his, only his... Nothing that had come before mattered, nor what was to come, for that night she whispered in his ear, that night she snuggled into his body, and that night she made love to him.

He placed his hand on her core, gently tracing small circles with his fingers. His warm, delicate hands worked wonders; she could not help but let out a quiet moan from her saliva-slicked lips. She quickly covered her face with her hand, not wanting such an incident to repeat.

For him, however, it was the most beautiful sensation. She trembled under his calm touch; he could see how hard it was for her not to squeeze her thighs around his hand, he saw how dramatically her breasts rose and fell with each deep breath she took.

He slipped one finger inside her and felt like he was in heaven. Her core was the only part of her body that was genuinely warm. He felt her desire coating his entire hand with its stickiness. His manhood throbbed impatiently, along with his legs, which were ready to give way beneath him.

He moved his hand slowly, not just to avoid hurting her but to make that moment last as long as possible. However, she grabbed his wrist, gently moved her hips, and looked expectantly into his eyes, demanding something more. He quickly obeyed her, adding a second finger and moving much faster. Once again, her head fell back against the bed, eyes closed in ecstasy. She spread her thighs further with her hands, allowing him to fully see her core, dripping with desire and euphoria. He bit his teeth together to hold back the embarrassing groan that threatened to escape him, and then he grabbed his manhood, wanting to relieve some of his tension.

"Don't touch yourself"

She admonished him, sending him a warning look, to which he immediately withdrew his hand.

"I want to feel you."

With those words in mind, he quickly sat at the foot of the bed, positioning himself near her core. He desired her like never before, for she was behaving differently than usual. Her parted lips, fingers gripping the sheets, her back arched, showed him that she needed him like never before.

He entered her quickly, decisively, in a way that was unlike him. The woman, surprised by his sudden eagerness, let out a short gasp, fixing him with a bewildered look. He responded in kind, then placed his hands on her hips and her legs on his shoulders, drawing even closer and sinking deeper into her.

"I love you so much"

He gasped, then began moving within her. He immediately set an unusual pace for them both, yet it did not seem to bother her. She was focused on his member filling her so well, as if it had been made for her, on his fingers tightening on the delicate skin of her hips, on his quick, ragged breaths that still betrayed his uncertainty.

"You're so good" she panted, digging her nails into the skin of his muscular arms. He let out a surprised whimper, not knowing if it was in response to her words or the combination of pain and pleasure washing over his body head to toe, making him unable to think of anything but her sweet core and her soft voice. With each passing moment, he quickened his movements, and in her bedroom, the only sounds were the slapping of their naked bodies against each other, her shallow breaths, and his desperate moans.

His hands glided over her hips, stomach, legs, breasts, wanting to have her entirely, just for himself, forever. She felt the desperation in his movements, but that was what she loved about him.

"I love you so much" he repeated, feeling his orgasm approaching. She threw her head back, pressing herself more into the velvet pillow.

She hid nothing anymore; broken gasps escaped her lips, interspersed with his name, which sounded like a spell on her tongue. She panted heavily, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. However, his desperate voice, filled with longing, his large hands gripping her body, and their moans echoing off the walls of the room made it impossible for her.

He was the first man she hadn’t been afraid of, the one she felt safe with, the one she didn’t want to leave.

"You are mine, right? I love you so much."

"I love you too."

Suddenly, he stopped his movements, still breathing heavily. A shiver ran through his body, and she felt warmth spreading within her. He reached his climax with her name on his lips, then collapsed uncontrollably onto her body. Panting heavily, he nestled into her breasts, unable to look her in the eye.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to" he began to apologize, and in his words, she heard genuine remorse. He did not pull out, did not raise his gaze to her, just lay there nestled against her cool, sweaty body, still unable to catch his breath.

And she was in even greater shock. She fixed her gaze on the ceiling, wondering what to do next. She had never loved any man, rarely did she tolerate any of them, and now she had declared her love to someone so young, naive, and immature. Maybe that was why he had stolen her heart; because he was so different, unlike all the other disgusting, bitter men.

"Will you stay?"

He asked when he had somewhat regained his composure, still not raising his gaze to her. He could not believe the reality of that moment; he was sure that when he looked at her, she would dissolve like a dream. He didn’t know what made that night different from all the others they had spent together, but he was grateful to himself for never giving up on winning her attention and care.

"I will stay."

[shiklah]

resurrection

Castlevania

Alucard x reader

Every night was just as exhausting and sleepless as the one before. The darkness reigning in the castle was blacker than the night itself, and the quiet sobs echoing through the high corridors did nothing to calm her pounding heart. She wanted to rise, to run from her chamber, to take him in her arms and promise that everything would be okay—that he hadn't lost everything, that he could count on her. But she knew there were two things Adrian despised most: her and showing weakness. So she sat there, wrapped in her bedding, feeling the chill of the night air on her back, hearing the rain tapping against the windows and his weeping, which broke her heart like nothing else.

It was she, along with Trevor and Sypha, who had awakened him in the crypts beneath Gresit. She had helped them defend the towns and even kill Dracula. And in the end, at Sypha's request, she had stayed in the castle so Adrian wouldn't drown in his grief and despair alone—so he wouldn’t lose himself to sorrow and solitude. But what good was her presence if he didn’t want to see her? They didn’t eat together, didn’t talk; he avoided her at every turn, drifting through the halls like a shadow, either confined to his room or wandering outside. They could go an entire day without exchanging a single word, despite living under the same roof.

She had long understood that her presence wasn’t welcome. She tried her best to be a support to him, to help him, but he pushed her away time and again, refusing to even listen. So she stopped speaking altogether. They endured each other’s company only when necessity demanded it, and it broke her heart.

She loved him so much it made her physically ill just to think about it. She admired his love for his mother and humanity, his friendship with the hunter and the Speaker. She admired how good he could be—though never to her.

She knew he was mistrustful, and she didn’t blame him. Still, she hoped that after all this time together, he might show her a shred of sympathy. But she was wrong. It seemed to her that, day by day, his hatred for her only grew, and she couldn’t understand the source of his relentless, loathsome disdain.

But that night, she couldn’t bear it any longer. Whether it was the sound of the rain or the fact that his sobs seemed even more anguished than usual, she couldn’t stand the sorrow tearing her soul in two.

She untangled herself from the sheets, her bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. She walked to the door, opening it with a loud creak. She glanced down the corridor, lit only by long slashes of moonlight streaming through the tall windows. She listened to the silence—for his crying had stopped.

Still, she slowly made her way toward his chamber, her mind swirling with thoughts. She didn’t know if what she was doing was right; she was almost certain he would throw her out the moment she crossed his threshold. But she couldn’t stand the unbearable inaction any longer; it gnawed at her, and was surely one of the many reasons she couldn’t sleep.

The castle was as grim and foreboding as ever. No one cleaned it, no one decorated it, no one cared for it. She was too afraid to change anything, fearing Adrian would disapprove of her initiative. Even though she believed the remnants of that fateful battle only deepened their shared melancholy, she dared not touch anything.

At night, it was the worst. All the haunting memories crowded her mind. The wind howled outside the windows, the chill seeped under her quilt, and the castle loomed in its oppressive darkness. On those saddest nights, they both cried.

She slowly opened the equally creaky door, peeking inside timidly. On the grand bed at the center of the room, she saw his silhouette, curled up and frail, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight.

"Get out," he growled at her in that low, warning tone he always used. But she, surprising both herself and him, stepped deeper into the room, closing the wooden door behind her. She leaned against it hesitantly, not wanting to anger him further.

And silence fell. Heavy, dense, oppressive silence. Only the rain, the wind, and her short, quiet breaths could be heard.

The man sat up, still hunched over, uncertain, furious, and full of sorrow. He glared at her from under his brows with a venomous gaze, giving her yet another signal that she was unwelcome. Yet she ignored even that warning, slowly making her way toward him. He still didn’t speak, his eyes carefully tracking her every move. Stray strands of his long hair fell across his tired, tear-streaked face, but he paid them no mind.

She stopped halfway between the door and the bed, her gaze never wavering from his. She clasped her hands together, nervously picking at her skin. And the silence remained.

“I want to help you,” she said timidly, cautiously. Adrian narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t move an inch.

“I don’t need help, least of all from you. Leave.”

She looked at him with warm, compassionate eyes. Taking a deep breath, she took a few slow, deliberate steps closer before sitting on the edge of the bed, as far from him as possible. She placed her hand on the plush quilt and ran her fingers over it. Its coldness surprised her. But she closed her eyes and exhaled softly. His room smelled like the rest of the castle—damp, musty, and full of death.

She could feel his piercing gaze on her. She also felt a flicker of hope, for he hadn’t yet thrown her out.

“You’re just like Belmont,” she finally said, not even looking at him. She didn’t want to see his reaction, didn’t want to be intimidated, angered, or saddened by it. She needed to say what had weighed on her soul for so long but had never found the opportunity to voice. “So stubborn, relentless, vengeful, and angry. You’re always angry, but also full of grief. The only difference between the two of you is that he’s no longer alone, while you treat your solitude like a cross you carry with both pain and pride.”

He didn’t respond. He just watched as the moonlight danced across her face, as her hair slipped free of its messy arrangement, as her pale hand moved across the quilt, as her chest rose gently with each shallow breath, as her lips formed each cruel word. And he was mesmerized.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

That question echoed in his mind like a church bell. Did he hate her? Quite the opposite.

When he had first seen her, he hadn’t noticed her uncertainty, hesitation, or fear. His eyes had fallen on her hands—slender, pale, delicate, and refined, so unlike those of a warrior. And he thought of them often—when she placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him some anecdote, or when she lit a fire, cursing softly at the leaping flames, or when she tended to Sypha’s wounds, speaking warm, comforting words.

That’s how she was to him—delicate, refined, and warm. He liked her calm voice that soothed his frayed nerves. He liked her cool touch, which burned him like the hottest flame. He liked her laughter, echoing through the castle’s walls. He liked her wide smile, which she offered him at every opportunity, though he gave her so few. He even liked her sticky tears because they showed him they shared something in common.

And she was so unique to him, one of a kind. So he knew he couldn’t trust her—because he had come to love her so deeply. And everything he loved so deeply turned against him.

“Just leave,” he muttered more calmly this time. He lay back down in his previous position and covered himself with the quilt. He only heard her sigh in disappointment, and it broke his heart.

She began humming a melody under her breath, one he had never heard before. But he didn’t move, waiting passively.

And she didn’t stop. She closed her eyes again, running her hand over the bedding, listening to the sound of the wind.

“They often sang this song in my village,” she whispered, trying to recall even a few words of the song her grandmother used to sing to her in moments like this—moments filled with sorrow and the weight of unspoken words.

She finally rose from the bed, smiling warmly, though she knew he couldn’t see it. Once again, she felt the chill of the floor beneath her feet, and a shiver ran down her spine.

“Don’t cry anymore. It breaks my heart.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed softly, her voice a sparkling sound that quickened his heartbeat. He sat up again, this time propping himself on straightened arms. He studied her once more, his gaze much gentler now.

“That I’m tired of loving you.”

He didn’t know what to do. Should he throw himself into her arms? Should he respond to her confession with one of his own? Should he kiss her warm, soft lips, or grasp her cool hands and kiss them instead? Should he apologize for every bitter word? He did nothing.

“This castle makes my head spin. I’m leaving.”

After a wave of euphoria, he felt the icy shock of disappointment and despair wash over him. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably, and his breathing became uneven. She couldn’t leave him. She had promised Sypha, she had promised Trevor... she had promised him.

"No"

he finally said in a firm voice. He got up from the bed, standing tall, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"I need you here."

"Many people need me."

That silenced him because he knew she was right. How much more useful would she be in the simplest village, defending those who couldn’t defend themselves, spreading knowledge to those without access, healing those who didn’t know how? And by his side? She merely lingered in the dark, old castle, enduring his difficult character, mood swings, and constant humiliation, wasting her potential within the four walls of her room, which was no longer a chamber but almost a cell.

And yet, as selfish as it sounded, he couldn’t let her go. Not when he knew he loved her as much as she loved him.

"Give me a chance," he whispered mournfully. Slowly, he stepped toward her, enveloping her hands in his. He looked at her with an expectant gaze, but she didn’t intend to speak. Not after everything, not in a moment when she had decided to let go of that cursed love. Despite her surprise, it was the first time Adrian addressed her with such care, kindness, and calm. The first time she saw, instead of hatred, his need for her to be there. "I live only to see your face every day"

"You breathe, you eat, you sleep. But that can hardly be called living."

"Then help me come back to life."