#but we didn’t talk much except on the tube on the way home | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nosferatvpussy · 3 years

Text

distorted lullabies [chapter XX]

Word count: almost 18k

Warnings: the usual

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link | masterlist

A/N.1: It's been months, yet again.

Hi. Please don't give up on me.

Life has been... challenging to say the least. I'm taking care of myself;

I'll finish this freaking thing, though. I'm proud of it and I want to see it through to the very end, even if takes me way more than a year to finish it.

Have fun.

______________________________________________________________

The sound of Renfield scratching his beard was awfully close to my ears. The fact that I could hear it at all while we were in a crowded tube carriage made me uncomfortable enough to shift my footing and create some space between us. We were close but never close enough for hugs, except for that one time in the hospital.

Today I didn’t have to humiliate myself by asking Renfield for lunch. When my stomach started gurgling earlier, he tapped two fingers on my desk and said that there was a new restaurant he wanted to try in Mayfair. So off across London we went to have lunch and delight in terribly expensive food as if we had won a case together. He paid for the meals and I the drinks. In truth, I suspected this was his way of celebrating my little show with the partners yesterday.

“Are you stopping at the Royal Courts or going back to the office?” He asked me in a hushed voice.

“Courts,” I replied. “I’ve got two sessions this afternoon, then it’s home for me. I’m calling it an early day today.”

“Your home or the Count’s?”

I cut him a slanted glance. “Aren’t you subtle?” He gave me a lopsided smile that told me I had fallen for his trap.

“The Botanic Gardens are staying open until late this week. Something to do with a diplomat in London. He prefers to visit at night. Has Count Dracula been there yet?”

“You don’t need to play cupid anymore now that we’re an item.” I frowned. “And I don’t think he cares much for plants.”

“Merely a suggestion. He does like visiting remarkable places…”

“I thought of taking him to the London Ey-.” I shut my mouth. Renfield was the one prodding but I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. I didn’t want him anywhere close to Dracula now that I had him back.

“He might like it,” Renfield agreed. “So you’re an item? Is that what we’re calling it? Not newly engaged?”

“Oh, god…” I rolled my eyes and let my head fall in defeat. “I didn’t know what to say! My brain supplied the word ‘bride’ out of nowhere and ‘getting married’ was what came out.”

Renfield laughed.

“Freudian slip.” He shrugged. “I thought you’d give them a heart attack.” I simply nodded to cut the subject short. “Was it before or after Mallory?”

“What?”

“When did you stop fighting the Count? Before or after Mallory?”

“I’m not talking to you about this.”

The tube jostled in its path. My hand shot up to hold Renfield’s arm and keep myself steady. He covered my hand with his own.

“Please,” he pleaded, eyes seeking mine with the look of misery. I tried taking my hand back but he squeezed it. “Y/N, I have nothing.”

I made a face at his choice of words.

“Why do you want to know?!” I knew the answer to that but the absurdity of him probing me for information struck deeper.

“He won’t answer my calls. I’m not permitted in the foyer of his building. I have no means of seeing him or speaking to him. He cut all ties to me but I miss him. Oh, I miss him terribly . Please, Y/N. What harm will it do if you tell me about him? What harm if he won’t even see me?”

Could I harm him by telling him? Would it be like waving heroin in front of a drug addict?

I stared into Renfield’s eyes. Dark blue and full of despair and loneliness.

Renfiled’s whining resounded vividly inside my head.

“Why– he, he can’t… he can’t do this to me. I’ll be alone… Nobody, I’ll be nobody.”

And what if he was alone after I was no longer human? What if he became a nobody? He could very well isolate himself. He wasn’t a big talker or sharer. Soon, I would leave to spend my days - my life - with Dracula, and Renfield would be simply an Oxford professor. He could try to make the most out of his life. He could pursue all the things that a lifetime in courtrooms would have kept him from. Yet, I knew he wouldn’t.

Dracula, even if he was not present, would keep him from it.

Was Renfield’s life meaningful without him? Once he’d said it was not. I hadn’t believed him and still didn’t. But the desolation in his face instilled the fear that he would go to extremes if he was kept from Dracula, such as harming himself or taking his own life.

Part of me wanted desperately to share all my fears about becoming a vampire, about dying and killing. But that would be selfish. If I was going to share anything at all with him, it would be for his benefit and to make him feel less lonely.

I could make him a little happier before I left for good. I convinced myself it was for his benefit, not mine.

“It was before Mallory,” I breathed.

He closed his eyes and nodded in a sharp intake of breath.

“Why did he hurt her then?”

“My fault.” It was my turn to close my eyes. “I got involved with Zoe Van Helsing and it all went to shit.”

“Doctor Helsing?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “How- oh.” He patted his trousers’ front pocket, interrupting himself, and grabbed his phone. I heard it vibrating in his hand before he answered it. I angled my face away to give the impression of some privacy yet I heard his conversation, at least his side of it. “...of course. No, no, I forgot, back to work you see. I can be there in a few minutes if that’s all right. Perfect. Thank you for calling.” He clicked his phone off and looked at the tube map above our heads, frowning. “I have to go to St Thomas to get my new prescription. Which way do I go?”

I pointed and circled a place in the map where the stations Westminster, Lambeth North and Waterloo appeared. Renfield looked at me dumbfounded.

“We’re nearly here,” I pointed at Bond Street station. “Stop at the next station, Oxford Circus, and change to the Bakerloo line, the brown one, and that will take you to Waterloo. It’s a 10 minute walk to the Hospital.”

“How do I know which way I should get the tube?”

“You-” I sighed. “I’ll go with you. I don’t have court until an hour, that’s enough time to drop you off there and then you can get a cab back to the office. And you call yourself a Londoner,” I joked.

“A Londoner with a car.”

______________________________________________________

Big Ben chimed as St Thomas Hospital came into view. Across from Westminster Bridge I couldn’t read the time, but when a second chime didn’t come, I presumed it was 1pm on the dot.

“I found out he bit Diana and went to his house and, well, that was it,” I finished saying.

“What?” Renfield said at my side, a little louder than usual. Thinking he hadn’t heard me over the bell, I repeated what I had said. “I heard you, but what do you mean ‘that was it?”

I gripped my purse tighter as I glanced at him, trying to decide whether I should snap at him or not. He was prying, and had pried the entire way there, but now I couldn’t tell if I had been too subtle and he truly hadn’t understood what I meant or if he was being indiscrete.

“Y/N?” He prodded as we crossed the road.

Wind threw my hair away from my neck and before I could give much thought about what I was doing, I pulled the emerald green scarf from around my neck.

“You want to guess what happened next?”

Renfield’s gaze lingered on my neck. I instantly regretted showing it to him. After all, it was precisely this view that had set him off. At least if he lost it now we were close to the hospital.

I swallowed hard, preparing to feel hands crushing my windpipe, but not a hint of insanity peeked behind his eyes; there was a fair amount of jealousy though and maybe resentment.

“I fought him for as long as I could,” I said, feeling an overwhelming need to excuse the mark on my throat. Or was it a need to make Renfield feel better? I tied the scarf again, my purse thumping my ribs awkwardly in every stride. “Until I couldn’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Love.”

My skin crawled when he laughed. I couldn't figure out if he was laughing at me or in satisfaction because he had been right.

“You go on,” I said, nodding at the hospital and frowning. “I’ll take the tube again. I’ve got court.”

“No, wait for me,” Renfield interjected. I bit the insides of my cheeks. I had him back so I wouldn’t fight him, although he was impossible to bear at the moment. “I’ll pay for the cab. You can hail one if you like. Look, my doctor’s resident is here already,” he pointed at a tall, lean boy in a white coat walking towards us. “It will take but a moment.

The doctor’s resident and I exchanged a look. I recognised him at once, and although I thought he didn’t know me by face, his next step vacillated. Mine accelerated.

“Very kind of you, Dr. Seward,” Renfield said, shaking the boy’s hand after he retrieved the prescription and put it in his pocket.

Jack’s big blue eyes danced between us. They were bloodshot. Probably just out of an overnight shift.

“How are you, Mr. Renfield?”

“Good, good. Better everyday.” The last part was said wistfully. “Ah, remember the good student I mentioned to you?” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Y/N L/N, my pride and joy.” I blushed even though I knew he was joking. I couldn’t remember my dad ever introducing me like that to somebody.

“We’ve met,” I said, extending a hand to him. “Although not formally. Hi, Jack.”

His grip was limp.

“Hello.”

Renfield was frowning, apparently at a loss.

“Jack is Zoe’s good student.” I smiled after using his own words. Comprehension dawned on him and he looked at Jack with a distrust that wasn’t there until a second ago. “At least you were, once. I haven’t thanked you-”

“Don’t bother,” he said between snarled lips. “I should have never helped you.” He spit the words with such anger that they gave me pause. He looked at Renfield. “Excuse me,” he said and left.

“Wait, Jack!” I exclaimed. He didn’t stop. “Go,” I told Renfield. “I have to talk to him.”

A harsh wind coming from the Thames opened my coat as I stalked after him. Jack shrugged off his lab coat and bundled it one hand. He was almost at the hospital’s car lot.

“Jack!” I shouted. “For the love of god, I’m wearing high heels! Have mercy on a girl, will y-oof!” I collided face first with his back when he came to a sudden halt. There was an imprint of my lipstick on his blue jumper. I was wiping the corners of my mouth when he turned around.

“Why do you want to talk to me? Apologise? Give your condolences?”

My face went slack. The tip of my fingers felt cold all of a sudden.

“Zoe’s dead?”

“If I hadn’t helped you-” he shook his head and when he did a tear fell to his cheek. “What was I thinking. Your life isn’t worth anything compared to hers.”

“Jack, I’m sorry. But I don’t know how helping me could have…”

But I did know. Zoe had never said but I knew she had been looking for a cure for her cancer. Dracula was the key. His immortality and invulnerability.

When Jack sent me those texts at the wedding and I didn’t take those pills, the plan failed. Dracula was free because of both of us and Zoe had never gotten the chance of getting better.

Sorrow pricked at my heart but I refused to feel it. Zoe hadn’t cared whether I lived or died and I wouldn’t take the time to feel for her.

“When did she die?” I asked.

“I’m not dead yet,” said the owner of the voice in question. Stunned, I turned on my heels to find Zoe behind me. Her skin was almost a translucent green. Bones poked through the little flesh that was left around her face. She looked small inside her clothes. “But I’m getting there,” she continued, giving me a weak smile. “Hello, Y/N.”

“Zoe,” I acknowledged, I stepped back so I could have both her and Jack in my line of sight. Narrowing my eyes, I looked from them back to where I had left Renfield. I expected to find him gone but he was standing in the same place, studying us. “Oh, so I see. I was your patient zero but you had Jack monitoring Renfield as well. Dracula must have cut your little experiment short, having released him the day before yesterday.”

“All my experiments have been failing as of late. I don’t grieve for them anymore.” She montioned her chin towards me. “I’m assuming there’s a bite under that scarf.”

“Save your judgments for yourself,” I told her. I watched as Zoe assessed me meticulously. I knew she was looking for traces of vampirism. If my skin still retained its colour, if my eyes were human enough for her liking, my nails too long or my posture too catlike. Those were things she had said that she always looked for whenever we met. “The bite is new.”

“Oh, I know. You haven’t answered any of my calls since the wedding, so I had to take some unusual measures. I’m well informed that you spent the night with Count Dracula in Knightsbridge and that he was at your house yesterday. By the way you’re beaming, I’ll take a guess and say that this bite was consensual.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” I asked, shocked.

“I had to know if you were alive. And if you were, if you were letting the bond control you.”

“There is no bond anymore,” I countered through the revelation. “I’m free.”

“At someone else’s expense,” Jack muttered.

Glaring at him, I opened my mouth to lash out and tell him that I didn’t have to use anyone to get what I wanted like the both of them, but frankly what was the use of having the last word? Neither of them meant anything to me.

Zoe’s eyes, although clouded by pain, still retained its sharp intelligence as she looked from Jack to me.

“We should leave, Jack, or we’ll miss the funeral mass,” she said, lacing an arm with his. “If you want to give your condolences to Count Dracula’s ex, the funeral is at St Mary’s in Battersea.”

My brows furrowed and then relaxed as things started making sense.

Jack’s bloodshot eyes, his misplaced anger, Zoe very much alive before me. Dracula telling me just two days ago that he wasn’t seeing Lucy anymore and that he grew tired of her. .

I shivered.

“Lucy’s dead?”

“As if you didn’t know,” accused Jack.

I was too shocked to even try denying it.

“How did she die?” I dreaded asking the question but I had to know.

“How do you think?” Jack shot.

“Exsanguination,” Zoe said softly. “It’s been ruled a murder. Scotland Yard is investigating. I suppose it’s convenient that Count Dracula has not one but two lawyers under his heel. He’s going to need it.”

“Because locking him up last time was such a brilliant idea,” Renfield interfered. I had heard his steps approaching from behind and gave him a space at my side. I was glad that he had come to my aid, if only to supply a voice to one of my thoughts. “When was Miss Westenra killed?”

Jack drew his thick eyebrows together at that as I snapped my head to look at my mentor. Clearly, Jack was just as surprised as I was that Renfield knew Lucy well enough to refer to her in that manner.

“Three nights ago,” said Jack, his frown deepening. “The night you were released.”

I cast my eyes to the ground trying to remember why Dracula had refused to meet me after I texted him.

My message said that I was willing to talk and yet, for no apparent reason, he gave me an extra day of truce.

Must have been too busy killing Lucy to talk at the time.

From what he had told me, he was resolute about making her a vampire and she wanted it. What had she done to warrant her death?

“I’ll send my regards to her family,” Renfield said, bowing his head. “This encounter was most illuminating.” He flashed them a smile before lacing a hand around my elbow to tug politely. “We should also get going, Y/N.”

“Yes, I’ve got court. And Zoe?” She was turning away when I called. “Count Dracula knows about everything. And, you see, I’m still alive and so far he’s not angry, but the same might not apply to you.”

“Oh, using him to make threats already?” She opened a smile. “You two belong together.”

“I never needed him to threaten you. He can hurt you in several creative ways, I’m sure, but remember who you’re talking to. I have really good evidence on you to make a case.” My grin was all teeth when Jack paled. “Jack was truly a dear in helping me. It was nice seeing you.”

Renfield and I turned around in unison, leaving Zoe with a pursed mouth burning holes through Jack. Renfield’s hand on my elbow was a little tighter than necessary. I snuck a glance at him as we both headed towards Westminster Bridge. Beneath his light beard, his neck was red.

Contained anger. That wasn’t a look I liked on him.

I stared forward.

The Palace of Westminster’s towers cutting the grey sky suddenly seemed all the more fascinating. Rain would certainly come later; a common thing for London but even that was better to think about than an angry Renfield. Reason said he wasn’t angry at me in the slightest, nor had he reason to, but a good measure of caution, and a good memory of his scoldings, made me nervous to open my mouth.

“Relax, Y/N. You’ll rip your purse.”

I glanced at it, and released the death grip I had on the strap.

“I never saw Jack in the psych wing,” I breathed, sounding irritated. We were both angry, although for different reasons. “If I had I would’ve told you who he was.”

“He’s new. This must be his second week on the job. He began Wednesday after Evelyn’s wedding. Dr. Zoe Van Helsing is probably well connected to get Jack an internship so fast. Or luck struck just in time for him to start working closely to me.”

“Luck,” I scoffed. “Zoe must have been trying to get a hold of me through you and used him to do it. As a bonus, she’d get a look at Dracula’s slave,” I completed, bitter. He gave me a look. “You know she would. Frankly I’m surprised she didn’t have Jack in there with you from the moment you were committed.”

Renfield’s neck was still red, although the sour expression in his face had softened. I supposed he didn’t enjoy being watched anymore than I did.

It was unsettling knowing that Zoe had been watching my every move since I stopped answering her calls. It no longer involved her professional curiosity only, but also revealed her obsession to chase what she wanted at any cost. That made her more dangerous than I would have liked to admit.

“How did you know Lucy?” I asked as we started crossing Westminster Bridge. I was too tense to hail a cab and this wasn’t a conversation we could have privately with a cabbie listening. Westminster station was just across and that could take me to the courts just as well.

“She-” he paused. Silence extended long enough to make me look at him. He was frowning. “She was childish. A girl, frankly... Vapid and obnoxious but fascinated with death and the idea of it. I think she saw death as this big event in which she would be loved even more, adored like a deity for dying young.”

Memory ignited the conversation I had with Dracula on the hood of his car, about Lucy wanting to die and being needy.

“You knew her well, then.”

“Not well. We didn’t exchange more than a few words but I heard hers and the Count’s conversations.”

“How?”

“I drove them around London several nights,” he explained casually, as if he was used to playing chauffeur. I arched an eyebrow at that. “She didn’t know how to drive. So I picked her up, took her where the Count asked me to and sometimes dropped her off at her house.”

“Never his?”

“You’re awfully jealous of someone who’s dead,” he observed.

I gave him a bleak look.

“I’m curious , not jealous.” I laced my arm with Renfield’s, leaning on him. He looked pointedly at me but I ignored it. “I’m just trying to understand why he killed her. He told me he would make her a vampire. What changed?”

Renfield opened his mouth to answer but hesitated. A fly could have flown in and made him choke. Then, a crafty expression crossed his face.

“Ask him.”

“I’m going to but I wanted your-”

“Opinion?” He supplied.

I looked away, towards the dark waters of the Thames.

Renfield’s eyes glittered the same way as the river when he talked about Count Dracula. Ever since he had been released, the azure of his eyes seemed to have darkened.

He was himself, more than he had ever been as of late, and I didn’t want him remotely close to the obsessive behaviour that made him attack me.

Not needing to keep secrets from him was a relief but asking his opinion on the matter was excessive.

Renfield sighed.

"There's a cab,” he said in a low voice, sounding tired. He untangled from me and signaled a black car. “You can’t be late for court.”

Pity made an uncomfortable ball at the pit of my stomach. I could tell he wanted to get involved, and liked it, but I wouldn’t give him his vice. At least, he didn’t insist much. This afternoon’s gossip about his former Master seemed to have been a good dosage to make him sensible to my hesitance. But for how long?

______________________________________________________

My feet hurt as I left the courtroom and I sighed heavily in the commotion of the audience that left along with me. The bustling sound of murmurs grew hollow inside the long and wide hall of the Royal Courts of Justice. Two prosecutors that I had the pleasure of defeating passed me, deep in excited conversation about which pub to hit first.

The last time I celebrated a Friday and a week well done was over drinks with Count Dracula. An involuntary shiver shook me into motion towards the exit.

I remembered the feeling of his mouth to my neck before biting me that first time, and how I thought that was merely a hickey. I almost smiled at the thought but my mind quickly shifted to the image of Dracula sinking his teeth into Lucy, a faceless woman in my imagination, after she had angered him. Killing her in a fit of rage. It happened quite frequently between couples and I had had the displeasure of defending the guilty part in court more than once. That I was possibly dating such a person, besides being a centuries old warlord and murderer, put an acid taste in my mouth.

That could be fixed with a warm cup of tea - the acid taste on my mouth, not my murderous vampire -, I decided when I stepped outside to the freezing weather.

The sun was almost completely gone, hidden behind thick clouds.

The Twinings shop across the road, nothing more than a narrow door in a neoclassical design, beamed in yellow light. It was Diana’s favourite brand of tea and while it wasn’t mine, it was the closest tea shop.

Guilt made me snatch my phone out of my purse as I entered the warm shop. I hadn’t called Diana since disappearing on her, again.

“Look who’s alive,” she said as a way of greeting.

I grimaced. Quite the opening statement.

“For now. Sorry.” I smiled automatically at the attendant behind the counter. Covering the phone’s mike, I asked her to brew me a cup as I shopped. “How’s Scotland?”

“Nippy but good. Very good in fact. Remember the Sweden promotion?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I didn’t. “Is it happening?”

“I think so!” She squealed excitedly, her voice echoing as if she was in a bathroom. Probably soaking in a bathtub, I thought enviously. “The Swedes work less than we do, I heard. Thirty hours a week. Can you imagine? I’ll have so much free time to work on my garden.”

I stopped in my tracks right in the centre of the store.

“But your garden’s here,” I argued.

“I’ll make another. I need to work less, Y/N. I’m not far from my sixties. Sweden will be a blessing.”

“Yes b-” I sighed. Was I actually going to argue about this? It wasn’t like I could have Diana forever. “You should accept it.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Mallory is mad, by the way, and extremely worried about you. She called me yesterday.”

The sudden change of subject unfroze me from my spot and I marched to the section containing a variety of black teas.

“She’s given me a lecture already. Save yours.” I grabbed two boxes of English Breakfast and one of Ceylon, then went to perch on the only stool available in the back of the shop.

A young couple sat next to me, their legs tangling as they talked in whispers. The attendant brought my cup of tea and the couple’s.

“Mallory’s not wrong. You’re changed. I agree that you should be careful.”

I shut my eyes as I tried sipping on the tea. It was just the right temperature and I gulped it unscathed.

“So do I,” I said, frowning at the tea. It tasted like an old brew that had been reheated instead of a fresh one. I eyed the couple next to me but neither of them expressed any reaction.

“Oh. Good.” Then, after a pause, “You’re changed, but not in a bad way. You seem…”

“Happier?” I offered. Was I?

“Impulsive. Less controlling.”

“Thanks?”

She laughed.

“It is a compliment.” There was a harsh, distorted breath on the line which I guessed was Diana sighing. “Mallory said there are some things you’re not telling us. She thinks you’re too wrapped up into him to realise it but I’m old, Y/N. I’ve lived through all kinds of relationships before becoming a widow. I can see that you know what you’re doing and that’s what worries me. You’re choosing to ignore the danger of being with him.”

“Trust me, Di, I’m not,” I said, as I lifted my cup to try the tea again.

“The danger to yourself, is what I mean. You know as well as I do how dangerous he is to other people.”

Tea sloshed inside the big cup as my hand jerked involuntarily. I forced my hand still to avoid spilling hot tea on my lap.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Di?” Nothing. “Are you still there?”

“I have to go. I think I can hear the room service trolley-”

“Di, do you-” I couldn’t bring myself to complete the question.

“Do I?” She carried on.

I sighed.

“Nothing. Go get your room service. Bye,” I said, slouching on my seat. “Miss you.”

“Miss you, too.” Was that disappointment in her voice? “Bye, Y/N.”

The line went silent for a brief second. The soft ding indicating that the call ended was what prompted me to unglue the phone from my ear.

Did Diana remember? Or was I reading too much into it? And if she remembered, why didn’t she say anything?

Being nearly killed wasn’t something people usually kept to themselves. She would’ve said something.

Gathering myself and the boxes of tea, I left my cup ignored and paid for everything with the cashier.

Lights were coming on outside the Royal Courts of Justice as an early night fell. It wasn’t even 5pm. I could skip rush hour if I went home now, but then, thinking of my nearly empty cupboards, I decided rush hour wasn’t as bad as a growling stomach during the weekend. I hated grocery shopping, which is why it was a task I usually shared with Diana - I pushed the trolley and she picked up everything - but with her away, I couldn’t avoid it.

Twenty minutes later, I left the Tesco Express down the road with the basics tucked in a few plastic bags. It was enough for healthy breakfasts for the next few days. I could always order lunch and dinner.

I walked idly, watching the road for a taxi - it would take way too much malabarism to reach for my phone and order an uber - when I was suddenly hyper conscious of my surroundings.

An unknown weight pressed on my shoulders likening the feeling of being watched.

I stopped.

Eyes searching, I turned slowly on my heels, trying to meet the gaze of my observer. The hairs on the back of my neck raised as I thought about how many times I was spied on over the last few weeks, carrying about my day, having lunch with Mallory and weeping. My heartbreak, a mere novelty on Zoe’s little notebook. Every one of my movements accounted for.

I blushed as I wondered if my curtains were closed last night, and if they weren’t, maybe some peeping tom got a hell of a show of Dracula and I on the couch.

Passersby didn’t spare me more than a glance as I stared questioningly at each of them.

The uneven weight of my bags almost made me lose balance as I spun again, looking quickly in the other direction as though to catch my spy off guard.

A twin set of headlights shone on my face before the car maneuvered to stop a few metres away from me. The blinding light lasted only for a second but it was one precious second to make me reflect upon the phrase “deer in headlights”.

The eerie feeling of being watched settled as I recognised the petrol black car and its sleek, daring design.

I glanced at the stormy sky above me, the black tint of night starting to make its appearance through the clouds. Night fell quickly but for Dracula to be here meant he had left his home when it was light out.

The front door sealed shut.

Dracula was at my side not a moment later, taking my groceries from me and swiping my hair to the side to give me a kiss below my ear. His lips were warm on my cold skin. It sent a shiver up my thighs. A disapproving sound came from him as he fingered my scarf and stepped away.

I hadn’t told him I would be at the Courts all day. It wasn’t the first time he’d found me all by himself. It had bothered me before but for some reason I felt the need to smother a chill this time.

“Hi,” I murmured, staring at him and trying not to blush. My skin tingled where he had kissed and the contours of his bite came alive, throbbing as my pulse quickened. One kiss, that was all it took. I would’ve been embarrassed if I didn’t remember the guttural moans that my drinking his blood the past night had evoked. I cleared my throat. “Did you just get here?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t watching me from your car?”

“No. I just turned the corner and saw you-” He stopped, and then really looked at me. “Was there someone watching you?” As he finished the sentence, he stepped closer, shielding my body with his.

“I thought so,” I said, looking around me for one last time. He circled my shoulders with an arm and I stepped into this protection without much thought. “I’m a little on edge, though. Zoe said something today-” I felt him stiffen. Glancing up at him, he regarded me with a blank look. Blank meant he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. Cold meant a bleeding Mallory. “I met her by accident. I was with Renfield, at St Thomas. She said something about taking unusual measures to know whether I was alive after the wedding or not.”

“So you think she has someone watching you.”

“Watching us might be more accurate. I highly doubt she would rest easy if there wasn’t someone on you at all times.”

“Well, there used to be.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“Zoe never trusted me,” I defended myself. “She probably had someone else monitoring you as well.”

He bared his teeth in a grin.

“If there was, I would’ve killed them by now.” He beamed at the possibility and, however awful the things he could do to said person, his pride was a little too contagious and I had to fight not to smile back. “There is no one watching you now. If there was, they left.”

“You’re sure?”

He tipped his head to the side as if weighing the question, then nodded. I took a breath to argue.

“Let them watch,” he cut in, a suggestive glint in his eyes. “Zoe is curious, and maybe a little jealous.” He smirked. “That’s all. She has nothing better to do until she dies. Let her have her fun. Come on, I have something to show you.”

Dracula escorted me to the passenger side before placing my groceries on the backseat. When he sat behind the wheel, the BMW took no more than 3 seconds to go shooting down the street.

“A little slower, maybe?” I suggested as I struggled to fasten my seatbelt. “I’m not a vampire yet and very much susceptible to death by crushing.” He flashed the road a smile, accelerated once again to make my spine glue to the carseat and then diminished the speed dramatically. “You said you had something to show me?”

“Ah, yes!” Extending an arm across me, he opened the glove box. He started reaching for something inside it but I touched his shoulder to keep his attention on the road. “The red envelope on the top. See it?”

Curious, I leaned and plucked the thin envelope from the glove box, shutting it with a knee bump. Dracula flicked the dome light on. Carefully embossed lettering identified the envelope as tickets to the Royal Opera House. The logo, a prancing lion and horse on each side of a crowned shield, was painted in gold.

“Are you taking me to a show?” I asked as I fished inside the teared envelope. I glanced at Dracula expectantly as I pulled two tickets out. “Oh. The actual opera? How fancy… Winter Fundraising event ,” I read. I was severely underdressed and skimming my eyes through the ticket, I breathed in relief as I found it was a week from now. “Opera arias, concertos and a symphony.” The ticket listed a few well known names such as Puccini, Bizet, Mozart, Sibelius and Dvorák. And more , the announcement said. “Why the fundraising? Do you know?”

“I think it’s for the Opera House. Costumes, instruments and such. A sad thing, truly. Doesn’t seem to be as popular as it was in my time.” He pointed at the envelope. “There are libretti in the envelope as well, and the program for the night. Some soloists are coming to perform. I heard the violinist is particularly good. She’s German.”

Setting the tickets on my lap, I pulled two booklets from the envelope. They were both in a sharp white bordered by a bright red. Too bright a red. I swiped my thumb on a corner and then looked at it.

“Something tells me this is not ink,” I muttered, showing Dracula the carmine red stain on my thumb.

He glanced at it.

“You would be right.” Then, grabbed my hand and put my thumb in his mouth. “Hmm.”

“You’re warm,” I observed when he let me go. “Did the person who sold you the tickets seem particularly tasty?” I asked, wiping the corners of the booklets on the envelope. “It is your breakfast, I suppose.”

“Most important meal of the day.” He chuckled. “I didn’t buy the tickets, actually. Found them in the pocket of my neighbour.”

My hand stopped midair on the way to flick the dome light off.

“You killed your neighbour?”

Dracula glanced at my hovering hand, grabbed my index finger and used it to shut the light.

“He wasn’t a good neighbour,” he said, giving me my hand back. “Very annoying, although cultured. His husband was even worse, ugh. I hope the next ones are better than them.”

I inhaled, ready to argue, but then remembering I wasn’t a prosecutor, I decided I had nothing to do with their deaths.

“Did you at least hide the bodies?” I said in the most casual tone I could manage.

“I didn’t. They weren’t my next door neighbours if that’s what you’re concerned about. They lived in the building behind mine.” With one hand on the wheel, he pushed a few buttons on the car’s console and Tears For Fears came on. “It will take a while before anyone finds them. When that happens, there won’t be much to go on.”

“One should hope,” I commented, and in the same breath, “Where did you take Lucy?”

Dracula never stopped humming to Everybody Wants to Rule the World as he glanced at me.

“What do you mean where, darling?”

Two could play this game.

“Did you take her to the same places you took me?” It was a genuine question, although a little off of my objective. I waved the tickets. “Did you invite her to the opera as well?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

He would know if I lied but portions of the truth would do the trick.

“Would you believe me if I said it was jealousy?” I sighed. “We made a promise to each other to share eternal life. Lucy is not in the picture anymore, as you said, but I wonder if you had to lure her in like you did with me. Were you good to her?” I almost added ‘as you were to me’ but that wasn’t quite accurate. He had his moments.

“I was. Perhaps better than I was to you.” He looked at me and I blinked. Was he also a mind reader? “I didn’t hurt her as I hurt you. Lucy was entirely different. She was always willing and eager for death. Interesting but shallow. There wasn’t much beneath the surface that I could hurt.” He chuckled. “I didn’t take her to any of our places. There was no seduction, so to speak.”

“Where did you take her?”

“Cemeteries.”

“Cemeteries,” I repeated, as if I hadn’t heard correctly.

“Yes.” He smiled.

“Why?”

“I quite like them. It’s a rare opportunity to be amongst people my own age.”

I laughed.

“And did she mind?”

“No, no. Lucy liked them. The only thing she liked more than herself was death. It only made sense that she enjoyed them.”

“Why did you never take me?”

The car rolled to a stop at a redlight. Dracula turned to look at me, eyes narrowed and ever observant.

“Cemeteries didn’t exactly come to mind when I planned our dates. I wanted to seduce you, not scare you.”

“You did both most of the time,” I conceded, smiling. “Take me to one.” I gestured at the road.

“Now?”

“Why not?” I shrugged.

He knitted his thick eyebrows and tilted his head. His lips curled but he didn’t let a smile take over.

“I was going to take you to dinner. I haven’t taken you out for a proper meal yet.”

“It’s too early for dinner. We can go afterwards.” Still, no reaction. “Please, I want to understand why you like them.”

“And because you are jealous,” he completed. “You won’t find anything special in a cemetery, Y/N.”

“We’ll see,” I shot back, giving him a hard stare. “I don’t know the closest cemetery, though. Maybe Google-”

“Brompton is the closest one.”

The twenty minutes it took to get there were spent talking about my day. I skipped the part where I found Lucy was dead and my suspicion about Diana. I didn’t quite realise I had kept the latter from him, not until later.

Headstones announced that we were close. An odd appearance since I hadn’t seen the borders of the cemetery yet. I sat up straight, leaning forward so my eyes could adjust to the domed building coming into view. It was difficult to see the plaques at night, especially because there were none of the inviting lights to draw out tourists to such a place at this time.

“That’s the chapel,” Dracula said, nodding at the domed building. Turning the steering wheel, the car swerved and slowed in a path I hadn’t seen, bringing into view an archway that had been previously eclipsed by trees and shrubbery. “The arcade goes all the way to the other side. We can go in through them.”

A carpet of green grass set the stage for the domed building. It was a little smaller than I had first expected. From this angle, I could see that the arcade made a straight line until it became abruptly convex. When Dracula saw me inspecting it, he informed me both arcardes were built like that, thus making the cemetery symmetric.

“The dead outgrew the cemetery?” I guessed, pointing at the headstones outside the veritable palace for the dead.

Dracula simply hummed.

The car stopped. A second later the headlights died and I was left staring into blackness.

I heard more than saw Dracula leaving the car.

I pushed my purse and briefcase to my feet in order to get out. I reached for Dracula’s hand instead of the car door. As expected, he had the door open before I could do so. He helped me out and waited for me to blink. It took a minute but at last I could define the shape of his nose and the pink of his lips. I could even discern his mouth lines.

“Are you holding onto that?” He asked, a finger tapping the red envelope, distracting me from the details on his face.

I regarded the object that had warranted two deaths earlier that night. I didn’t notice I still held it.

Opening my coat, I pushed my shirt’s cleavage to the side, giving him a brief glance of my bra, and stuffed the envelope close to my breast. “There. Let’s go?”

Dracula’s gaze lingered on the envelope’s place of hiding a little too long.

“Y/N.” He spoke my name in a hiss. I so loved how he said it.

“Yes?”

“I thought a cemetery would be too grim a place for you to make advances but I see I was wrong.”

I smirked.

“For safekeeping.” I stretched up and kissed him full on the mouth. My bottom lip was held captive by his teeth for a moment before he let me go. “I don’t make advances,” I completed.

“You just tease me endlessly.” He rolled his eyes, a little too dramatically, and offered me his arm.

“It’s so very fun,” I said, twining my arm around his. “Let’s?” I pointed with a move of my head, and with that we started towards the closest arch.

Above our heads, the world flashed white for a second, the shape of a lightning bolt crisp against the purple night sky. Two heartbeats later, a thunder blared loud enough to shake my ribcage. I shrunk instinctively.

“We shouldn’t stay for long,” I murmured, staring up at the sky as if waiting for another strike.

“Storms scare you?” Dracula asked, a smile very clear in his tone.

“Not particularly but we are around a bunch of trees. It’s dangerous.”

“Not while you’re with me.”

I was about to mock his words when he made a gesture with his hand, as if waving something away. His eyes were fixed on the sky as we kept walking.

A sudden wind sent my hair up. Trees bent sideways with the force of it. Leaves kicked up in the air and, slowly, the heavy clouds dispersed into a sheet made of cotton.

“You didn’t…”

“I did.” He turned to me, smiling wide but it waned when he took a better look at me. “Don’t tell me you liked it better before. If I bring the storm back it’ll be much worse than it was supposed to be. Can’t quite control a storm once it starts.”

“No, no.” I blinked, pushing a few strands of hair away from my face. “I just didn’t know you could do that.”

“It’s not a power I use very often here. London’s weather suits me as it is.”

Dracula led me off the paved path into soft grass. My high heeled boots sunk in the earth on my second step. Leaning my weight on Dracula, I tiptoed my way to the arch. His arm circled my waist, pulling me up so that my feet barely touched the ground, and when we reached the archway, he climbed the tall step, hauling me along with him.

“What else can you do?” I asked once he let me go.

I smoothed my clothes and he did the same. His blazer opened partially and I saw that it was lined in petrol blue. It appeared bright even in the dark.

“Well… If I need to, I can shift form.”

“As in turn into a bat?” I pressed my lips together.

“No, animals are different. I don’t become them. Small animals like bats are tricky. I need many of them instead of one. I prefer bigger animals, such as wolves and the odd lynx. It takes a lot of work, though. I can walk in daylight when possessing an animal. It can be done to humans, too.” He glanced at me. “Maybe I should use another word. I don’t quite possess them. I wear their skin. They have to be dead for me to do it, so it’s only temporary before the skin starts decaying.”

“What a lovely image,” I commented, swearing to myself I would never do that. “And shifting form? How do you mean?”

“I can become mist.”

“Ah yes! The dramatic vampire entrances, I love those.”

He chuckled.

“I’ll teach you.” Then, sliding his hand on mine he tugged forward. “Come. Let’s explore. Just how deep would you like to go?”

I threw him a look but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Dirty jokes?”

“Actually, no. It’s you who always seems to find an ulterior meaning to my words. I meant how deep in the tour.” His voice was solemn. I looked at him again, skeptical, and he raised his eyebrows. “Swear. There are catacombs here and mausoleums to explore. They are easy enough to break into but if you like we can keep to the main attraction.”

“Let’s do that,” I murmured, unsure if he had been kidding or my mind lived in the gutter. “I’m not wearing my Tomb Raider clothes tonight. It’s a videogame and later, films. Bad, bad films,” I added for his benefit.

“Is that the one where the lady with the pretty lips wears tight fitting silver clothing?”

“Count Dracula, have you been watching trash telly in your spare time?” I pitched my voice in mock admonishment.

“I had nothing to do for twelve days.” He shrugged. “Do you have that outfit?” He asked, casting me a curious look. I snickered and shook my head. “Hm.” Then, I really laughed. Dracula had a crush on Angelina Jolie and was picturing me dressed up as Lara Croft. Wasn’t that a treat?

We kept to our path beneath the arches’ columns for most of the tour. Dracula said it was a veritable open air museum but it didn’t compare to Père Lachaise or even High Gate Cemetery here in London. I had never been to any of them so I trusted his word. In spite of his comparison, Brompton Cemetery held its fair share of art to make it truly fascinating.

Old headstones came in variety. Yellow and cracked, grey and weathered, black and bent, and green from years of collecting moss. Some of them were sinking into the earth where they stood, as if they, too, were being buried and consumed by the ground such as the bodies that laid there.

Angel statues were more popular than I thought. Maybe horror movies weren’t so cliche to have an angel statue in every cemetery scene. I counted eleven angels in one small parcel of the graveyard, then I gave up counting.

However, solid stone crucifixes were no surprise. There were so many of them that they were impossible to count. Dracula looked away whenever we got too close to one and I found myself tugging him off its path.

“All the funerals I’ve been to were up north, in Newcastle.” I told him to distract him from the crosses. The fine lines around his eyes were scrunched together as if he was gazing at a strong light. Nevermind that Dracula already knew all there was to know. Hearing me speak nonsense was better than contemplating that which he feared. “That’s where my family is from. I’m the only one who was born in London. I know Newcastle’s graveyards quite well but they’re small. However, I’ll admit I’ve been missing out. It’s peaceful here and quite beautiful in an eerie sort of way.”

His gaze was on the ground as I led him away from the crosses and onto a less pious path. There were tall, blocky buildings far ahead facing each other. A lane of mausoleums and not a cross in sight. Perfect.

“Why do you come to cemeteries if you can’t stand it?” I asked lightly.

“I only came here a few times with Lucy and we mostly kept to the arcades,” he explained, blinking and relaxing as he noticed where I was taking him. “Highgate cemetery is a little less devout. There is a whole avenue designed after Egyptian tombs.”

“Really?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“You don’t know your home city very well,” he accused.

“I know where the cemeteries are well enough to give directions but I don’t make a point to visit them,” I countered, slightly affronted. “I have no reason to. Here. Better?” I squeezed his hand.

“Much,” he murmured, tilting his head towards the only headstone amongst the family vaults and mausoleums.

I stopped before it to read its epitaph. The surname was nearly impossible to read but the first name caught my attention. Lucille or perhaps Lucienne. She died in 1858 or 1856. Weather had made it difficult to read.

Dracula came to stand at my side, a peculiar expression on his face.

“Her husband must have loved her a great deal,” I commented, pointing at the words beneath her name, ringing the acid memory of a name too similar.

Dracula slanted a look at me and without leaning, like I had to do to read it, he intoned,

“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,

And will not let you sleep;

For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,

And that is all I seek.”

He paused as if absorbing the words and then chuckled. “He killed her. That’s” he pointed “regret or a very good liar.”

“How would you know?”

Taking a step forward, smiling, he pet the headstone. It resembled a caress more than anything.

“Trust me, I know.”

Odd but I wouldn’t question it now. I had my chance.

“Because you killed Lucy?” I asked in a slight voice, tilting my head.

His hand dropped. The smile on his face faltered for a moment, a quick moment, before growing big.

“How long have you been holding onto that question?”

I smiled back.

“Practically all day.” I exhaled, almost relieved. “Why did you do it?”

“Are you mad that I killed her?”

“Mad? No. Concerned? Yes. Is that how you usually dispose of your exes?”

His upper lip curled slightly but then he steeled his expression. I was about to make another acid comment when memory touched and made a stab of guilt.

Months ago, after our little movie night, Dracula had hinted at killing his wife when I asked him of her. It was not only crass that I had made that question but it must have felt as if I was accusing him.

I opened my mouth to fix it and he raised a hand to cut me off.

“I made a promise to Lucy and broke it in favour of my promises to you. She asked me to take her life when I wouldn’t make her a vampire. That is all,” he finished in a dispassionate voice.

It was cruel of me to keep going.

“And Justina?”

The blazer he wore suddenly looked tight on him as his muscles bunched with tension. He rounded Lucille’s grave to stand aside from me and gaze upon the green earth. Summoning a deep breath, I stepped across from him, relaxing against the headstone. It was my way of giving him space and letting him know I wasn’t letting this go. His eyes tracked my movements, gaze settling on my shoes instead of the ground.

“Is it important that you know?” He asked.

“If you killed her as you did Lucy, yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest, and continued, “If not, it’s not my business. You can break your promises to me as easily as you broke them to Lucy. I know you don’t care about me as I care about you,” I made my voice as gentle as I could, so I wouldn’t come across as an accuser. “I’m asking you to try loving me and the last person you loved, you also killed.” I dug my nails on my arms to keep me from smiling. Intuition told me I was picking at an unhealed wound but, much like waiting for a jury’s verdict, I knew I was right.

Dracula stood as still as a statue, his face carefully blank as he stared at me.

Tell me I’m right , I silently begged.

“It was an accident.” His voice was so low that I was sure wind had carried it to my ears, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard him. “She was the first person I killed after I became undead,” he finished, putting his hands on his pockets in a resolute manner. “You have nothing to worry about, Y/N. Lucy begged for death. I kill that which I love.” He gave me a bitter grin, eyes sparkling with mockery. “Is that what you suspect? I avoid love because I killed it? It can’t be brought back if it’s dead.”

It would be hell to go up against him in court. I was either too transparent or he knew me too well.

“Maybe it’s undead, like you, ” I said, making myself laugh at how ridiculous it sounded even to my ears.

He smiled but did not join in my amusement. “Do you know the rest of the epitaph?”

“Know it?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow at the sudden change of subject.

“Yes, it’s a song.”

Turning my back to Count Dracula, I squinted at the epitaph. I stepped forward and traced the chiseled writing with my fingers, using touch to guide me through the words he had recited a moment ago. I searched my memory for a melody to go along with it but none came.

“How would you know- this is from the 19th century.” I frowned, touching the year Lucille died. “You weren’t even here yet to know it, or even if it is a song.”

I felt him at my back before he touched me. In the windy chill of the coming storm, Dracula emanated heat from his earlier feast. I tried not to think about that when his arm circled me, fitting me to the expanse of his chest, our hips almost aligned if it wasn’t for the drastic difference in height. I relaxed into his embrace, letting go enough to close my eyes. His touch was unexpected but not unwelcome.

My coat opened. I shuddered as a draft disturbed the warmth made by the thick layer. Then, my breath caught as Dracula’s hand found my ribs, just under my breast, and tightened. The strength of his grip made me shift on the balls of my feet. I stopped when I found the more I moved the further his hand moved away.

His chest raised, almost lifting me up in his grip, and I felt his nose in my hair. Nuzzling, scenting, bringing me closer still. My knees wobbled. Losing my equilibrium, my foot went forward to keep myself up, and Dracula followed, pressing me to the headstone to keep me utterly trapped.

I had one second to think that what we were doing was improper and absolutely disrespectful but my scarf slipping from my neck kept me quiet. The cold made my hair prick up at once. The bite, fresh and raw, hummed to life.

“She sings,” he whispered near my ear. I leaned towards his voice to feel it on my skin.

“Who does?” I whispered back, wishing he would speak again and move my hair out of the way to place careful kisses on my jaw.

“Lucille,” he said. I bent my neck, throwing it slightly back as an invitation. A nail grazed my collarbone briefly. My throat was secured in his grasp a second later and a moan fled from it. His fingers brushed the bite he had given me. Instead of wincing, I found myself pressing against him to feel more. “She sings it. Listen,” he beckoned.

I heard nothing and thought of nothing.

How could he possibly ask me to listen when his touch, mixed with pleasure and pain, put me out of my mind?

The sharpness of his teeth expelled all breath from my lungs. While his mouth was warm on the nape of my neck, his teeth were ice needles, chafing and making me tremble.

“Can’t hear it?” The question was whispered in my ear. I shook my head, sloppily. “Hmm. Maybe if I…”

The hand on my neck shifted to take hold of my jaw and tilt it to its liking. Dracula kissed where he had bit, lips burning on the cold wound, then bit, delicately this time so I could feel every centimetre of his fangs sinking into me.

Opening the fresh wound barely hurt. My neck seemed to welcome him.

Pain lingered on the back of my mind as I melted onto him, willed by his touch. Breathing was difficult with a deadly pressure on my neck. I stood on my tiptoes, as if that could bring me closer to a breath of the quiet night, and when I did, Dracula’s grip relaxed for but a second. Air filled my chest. I felt his fangs drawing back, leaving an emptiness where they had been. Then, his tongue. He wasn’t taking as he had just a few nights ago. It was merely a kiss, measured and tailored to consume, but a kiss, nonetheless.

Stormy wind rushed to my ears and it sang - slow, upping the lilt and lowering as a sad love song would.

It seemed impossible, yet I heard the exact moment where the wind changed its inflection, narrowing into a voice. A woman’s voice, sharp as glass, sad and yearning singing the verses Dracula had recited.

“ You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,

But my breath smells earthy strong;

If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,

Your time will not be long .

Your time will not be long.

Your time will not be long. ”

The voice repeated those verses like a broken record. Once, twice, thrice. And went back to the words Dracula had recited, speeding through them as the aggressive wind seemed to cut through my clothes, until the record was reinitiated to go again and again and again.

Dracula’s mouth released me, and the chilling song left, too. I opened my eyes, hardening my knees as if to make sure I could stand on my own. Although the darkness of the night partially clouded my sight, I could see just fine and my head wasn’t swimming. He must not have taken much.

In fact, my head was clear enough to know that he had done it as an attempt to manipulate the subject. It wasn’t the first time, especially in recent days - pressuring him for answers recently warranted getting his fingers pushed into me and now, this. Next time, and I knew there would be one, I wouldn’t let him play me.

“She resents him,” I finally muttered. Blinking, I clasped onto his arm around my chest. “How did you do that?”

“The kiss of the vampire-” he spoke, lips wet on my ear “-is a powerful aphrodisiac. Amongst other things.” He chuckled. “I hadn’t shown you the latter until now. Did Lucille tell you about her husband?”

“No.” I frowned. “I heard her sing, nothing else.” Using the headstone as a leverage, I turned, trusting my knees and Lucille’s decrepit home to keep me upright. Dracula’s embrace followed, never leaving my body, and I snuggled closer. “Do you hear ghosts?” I looked up at him at the question, and found his lips painted lightly in red. The corner of his mouth was a bit smudged. I used my thumb to clean it. Dracula captured my thumb in his mouth as I withdrew. Not a drop to be wasted, I guessed. My gaze stopped at his unscarred neck. A moment longer and I would have asked to leave. The car was close enough.

“Not ghosts, no,” Dracula’s voice, objective, dispelled any thoughts of drinking his blood “although there are a few ones here and there. There always are in old cities but, in cemeteries, there are ghosts and there are the undead.” He rose his eyebrows. “Lucille is undead. I suspect vengeance brought her body back to life after her husband killed her, but she wasn’t strong enough to dig her way out of her grave. Maybe, it took a little too long for her to rise, or maybe she still loved him, even after being murdered.”

I preferred the first option. The possibility that even after being murdered by her husband she continued to love him was too tragic and depressive to think about.

“What brought you back?” I asked, and shut my mouth, having surprised myself by my own question. Dracula’s black eyes met mine, a little wide until an amused glint took them. “Tell me. Please?”

His lips twisted in a smile.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t know how it happened. Or what brought me back, divine force or one of the devilish persuasion, Justina’s tears upon hearing of my death or the vengeful spirits of the people I slaughtered. I don’t know, Y/N. I died on the battlefield, felt a Turk’s blade cutting me” his hand slammed his chest, blinking “going through me and my armor. I remember thinking that must have been a fine sword before falling. The sword came down on my neck, and that was it.”

“That was it?” I repeated, bewildered. He didn’t seem to hear me, looking past my head, gaze lost. I laid my hand on his. “But how? How? How did you wake? What brought you back?” Every question was marked by my hands running up his chest. I stopped myself from shaking him.

My courtroom face took control a second later. I wished that my preoccupation was simply how he had died. It would have been a little more noble of me if that was it. However, I found myself panicking about my soon to be death.

Dracula narrowed his eyes, shaking his head, telling me silently that no longer worked on him.

“I awoke three days later underneath a waxing moon, lying beneath a pile of bodies from which I had to crawl out, and walked for hours looking for water. Of course, water didn’t sate my thirst. I didn’t remember the sword cutting me at first. I knew something was different but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I attributed my strangeness to battlefield shock. Disoriented, that’s all it was.”

Dracula stepped back as if to punctuate the end of the story but my arms went around his chest as a small request for him to not let me go. He didn’t. Lucille’s grave didn’t linger on my spine anymore. There was a small relief in that.

Lying my head on his silent chest, I made myself take deep, controlled breaths.

My death was still far from happening. I had two months to get completely used to the idea.

“That is not what is happening to you, Y/N,” he said, smoothing my hair and combing it with his fingers.

“What if I don’t come back?”

“You will.” His voice, sounding from his chest, was gravely instead of its usual velvet smoothness. “You won’t have to come back by yourself. I’ll drink you, slowly. I’ll take my time so you will die in my arms and wake up in them. And I’ll do it so you remember every detail.”

“I’m not sure I want to remember every detail.”

“Oh, it doesn’t hurt, darling. You will be fine, nothing to be scared of.” His fingers left my hair to graze my cheek. I felt my face warming, although I did not know why. I was never one for a lot of blushing and the fact that a reassuring conversation in the middle of a graveyard seemed to warrant it struck me as odd. Perhaps it was the intimate nature of the topic, my unveiled fear, and my blushing cheeks, the product of happiness for Dracula trying to console me. “Here, your scarf before you forget.” He offered the emerald green scarf wrapped around his forearm. As I untwined it, he said, “you are assembling quite a collection. This one is new.”

I smiled up at him as I threw the scarf around my shoulders instead of tying it around my neck again. He stared at my bare neck and at the weight of it, blood trickled from the wound. The breeze made it cold against my skin. It tickled.

“I think you left some behind,” I told him. Pulling my hair away with one hand, I showed him the bite. I could very well take the scarf and clean the remainder of blood with it, however, the feeling of his tongue laving me of blood was incredibly erotic to deny myself of it.

Obliging to my whim, Dracula bent his head and licked, tongue massaging the spot where he had pierced. I leaned into it and made a small sound of complaint when he pulled away instead of stimulating more of my scar.

“Does it not hurt anymore?” He asked, eyeing my scar with a hunger that told of more than simply bloodlust.

“A little,” I admitted. “But it’s a good hurt.” His smile hinted at a bit of fang. There was most definitely a spark of pleasure behind those eyes. The sadist. “What about yours?”

“Mine?” He furrowed his eyebrows as his fingertips came to rest on the curve of my neck.

“Did I bite hard enough yesterday to hurt you?”

God help me, did I really want to push him right now? In a cemetery?

“Were you trying to?” The question was charged with humour.

“No but it would make me a bit happy to know that I gave you a taste of your own medicine.”

“Perhaps the closest thing to it,” he nodded pensively. “Six hundred years and you would think I received as well as I can give.” A chuckle escaped me at the implications of that. He smiled at my amusement. “You are a vampire in your own right.” A devious look crossed him. “Vampire of my heart.”

I blinked, mouth parting and before I could stop I found myself whispering words to the final stanzas of a Baudelaire poem. I spoke it too fast, as someone would do to a memorised song, and it appeased the somber nature of the words.

“ She's in my voice, the termagant. All my blood is her black poison! I am the sinister mirror in which the vixen looks. I am the wound and the dagger, I am the blow and the cheek! I am the members and the wheel, victim and executioner! I'm the vampire of my own heart .”

“Condemned to a hysterical laugh and ferocious smile,” Dracula finished.

“Close but that’s not how it ends,” I commented, peering curiously at him. Had I read that version? It sounded off to be ingrained in my blood. How else would he know which poem I recited to complete it so promptly? “Have you been reading Baudelaire?”

“I skimmed through a few pages in a bookstore,” he said. “That one caught my attention. I must pick up my French sometime. Too many things are lost in translation, I’m sure.”

“Yes, probably,” I agreed, accepting his quick dismissal of the subject, although I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me.

A sudden cold flick hit the top of my head. I looked up at the sky as I reached to wipe the first drop of rain from my hair and as I did a second drop fell next to my eye, making me blink.

“The storm is back,” I tried saying but my words were swallowed by lightning and thunder.

Dracula pulled me in an embrace at once, guiding me down the path of mausoleums. Eyes fixed in the colonnade adjacent to us, I would have kept going towards them in search of some cover if he hadn’t stopped abruptly. He let me go and I turned to look, lowering my head against the pelting rain. I didn’t have time to protest as the sound of metal groaning reached my ears. The rusted copper door to a mausoleum was halfway open, framed by angel statues on each side of it, while my vampire stood before it with one hand on the embellished mantel.

“Only until the rain stops,” he said, making his voice sound pleasant.

“But you can make the storm-” I interrupted myself when he simply turned his back on me and entered the mausoleum. If I stood outside for a moment longer my hair would soon be plastered to my head. “-stop.” Surrendering, I followed him in.

Dracula took my hand as soon as I entered pulling me deeper into what looked to be a family vault. There were names and dates inscribed on the walls on each side of us. Although it smelled a little damp and coppery, there wasn’t a piece of dirt or spiderwebs in sight and the small stained glass panels were of a clear yellow and blue let me know the place was cleaned regularly. It was designed so that the inside appeared similar to a sanctuary, with a raised step beneath the rose window and an alcove for candles. There were no religious icons of any kind in sight.

“Careful before you, oh.” He gave me a slight nudge so I wouldn’t trip on a piece of loose stone but I had stepped over it already.

“I can see fine right now,” I informed, smiling lightly. “We didn’t have to break in, again.”

“I didn’t break in. The door was open, I merely pushed it.”

“You could’ve done that thing you do,” I grumbled. He looked askance at me. “Like in Gloucester cathedral.”

“Run?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not faster than pelting rain, Y/N.” I opened my mouth. “Do you want to leave?” He gestured at the structure around us and then at the open door behind us. Outside, the heavy rain created a sheet so thick that it was difficult to see the other mausoleum across the path.

I stared at the rain, listened to the deep, hollow sound it made inside the mausoleum, smelled the damp earthy scent; to be in a quiet place far removed from my world was utter peace.

If we left now, Dracula would take me to dinner and there would be no quietness. I would soon be back in the real world where a near death doctor was stalking me, my boss was obsessed with my boyfriend and I wasn’t on the best of terms with my friends, or anyone for that matter. An escape in a cemetery with the man I loved, and would soon kill me, was ideal at that moment.

How nice.

“No, I don’t,” I told Dracula. “Any undead in here I should know of?”

“Only me.” He gave me a wicked grin and opened his arms to touch each side of the mausoleum. I narrowed my eyes. His grin became wider.

I knew that look.

Flicking my eyes from him to the door behind him, I smiled nervously. I would have to get past him to reach it. I’d been in this position before but in quite a different context.

“What are you doing?”

“Trapping you.” He stepped closer.

“Count Dr-”

“Ooh, is it Count now?” He taunted.

I took a breath as I did my best to smother the thrill that surged up.

“You can’t mean to-” I interrupted myself as Dracula tilted his head in a way that his pupils shone with reflected light. It resembled the eyes of a wolf hunting late at night. I stepped back, even though I didn’t want to, I also knew that he would step closer once again to keep our little game on. “It wouldn’t be right.”

A step forward from him. Other backward from me.

I was fighting a smile now. Wrong, wrong, this is wrong.

“Y/N,” he sighed, almost sounding chastising.

“Hm?” I managed as my feet found the raised step below the stained glass window. Standing on it put my height closer to his. I barely raised my gaze to look at him as he came closer.

“It is my full intention” he began, breath on my face and shining eyes burning in mine “to have you up against this wall struggling for breath and crying my name. You have 5 seconds to decide whether that’s what you want, otherwise the offer is off the table.”

Rationality - and well, morality if my law degree hadn’t completely revoked it - said I shouldn’t. Not in here, not now, not ever. Wrong, yes, I had that very well established, however, none of that came into play as a tempting shiver made my nipples prick up behind my bra.

Were my 5 seconds up? I hadn’t been counting.

My pulse climbed to a staggering velocity. Reeling from the rush, I simply took Dracula��s face in my hands and crushed my mouth to his.

Sharp teeth scored my tongue. A light taste of blood blossomed from it. Dracula reacted to it instantly by pressing me to the wall and sucking my tongue inside his mouth. In his careless need, my lips suffered another cut, and although I made a sound of complaint from the vague pain, all he did was deepen the kiss, forcing more of my blood to seep out.

A strong leg came in between my thighs to rub. My hands fought to pull his shirt from where it was secured behind his belt. Nails scraped his back in my rush and Dracula made a hissing sound, before chuckling in the kiss. His response was undoing the side zipper of my trousers and groping my ass hard enough to make me arch my body away from his grip. Of course, all that did was put my hips closer to his. When his punishing grip was gone, and my knees were rightfully trembling, I wiggled out of my pants, hanging on to his neck with hands and lips.

I reached for his belt and he pushed my hands away. Again, I tried, and this time I earned a hard smack to my ass. I jumped, squirming at the stinging pain that was quickly soothed by his caressing hand. I wasn’t giving up so easily, though, no matter how many smacks he awarded me with.

Pressing my tongue to his fangs, the metallic taste of my blood tainted our kiss again, and he moaned deep in his throat. Taken by it as he was, I enjoyed the opportunity to work his belt buckle and zipper off. There was a moment of pause in him as I finally grasped his cock, tightening my hand around its hard length and feeling it twitch in response.

One of those harsh groans spilled from his mouth onto mine. I couldn’t contain my smile; I was eager to hear more of it as I had the past night. My knees started to bend but as I looked past Dracula’s shoulder, the etched names of the dead around us were a jarring reminder of the absurdity of what I was doing.

Cheeks burning, I hid my face in his chest as I tried to push past the undue shame that I never stopped moving my hands. His lips were on my ear, teasing with light kisses, breathing a sigh meant just for me.

My blunt teeth found Dracula’s collarbone through his shirt, and again came that heavenly groan to distract me completely from my surroundings. Somehow he became even harder.

He pushed my shirt down, ridding me of my scarf in the process, to expose the curves of my breasts and a snippet of the opera tickets hidden inside my bra. There was a small huff from him as he plucked the envelope out of there and threw it aside. Bending his head to place grazing kisses on my breasts, he stepped back and I sent my hands searching for him again.

I wouldn’t open my eyes. It didn’t matter that I had thrown reason out the window, I simply didn’t want to gaze into the mausoleum.

He bit lightly near a nipple, not hard enough to cut, just sucking the skin into his mouth to make me gasp and squirm at the promise of more.

It was the usual sort of love bite. I liked the unusual sort a little better.

I lost all grip on him as his head dipped lower, catching each of my nipples in his mouth and playing with them until they ached. I had to smother a chill as the hardened wet buds were met with a sudden wind coming through the open mausoleum door.

Dracula knelt before me as he tugged my shoes off. The cold stone beneath my feet sent a shiver up my legs. My trousers were next. All I had left from the waist down was my underwear. My legs were covered in goosebumps.

Blindly, I grabbed Dracula by his blazer’s collar to invite him up again. Instead, he caught my wrist in between his teeth, playfully biting it and tempting a moan out of me.

“Y/N, look at me.” His breath was hot near my core. I pressed my thighs together to soothe the intense throb rising up. Again, I tried to pull him by his blazer, and again he resisted. Faint kisses were laid on the top of my thighs as each of his hands ran up the length of my legs. A kiss landed closer to my inner thigh, his nose briefly rubbing the wetness hidden behind the flimsy fabric. I heard his inhale, scenting my arousal as one would do to wine. “Look at me.” I shook my head vehemently. Now, opening his mouth to suckle the skin of my inner thigh, his nose persisted on rubbing the throbbing ache he was responsible for. My knuckles hurt from how tight I grabbed his collar. I knew that if I moved my hand anywhere else I was done for because as long as I didn’t touch him now, I could convince myself this was all in my head and that we were somewhere else. Some place where I didn’t feel such immense guilt for enjoying myself. “Do you want me to stop?” Fingers dug behind my knees, almost making them buckle. “Answer me.” The two words were punctuated by a hard bite on the top of my thigh.

“No…” I whimpered.

The hand behind my left leg forced it up and a squeak escaped my mouth as I tried to grab onto the smooth surface of the wall at my back, but I quickly regained stability as Dracula drew my leg further up and my knee found a comfortable place to support itself atop one of his shoulders. His hand followed the curves from my calf up to my ass, where he continued to caress - although his touch was growing rougher by the second.

“Then look at me.”

Biting my lip to keep silent, I opened my eyes and sent my gaze down to meet his. Black eyes lured me in, caging me more than his grip on my legs ever could. It was with that look, that any concern of decency left my mind for good. A crude thought came and went - the dead be damned . However, was that voiced by my mind or whispered into it by the very man kneeling at my feet?

I watched as he slowly hooked a finger on my underwear. I tried moving my hips to the side, hinting for him to do the same to the fabric, but I had to grab onto Dracula’s shoulders to avoid losing balance.

“I’ll fall,” I whispered.

“I won’t let you.” There was confidence in his tone, ah but his eyes, they were all hunger and bloodlust.

Much to my delight, and his as well, he finally pushed the underwear to the side. A chill played on my skin as his tongue traced a line between my folds. The corners of my lips tugged up through a delighted sigh when I discovered that Dracula could be gentle, when he wanted to, and that he proved once again that he knew very well what he was doing.

My mouth trembled as I strained to silence my moans in my throat.

I mustn't be heard. I’ll be a quiet little mouse.

Thunder exploded outside, making the world quaver and giving me a small fright which was easy to ignore as Dracula pushed my leg higher to spread me for him. I sent my fingers to his hair to encourage him and he responded avidly. He closed his mouth over me, tongue dipping and lapping as his face nuzzled.

Trusting his ability to catch me if my leg keeping me up failed, I pressed my hips onto his face instead of having them glued to the wall. Dracula made an appreciative sound, engorging himself with the feast presented to him. His tongue circled and played upon every little bit of pleasure. I clamped my hand over my mouth and let my head fall back against the wall. He was determined in his task, stubbornly so to make me cry out as he had promised, I could tell.

“Let go,” he said quickly before fastening his mouth onto me again.

I wouldn’t let up. Couldn’t. It would be too much to repent about later.

Wind whistled through the cemetery, followed by another earth shattering thunder. Maybe if the storm continued and I was quiet enough, no one would hear me. Not even myself. Dracula never stopped tormenting me as I mentally fought with what was proper. Although, I was already too far gone to decide what was proper or not, and the dead were long dead to care.

He posed a most difficult challenge as he sucked my clit into his mouth, lightly at first and then not at all until it took all my will to not shout. He repeated it over and over again. I clenched on nothing and a moan of frustration fled from behind my fingers. I locked my leg around his shoulder, seeking for more of his tongue, more of anything he was willing to give me. I couldn’t hold the outpour of whimpers. My legs began quivering as the feeling became too much and yet not near enough.

I was close to shouting and begging for more.

Then, his mouth was gone.

Opening my eyes in indignation, I found his face before mine as he hooked an arm under the same leg he had over his shoulder. Holding onto his shoulders, I stood on the tiptoes of my foot to offer myself to him. My eyes rolled back as he filled me to the brim and I sighed gratefully. Dracula held still, his mouth parted as he gazed down at me, reveling in pleasure just as I was. I arched my back, bringing my chest close to his so that my bruised nipples rubbed on the soft cotton of his dress shirt. I ground my hips on his, shaking at the warmth pooling below my waist. It wouldn’t take much now to send me over the edge. Dracula had made sure to use his tongue well enough to torment me.

“Y/N,” he mumbled my name on lips. “Remember my offer.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating inside the mausoleum for a brief second. Thunderous sound followed, then exploded. Somewhere I heard the groan of a tree falling.

“No,” I replied, as low as my restraint allowed me. “I won’t.”

“If you want to be like that-” My other leg was swept from under me and I clawed at his shoulders for support as he hoisted my body up. I met his gaze, eyes widening as I saw the mocking appraisal behind those black eyes, perhaps thinking me brave, but foolish for trying to resist.

Dracula pulled halfway back and thrust up. Slow, deep and hard. Each stroke was a profusion of sensation - my back hitting the wall as he rocked against me, my legs spread even wider stretching and tightening my core at the same time, his hips grinding on mine at the end of every thrust to rub my clit, my nipples brushing his shirt in a gentle caress, his mouth on mine drawing my every breath and moan out. Steadily he drove himself inside me, hitting that precious spot harder and now a little faster.

It was all too much. I couldn’t stay quiet. I felt myself flushing as if set alight and finally - finally - moaned aloud as I gave in to the wave of pleasure crashing on my body.

But it was suddenly cut short as Dracula slipped out as he jostled me in his arms, pulling my knees so far up that they almost touched my shoulders. I held onto the nape of his neck for dear life as he pressed me to the wall, his chest colliding with mine and making it difficult to breathe. I felt his length graze my inner thigh and whimpered as once again I clenched around nothing.

I blinked up at him. He only spared me a derisive look along with a mean curl of his lips. Alarm made my stare a little harder.

“Don’t you dare stop,” I said, hoarsely.

“Stop?” Dracula chuckled, letting his forehead rest on mine, our noses touching. “What gave you the impression I was going to stop?” He captured my lips in a hard kiss before I could process what that meant. Never breaking the kiss, he drew back just enough for breath to rush into my lungs before it was expelled as he forced himself on me again. Harsh, punishing thrusts made my body quiver in response. Dracula moaned into the kiss and I answered, once, twice, until I lost count. His mouth neared my neck and even the slightest touch in anticipation had me clenching around him again.

“Yes…” I panted.

However, Dracula cut his path short, chuckling above my bite to make me flush again, but this time with rage. The puncture marks were left pulsing as if my blood had its own mind to be consumed.

I opened my mouth to complain but he upped his rhythm and I cried out as Dracula sent me unexpectedly to the verge of climax. My hands were knots behind his neck as I looked at him pleadingly to give me this. Those black eyes sparkled, a light entirely their own in his taunting game, and he shook his head to the sides even as he grunted.

I bent my head and bit the curve of his neck. Bit hard. Hard enough to feel muscle tensing between my teeth and to make Dracula growl as his hips snapped a little more roughly. I sang for victory in the back of my mind, relishing the urgency in his persistence when I locked my jaw on his neck. My mind went blank. I shut my eyes tight in anticipation, my heart racing so that I felt as if my whole body pulsed along with it.

Dracula thrust up deeply once, and slowed to a stop.

“Bastard,” I murmured, finally releasing his neck.

It was a small mercy that he remained inside instead of retreating like before.

“Nice try, though,” he said, voice thick and low. I smothered a smile, happy with the knowledge I was making this as difficult for him as it was for me. He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Please,” I begged as I arched towards him, attempting to move or create some form of friction to grant me relief. “If you’re trying to teach me a lesson-”

“And what lesson do you think that is?” He raised an eyebrow as he adjusted his grip on me so I stood a little higher up against the wall and my legs weren’t set quite as apart. I gasped, mouth curling up in delight as he felt thicker in this position. His hands found my buttocks to hold me up and squeezed them roughly. “What lesson, Y/N?”

Instead of thrusting up, he made my body come down on him, only to raise me up again until only the tip remained inside. Slowly, he did it again. I watched as the crease between his brows deepened as he reveled in sheathing himself within me. I needed to feel more of him, so I unlocked my hands from his neck to send one of them inside his shirt, caressing his chest and another into his hair, feeling its softness between my fingers and scraping my nails on his scalp.

“To accept the conditions of your offers?” I tried, between pants.

“To never deny yourself of pleasure, no matter the circumstances.” His hips bucked to meet mine as he descended me on him once again. “You may find that the circumstance, one such as this, is bound to make anything even more pleasurable.”

It was a horrible thing to accept, and yet I had and knew it the moment I counted those five seconds.

My cheeks burnt as I whimpered for more, begging louder and louder, only for him to slow to a near stop. Again and again and again, until I had tears in my eyes from despair and I clawed at him to no avail. My lower back hit the wall behind me with each snap of his hips as he covered me with kisses, from my cheeks to my lips, neck and shoulders, sweet and urgent along with the sweet ache in my loins, unfulfilled. His moans reverberated inside my head while the storm drowned my pleas, my shouts for more, my brainless calls for him.

Dracula grabbed my face harshly to make me gaze into his eyes, squeezing my cheeks between his fingers as he did so. The eyes staring back at me were black mixed with the red of blood, almost glowing in the dark, and as I stared into those inhuman eyes, he nodded to me.

I almost wept in relief.

At the erratic thrusts, euphoria swelled, making me quake and tighten my legs around him as if I could stop him from leaving me. A moan long drawn out left my throat, and a kind of dizziness came over me as if I might pass out. Still, he continued, jerking his hips violently against mine as I yowled, pushing through my convulsing walls and using me for his own delight until he too howled as he started spilling.

My heart would burst at any second. I couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

Dracula’s mouth was soft on mine, pressing to deepen our kiss, slowly, as he thrust lazily. His hand on my hair now, caressing the nape of my neck, soothing my trembling body.

When he fell still and our lips rovered to each other's necks, I felt the skin of his back with the tips of my fingers, his muscles relaxing slowly to my touch, and he trailed a path down my breasts in response.

It was utterly different from our brute touching from before. A different kind of need. With my hungers sated, these soft touches appeased me. And him, too. Sank into me as he was, he felt pliant - even if he was holding me captive in his arms.

A man, still, but less of the monster I loved.

I opened my eyes to gaze down past Dracula’s shoulder at the remains of the pouring rain outside. The mausoleum was no more than a frame for the dripping leaves of trees, thudding gently on old stone. The wind was gone, as was the purring rumble of thunder in the sky.

I could hear my own breath being ricocheted on the walls of the mausoleum. The only living, breathing thing in there.

The embarrassment was gone, and pride rose, thick in my chest, to curl my lips and square my shoulders. As if I had bested them all for the depravity of what I had done - not just the dead in the cemetery but everyone - for having lost some unseen shackle that had held me all my life.

Maybe that thing was good sense.

“What are you thinking about?” Dracula asked near my ear while he kissed it. He must have sensed some change in my posture.

“That I’m glad I didn’t deny myself,” I told him, still gazing at the picture made by the mausoleum’s door. Then, added, “Although you did make it nearly unbearable. I think I hated you for a few moments there.” He laughed, loud and cheerful. “What are you thinking about?”

“That you feel divine, and taste divine in every way,” he sighed, burying his face in my hair and pressing his hips to mine, hitting deep “and that I’m having a difficult time letting you go, to be frank. Also, I am pleased that you learned a lesson tonight.”

“You planned this, didn’t you. With the storm, dragging me in here-”

“The opportunity presented itself.”

“Mm-hm. You sly, sly man.” I gathered some of his hair in between my fingers and pulled lightly. He groaned.

“I never claimed to be any less, and you did say that you haven’t learnt enough of what it means to be a vampire, I’m merely being helpful,” he said. I chuckled at that. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.” I relaxed my embrace to look at him. He took his time in pulling back, his brows drawn together, caught in the feeling of me. I hung there for a moment, exposed and vulnerable, and I warmed as I felt our combined fluids dripping out of me. “Oh.” He set me down, holding me by my waist as my hands clung stubbornly to his shoulders in fear of my legs failing me. I readjusted my underwear to its proper place and winced when the elastic chafed the sensitive skin. The fabric felt sodden. “I desperately need a shower.”

As I stood on my own, I winced as muscle cramps lit the insides of my thighs. It quickly brought me down from my high.

He raised an eyebrow at me and I shook my head to let him know I was fine. He kissed the corner of my mouth before letting me go completely.

“I still have to feed you,” he said, zipping his trousers. “Then we can shower.”

“Feed me?” I asked as I fixed my shirt and coat. I looked at his neck.

“In a restaurant,” he explained. “But you can have my blood if you’re still hungry later.” He knelt before me and fit my legs in my trousers. I smiled lightly at him as I watched him tug each leg up to fit over my hips. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” Neither would I. Drinking his blood felt almost as good as having mine taken, but I’d felt full, so utterly full afterwards. As if I would burst. “Shoes.”

“What?” I asked, distracted, then looked at Dracula holding my boots out beneath my feet. “Oh, right.” I lifted each foot for him to put on my shoes. “The opera tickets,” I said, pointing at the red envelope at our feet, seeking to break my line of thought. Craving his blood was odd, especially because I was still very much alive. Obligingly, Dracula leaned and plucked it from the ground before standing up. He pulled my shirt down to reveal my bra again and I chuckled when he tucked the envelope between my breasts.

“For safekeeping,” he said, like I had earlier.

Taking me by the hand, Dracula picked up my scarf from the ground and led us out to the graveyard again. I held out my hand for the scarf but he simply glanced at it and put the scarf on his pocket.

“Leave your neck bare until we get to the restaurant,” he told me as he trailed a path to the arches beyond the mausoleum lane.

My breaths were hisses on every step I took; my leg muscles begged for rest. Dracula either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care that his idea of a lesson had me almost walking from side to side. In fact, when I stole a glance at him, I saw a satisfied curl of his lip. Frowning, I swallowed my hisses and simply took the pain each swing of my legs brought me.

I concentrated on the soothing scent of damp overturned earth and the sound of hooting owls perched on the trees around us.

However, when we neared the big step that led off the arches into the cemented path where the car was parked, I had to choke on my pride and lean into him.

“Needing help, darling?” He taunted as he pulled me down by my waist.

“Don’t you start,” I shot back with an edge to my voice. “Lesson learned, all right, you don’t need another boost to your ego. It’s big enough as it is.”

He grinned at me, but this time he slowed his pace as we neared the car, offering me his arm for me to lean on.

As he clicked the car’s alarm off, the headlights flickered twice, casting flashes of light upon a great dark mass muddled together across from the small road where the car was parked.

I squinted at it, trying to make out its shape as my eyes still blinked off the sudden light.

“It’s a fallen tree,” Dracula said.

“I think I heard it fall earlier while we- there’s a car underneath it.” I pointed at the muddled thing, or more accurately folded with bits of metal protruding, beneath the tree trunk. The VW symbol had survived the wreckage and it winked at me. It was the only thing that managed to identify the thing as a smashed car. “That car wasn’t there when we got here.”

Uninterested, Dracula freed my arm to open the passenger’s door for me.

“Y/N,” he called as I stepped towards the wrecked car. “Y/N, let’s go.”

“Someone might’ve gotten hurt,” I said over my shoulder as I approached what I thought were the remains of a door.

Broken glass grated beneath my shoes.

“You can call emergency on our way.”

A full branch of the tree obscured most of the view inside of the car but, as I bent my knees to have a peak, I saw the white balloon of an airbag and a dark stain over it.

“There’s someone in here!” I called, eyes widening as I tapped around my body for my purse. Too late, I remembered it sat on the floor of Dracula’s car.

“He’s dead, Y/N. Leave him.”

My hair whipped my face as I turned to look at Dracula. He waited by the car, hands in his pockets, feet crossed as he leaned. Calm, unbothered.

“You-”

“An accident,” he said, loud and impatiently. “The storm did this. I can’t control it once it starts and I certainly couldn’t have brought down a tree on a car I couldn’t even see, much less while I was fucking you.” My face became suddenly hot and I felt my nails cutting into my palms. “There’s someone else on the driver's side, dead as well. They were following us,” he said slowly, while raising his eyebrows. “All the way from the Royal Courts. Your instinct was right. I didn’t want you to be more alarmed so I kept it to myself. They followed us through the cemetery, too. I don’t appreciate being spied upon.”

I stepped back from the car hesitantly. Their deaths got a new meaning all of a sudden, and my worry slipped from me.

“You caused the storm to chase them out?”

“Yes, and they met an unfortunate end.”

“Were they Zoe’s?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed as he pushed away from the BMW, taking long strides to join me. Bending at the waist, he grabbed the tree branch concealing the door and snapped it with a casual flick of his wrist. It fell at my feet with a ruffle of leaves and a loud crack. “Knowing what Zoe told you earlier, I would guess so,” he tilted his head as he inspected the airbag and bleeding head under the sunken car roof. I preferred staring at the shards of glass at my feet. Dracula straightened. “They don’t smell of her. I never heard them mention her name or the Foundation. They were talking about us, where we were going, what we were doing...”

“Did they watch us?” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“They were running back to their car by the time we started.” Putting his arm around me, Dracula nudged me to make my feet move towards his car. “They’ll be found in the morning if you don’t want to call the police.”

As I allowed myself to be led, I looked back at the fallen tree and the crushed car. It wouldn’t make much of a difference if I called now or let them be found. They were practically buried, either way, with the cemetery just across.

I shook my head.

What a grim thing to think about. Had to be the trauma talking. It brought absurd thoughts, I heard.

But what trauma? I was hardly shocked to find that there were two dead people inside the car.

I searched for pity or some semblance of sadness and remorse, but found none. Their deaths didn’t bother me in the least. I knew I could be cold and yet finding nothing but relief that they were dead - Zoe’s spies, possibly - was a surprise.

Calling was the right thing to do, though, so I would do it.

Dracula opened the door for me. The dome light blinked alive, illuminating the seat and my purse on the floor. I took my seat and buckled up while Dracula closed the door and rounded the car.

“Can I stay the night at your place?” I blurted the question as he sat behind the wheel. “Diana is in Scotland and I don’t want to be alone knowing that Zoe’s threat was real.”

“She threatened you?”

“Not really. Actually I threatened her,” I said, making a face. Dracula smiled, looking proud. “I don’t think she’ll actually do anything. Um, it took a lot of convincing to get her to go along with-” I sighed. “You know.” He nodded, face blank. “She doesn’t have the resources right now to do anything, besides she’s got one foot in the grave already. She won’t last long.”

“I’ll stop by your house so you can get your things. We can order in if you like. I’ll understand if you can’t stomach food now.”

I picked up my purse and found my phone. As I dialed emergency and glued my phone to my ear, I relaxed in my seat.

“Actually, I’m craving Italian,” I informed Dracula, unashamed. “And a good glass of wine.”

His grin was wide, and it hinted at something he knew that I didn’t.

I didn’t dare ask.

_________________________________________

A/N.2: Genuine question: too much sex? Too little? Listen, I think they had enough pent up frustration and energy that it kinda deserves to be, uh, celebrated. But maybe you don't agree with me. Also, I get carried away with sex scenes, so, let me know if I should just get to the point sometimes.

@carly-0-5 @plutonianvenusiangoddess @festering-queen @libra-lovecraft @crossoverqueen89 @rheabalaur @deborahlazaroff @guiltyfiend @fallen-angel-333 @a-dorky-book-keeper @girlonfireice @thorin-smokin-shield @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @saint-hardy @xoxodrac @illbegoinhome @dreamer2381 @princessayveke @25ocurer @vampirescurse @blue-serendipity @sunscreenfeverdream @iwasjustablur @daydreaming136 @hello-itsbarbie @bittenlove @newyorkrican922 @soph3228 @feralstare @clussysposts @jmor27 @spnkpholland @goddessofmischief03 @mistandmoss @luciahoneychurch @gloriousgam3r @candleslut @rainbowgoblinfan @theswiftnational @soulofsalt @werwulfy

Feedback is especially welcome because I miss posting and I quite like this chapter.<br />

Overall thoughts...? - sex scenes or otherwise. We aren't very far from the ending, it would be interesting to hear from you.

#distorted lullabies #dracula x reader #dracula fanfic #dracula 2020 #dracula bbc #bbc dracula #dracula netflix #claes bang #vampire fanfic

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

Text

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: M for mature. Blood, more blood, heavy language, seriously lots of blood. Literally the bloodiest/most detailed thing I've written. Genre: Super angst with some fluff to ease the pain. We're talking putting honey in your cup of poison to make it taste better. The ending is split, with both a happy and a sad ending. Warnings: Minor surgery (technically?) while the patient is fully awake (that's the reader, btws), blood loss, graphic depiction of a wound and how said wound is taken care of. Possible trigger for self-harm, as the reader is performing part of the surgery themselves. Also brief mention of cannibalism in the bad ending. This may very well be a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat sort of thing. Notes: While I have more medical knowledge than the average person, due to my Girl Scouts training + having a mother as a nurse, I am in no way shape or form a medical professional, and do not suggest that the methods of treatment used in this fic be taken seriously. If you find yourself seriously injured, do not attempt to replicate anything you read here. Only a portion of this is based on a real-ass incident I went through, the rest is based on a dream, and what I experienced was not what you want to do in an emergency.

{Wounded Love}

This was a mistake. Blood stains your leg, your fingers, and bruises start to form all over your exhausted body. And for what? Why had you, a tiny, fragile human, dared to pass through this damned, lycan-infested forest? Because a woman who didn’t even love you asked you to. Now you were going to die, body certain to get left out in the cold or reduced to a pile of gnawed bones. If you had more strength remaining, you might have slammed your hand into the ground in frustration, or screamed until your lungs burned from something other than frost.

But that wouldn’t get you anywhere. Wouldn’t help you get back to the castle, wouldn’t ease the racing of your heart. So you settle for the only thing that might do any good: One quick motion pulls the scarf from your neck, sending a chill down your spine that you promptly ignore. Even with shaky hands and numb fingers, your experience is enough to let you wrap the cloth around your leg, tying the ends in a knot to secure it. The pressure hurts, just not enough for you to prefer bleeding out. A test step reveals that walking is mildly more difficult now.

“I’m going to haunt her,” you muse, under your breath, tears starting to freeze at the corner of your eyes. Still, you are as quietly determined as ever, and so once more you limp down the path. Every time you put weight on your injured leg it protests harder. If not for the snow and ice covering the ground, you might have quickly searched for a walking stick. “What could be so important about this damn package? Couldn’t Doug or whatever-his-fucking-name-is deliver it? Man can practically teleport, and here I am, watching as blood loss and hypothermia race to see who can kill me first.”

Gods were you angry. Why had this happened so soon after you had settled in? Finally you had been comfortable in Castle Dimitrescu, no longer as frightened of the residents, even finding them… charming, in a way. Then the Lady of house called to you for what she claimed to be a simple errand. You had believed her, even when she explained that you would have to leave the relative safety of her home. What a fool you had been.

“What a fool she must be,” you murmur, “to think me safe here. To think I could outlast wolfmen prowling the village outskirts.” Would she even care if she saw you now? Would she be surprised, disappointed? Would she do something to change your fate? There was no reason for her to do so. It didn’t matter how much you had helped her, how much she claimed to appreciate what you did (heavy lifting, repair of clothing, massages). You were as replaceable as any other Maiden there was. And that, that was what made you have a double-take. It came to you in that moment, a thought so painful that you could not deny it was the truth. “She never thought I would survive.”

Bitterness coats your tongue, like blood in your throat, and your brain demands that you destroy your cargo, the very thing that got you sent here in the first place. You almost do it. Feet stopping, arms shrugging the carrying straps off, bloody hands taking hold of it. Tears fall, just two, and hit the package. At that moment your plan changed. This new idea would be far, far more satisfying… as long as you succeeded.

------------------------

Spite was one hell of a drug. Enough of it and you could march your warm corpse right back to the castle, fist banging on the front door with everything you had. The path had been shorter than you thought, thankfully, but it had still taken so much out of you. Now you were leaning against the door, sliding down it, unable to support your own weight. Nothing inside the castle stirred. Were they ignoring you? Was Alcina really going to let you die inches from your “home”? Fuck that, you thought.

“Alcina!” You scream, loud as you can, startling the birds in the distant trees. The word echoes around you and rattles inside your ribs. It’s not enough. “Damn it, I am seconds away from dying, get out here now so I can look you in your fucking eyes!” Something tears a little in your throat, turning the last of your words into a hellish screech, leaving you to gasp and croak in the snow. You go to wipe your tear-filled eyes with your hands, only to remember just how much blood they’re covered in.

Sobs overtake you in just a few moments. You’re blinded by tears, deafened by sorrows, and numb from all the cold. In the aching seconds before you black out, you can only barely make out the silhouette of someone rushing to your side…

------------------------

The first thing you feel when you wake up is mind searing pain. You try to jolt upwards, only to find a pair of strong, gloved hands holding you down. Someone shouts something, but you can’t make it out, and you feel another hand gently squeeze one of your own. Pained gasps escape your throat one after the other, but whatever is hurting you doesn’t stop. It takes a full minute for you to adjust enough to make sense of where you are. At last, you understand what’s being said.

“-it’s okay, shhh, please, we’re trying to help,” says none other than Lady Dimitrescu herself. She’s the one holding your hand, doing her best not to hurt you with her grip, trying desperately to calm you down. One the other side of you, Cassandra is positioned to hold you down. There’s a tight-lipped scowl on her face, and her brow is furrowed, but she’s not looking at your face, but rather eying somewhere in the opposite direction. Following her gaze, you find her older sister is sitting near your injured leg, and is undeniably the source of some of your pain. In one hand she holds a bottle of alcohol (notably not the wine her family produces), the other holding a wet cloth to your wound. No wonder it stings so much.

“Shit, shit, stop,” you growl, barely getting the words out. But all anyone does is look at you. Alcina’s mouth opens to speak, only for you to cut her off. “I’ve got medical training, for the love of Mother Miranda let me help! How long have I been unconscious?” This time Bela stops, glancing at her mother for direction. The grip on your torso grows looser, with Cassandra evidently heeding your words, and you take the chance to sit up, careful not to move your leg. At this point you realize that there’s a needle of sorts in your arm, attached to a tube, which trails up into a blood bag. It’s clearly been improvised with equipment from the “wine-making” part of the castle.

“Fifteen minutes at most,” a new voice chimes, from somewhere behind you. “I got that cloth you wanted, mother, but something tells me I’m not done fetching things.” Ah, Daniela Dimitrescu. Was the whole family helping you?... Why? As much as you wanted answers, there wasn’t (currently) time for questions. Not when one glance at your leg tells you that some of your flesh is rapidly decomposing. The wound was made only an hour ago, and already it was getting deadlier than you could even process.

“I need a sharp, clean knife, a needle with thread, a glass of water, and someone needs to put a metal tool, sterilized, on the stove, right now,” you said, finding it easier to talk now that no one was cleansing your wound. Without hesitation Daniela dispersed into a cloud of insects, heading towards the kitchen, while Cassandra stood up and moved towards the stairs.

“Guess I’ll get the needle,” she said, sounding rather unenthusiastic.

“What are you planning?” Alcina asks, more concerned than you had ever heard her before. Attempting to reassure her, you manage a small smile before explaining.

“Got scratched and slobbered on by a lycan. Whatever they have, it’s infectious. If I want to save my leg, or at least have a chance at surviving, I have to take measures to reduce the likelihood of an infection,” you say. Now Alcina is slowly stroking her thumb across your hand, eyes narrowed with concern. There’s a look on her face that you can’t quite parse, something she’s not saying. For now you ignore it and continue going over your plan. “The best thing would be to amputate. The tourniquet might have helped prevent the saliva from getting further into my body- and I do mean might- but I can’t keep it on forever. Problem is… I don’t want to lose it. God, I’m terrified of that, and with what we have in the castle I… I’d be more likely to die of shock than not. So, well, forget that idea.

“I’m just going to remove the wound. By making a bigger wound. It’s crazy, I know, but this will kill me if we do nothing. It will probably kill me if we do. The technical term is some shit like ‘de-bride-ing’?... No, debridement, I think. Except normally the poor fucker getting cut open is asleep for the procedure.” By the time you’re done, Lady Dimitrescu is looking at you with horror. Yeah, you had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the idea. “Look, if this is too much… if it’s not worth saving me, if you’d rather give me a quick death, I understand. If I were-”

“Don’t be foolish, dear. You will not die, not as long as something can be done about it,” Alcina replies, quickly, eager to stop hearing you talk about dying. It’s… strange to hear her sound so confident about saving you, even stranger to realize what she called you. As if reading your thoughts, she shifts in her seat, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Shyness didn’t suit her, and you imagined it was more about her finding the right words. When she speaks, she’s looking right at you again. “I have hesitated to tell you the truth, and now I find the world playing a cruel trick on me, trying to take that which I adore. But I don’t want to aggravate your stress right now. Please, think nothing of what I have said.”

Before you could reply, footsteps reached your ears, and soon enough Daniela returns. In one hand she holds a large pitcher of water. In the other? Several knives, of various sizes, one of which you’re pretty sure you’ve seen Cassandra playing with before. As soon as you see her your face lights up, glad to be able to start the procedure.

“Oh thank fuck- or, I mean, thank you, Lady Daniela,” you stutter, reaching out as she offers you the items. Thankfully Bela had already made room on the table at your side, where she had set the bottle of alcohol down. For a moment you had forgotten that she was there. Had she already known about her mother’s feelings? Based on her lack of reaction, you could only assume that she was well aware. “I’m gonna scream, B-T-dubs. Just, uh, cover your ears?” You offer, already holding your chosen knife (big enough to be effective, small enough to offer precision).

“So… you’re going to do this yourself? Didn’t think you had it in you, red. Try not to cut anything important. Wouldn’t want to have to clean that mess up,” Daniela teases. As soon as she’s finished she has to shift into a swarm, as Bela flat out throws a knife at her. For a moment you freeze, watching as Alcina rises to her full height, staring her eldest daughter down. Behind her, Daniela reforms, clearly using her mother as a shield. “I was just trying to relieve the tension, jeez. It’s like you think she’s already dead.”

“Don’t speak another word!” Alcina snaps, sending a frightening stare towards Daniela. You cough, awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile Bela is pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, clearly tired of dealing with her sister’s sense of humor. “No one will speak a word until this is finished, unless my dear needs something, understood?” Both the girls nod at that, neither feeling a need to risk any further ire.

“I’m just going to start working now,” you awkwardly chime, taking a deep breath before leaning in towards your injured leg. On closer inspection you can see a strange, dark residue in the wound. They’re specks, scattered along the length of it, and they seem more common the closer you look to the gash’s center. Gross, you think. Half curious, half checking for legitimate reasons, you bring your other hand to the cut and gently spread both sides apart. It hurts like hell, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. But sure enough, the residue is practically solid at the deepest point of the wound. “Those lycans really should be on leashes.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Daniela exchange looks with Bela, but neither of them disobey their mother (yet). Shaking the thought away, you finally get to the brunt of the task at hand. Your hand moves slowly, reluctant to inflict such damage against its own body. As soon as the tip of the knife touches your skin, you start to doubt your ability to do this. It takes looking at Alcina, seeing the way she watches you with equal parts concern and tenderness, to remind you why you’re doing this. Death just wasn’t something you could accept right now; not after what she had said, what she had implied.

The knife is fantastically sharp. Hardly any pressure is needed before your flesh gives away, cells letting go of their neighbors like it was a casual affair. You start at the left side of your injury, digging down a little, trying to only go as deep as you needed to. Tears formed in your eyes but you quickly blinked them away. As the first of many screams leaves your mouth, you turn and twist the knife, cutting to the right, then up. Like scooping the seeds out of a pumpkin. Fresh blood springs from the wound, starting to fill up the crevice. Quickly you discard the skin you removed by tossing it into the same bowl that Bela had put a bloody towel in earlier.

“Yes,” you shudder through gritted teeth, “this hurts so fucking bad. No, I don’t need someone to take over yet.” At this point neither of the present sisters are looking at you, seeming oddly uncomfortable at the sight of you cut up like this. Hadn’t they done worse to your fellow Maidens?... Whatever, the thought couldn’t last long when you still had work to do.

Next you take a fresh, damp cloth and dab at your injury, ignoring how it throbbed beneath your touch. Then you resumed cutting, forced to press the knife deeper in order to remove the spreading residue. If you had been a scientist, this would have been utterly fascinating to observe. Whatever had been in the lycan’s saliva was slowly eating at your flesh, but not outright dissolving it. No, it simply left the skin where it was, but killed and rapidly broke it down. Yes, it would have been fascinating, if not for the fact that there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to outpace the bacteria.

With this in mind you force yourself to hold in your next scream, hoping to make it easier for you to focus. The knife continued to cut, going lower, setting nerves alight as it did. Your vision starts to blur, and for a few seconds you think you’re going to black out. Someone says something you don’t hear, and then suddenly there’s a hand on top of your own. When your vision clears you see Bela is responsible, her grip keeping you from dropping the knife. She doesn’t let go until you give her a clear nod. Even then, she seems reluctant to let you continue.

Around this time is when Cassandra returns. Her footsteps catch your attention (it’s your understanding that carrying objects is much harder in swarm mode), and you spare her a quick glance before getting back to work. A few moments later she’s placing a set of needles and a long spool of thread next to you. Ironically, they’re the same tools that you’ve used to repair and adjust Alcina’s dresses over the past year. Hopefully they work just as well on flesh, you think. Your next thoughts are canceled out by unbelievable pain. More cries leave your lips, and your hand starts shaking. Panic is settling in fast, your movements getting sharper, leading you to make a brash decision: Time to care less about precision and more about speed.

“Distract me, please,” you gasp between grunts. No one responds at first, and you know they need clarification. Speaking is getting harder by the second, but you do your best. “Brain can’t process many stimulants, same time. Just- fuck- trace skin around wound, touch hair, anything.” Somewhere between your semi-broken sentences and screams, Alcina gets the message. She’s moving closer, now, behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other rubbing gentle circles on your undamaged leg. Across from you Daniela is too busy pacing to help, though you can hardly blame her.

“Should I get the metal thing from the stove?” Cassandra asks, silently hoping that Dani hadn’t assumed someone else was going to handle that part. You’re still in too much pain to talk, so you half nod half grunt in response. Not bothering to say anything, the middle child takes off, swarm moving at what might be a new speed record.

As much as your hands are shaking, you still manage to cut away another strip of flesh, tossing it aside with even less care than before. This time Bela wipes the wound for you, practically reading your mind. The moment her hands are completely out of the way you start cutting again, crying out, throat shredded to pieces from all your screaming. Alcina sounds like she might be close to sobbing, but she doesn’t stop her movements, doing her best to distract you just like you had asked. Even Bela helps, now, tracing spots around your injury whenever she knows she won’t be in your way. The effect is minor, in the end, hardly making a dent in how much pain you’re processing.

If you survive this, though, you’re hugging every daughter as tight as you can and showering them with affection… but only after you finish doing the same for their mother.

“You are so brave,” Alcina murmurs next to your ear. It’s even clearer now how close she is to crying, her voice seconds away from cracking. Hearing her like this almost hurts as bad as the initial lycan attack did. “You are so strong. No other mortal could ever be your match. Do you understand, my dear? You are blessed, divine, and I love you so much.”

In any other setting, her words would leave you melting in her arms, radiating affection so strongly that you might as well have been radioactive. Instead, you are unable to respond, or even look her way. All you can do is press the knife to your skin again, showing your own feelings by destroying yourself for her.

The blade is starting to find more resistance, and you’re having to pause more often, spots appearing in your vision. Going faster only makes things worse, your hand threatening to slip. You’re determined to finish this, no matter what, but your need to control the situation is gradually making things worse. Alcina notices this before you do, and acts before you have a chance to protest.

“Bela, the knife,” she says, then tightens her grip on your waist. Your confusion shifts to panic as your arm is carefully, but forcefully, pulled away from your wound. “Can you finish the job?” It takes you a few moments to realize that Alcina isn’t talking to you. No, she’s speaking to her eldest daughter, who doesn’t hesitate to take the knife away from you. It’s so easy for her, between her strength and your weakness. “Don’t struggle. Let us finish this.”

Protests rise from your throat and die in your mouth. Pain flares harder now that Bela isn’t distracting you. Once more your vision goes dark, but this time there’s no pause, no hesitation. You are suffering, horribly, and the Dimitrescu family refuses to make you hurt longer than necessary. It’ll be over soon, you think, not knowing whether you refer to your pain or your life itself.

Something wet drops onto the back of your neck, then darkness overtakes you…

------------------------

“Damn those lycans, I should string Heisenberg up myself! They’re his responsibility, after all,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. Now that you’re unconscious, unable to hear what ails her, she feels free to voice her thoughts. “The damn things should never have come close to the path to the village.”

“What if she strayed from the path? Wouldn’t that explain it?” Bela suggests, even as her hands work to remove what seems to be the last piece of dead/infected flesh from your leg. She hates how the words feel in her mouth, hates suggesting that you of all people might have betrayed her mother’s trust. But it makes sense. After all, this whole mess, with you leaving the castle to retrieve a mysterious package, was all a test to see if you would try to run. It hadn’t been her idea, and Bela admitted to herself that she thought it was unnecessary.

“On the way back? Why would she bother getting the package if she intended to run?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, right as Cassandra returns. The middle child is practically juggling the metal spatula she’s carrying, irritated (not harmed) by the heat it produced. One of her brows perks up when she hears the conversation, but she keeps any thoughts she has to herself.

“Just a thought, mother, I didn’t quite believe it myself,” Bela chimes, after a pause. With that said she holds up her hand with pride, clutching between her fingers the last of the decaying flesh. The way the others react, one might have thought that a miracle had been performed. Daniela clapped her hands together, giggling a little, and finally stopped her pacing. “Don’t celebrate too much, now,” Bela reminded her, taking the spatula from Cassandra as she did. “There’s still plenty to do. It’s a good thing she’s not awake for this part.”

A good thing, indeed. She uses her fingers to spread the remaining skin a little, giving a quick examination, then deciding that she had successfully removed all remaining residue. Keeping her fingers where they were, she pressed the side of the spatula to your skin, putting the most pressure at the center of the wound. Three seconds passed, then she lifted her hand. A pause. She pressed it back into place, keeping a close eye on the affected area. This repeated several times, the gaps being necessary to prevent unintentional damage. Once the wound seemed properly closed she set the spatula aside.

“Is that it?... Did we save her?” Daniela asks, opting to finally sit down in a nearby chair. Something about her word choice makes both of her sisters scoff.

“I could sew it closed, as a precaution, but there’s no way I’d do it the way she had intended. It might be best to just give her time to rest, and see what she thinks when she gets back up,” Bela answers. For a moment her words hang in the air, but eventually Alcina gives a little nod and a hum.

“Very well. I shall carry her to my quarters, where she won’t be disturbed. Please, let one of the Maidens know to bring some food up this evening,” Alcina says, gently taking you into her arms as she does…

------------------------

BAD ENDING: It’s been six hours, with no sign of you waking up. Your other wounds had been examined, cleaned, and bandaged. Food had been carefully prepared and brought up to you, though it now remained on the bedside table, untouched. Alcina has gone to call Mother Miranda, intending to speak to her about the growing unrest of the lycans, as Heisenberg hadn’t answered his phone. For the first time since you returned you are alone. It is now, of all times, that you awaken. A gasp sends you into a coughing spree, forcing you into a sitting position. The space around you feels like it's moving, and your vision blurs. Blood spills from your mouth as you finally regain the ability to breathe.

Seconds later your vision clears, but what you see is enough to make you wish you couldn’t. The blood that spilled onto the sheets is a dark red… with even darker spots scattered throughout it. All at once you know what happened: Residue had hidden from you, or gone deeper than your wound, infecting you before you ever stood a chance. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but something deeper starts calling to you. Something older. Darker. It drags you to your feet, ignores the pain of your wounds, and sends you out the bedroom door.

Your mind is racing, thoughts never quite clear enough for you to understand. It doesn’t feel like you’re in control of your own movements. Was something else in charge, or were you operating on an infection powered autopilot? Answers weren’t coming, just bloodshed.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed yet!” A voice calls out to you, making you turn to investigate. On the other end of the hallway is a maiden, one you instantly recognize. You’ve worked with her before, plenty of times, tag-teaming more tasks than you could count. She was like a sister to you. When she sees the blood staining your clothes, she gasps, then moves to support you. “Please, Lady Dimitrescu will be so upset if you-” her words melt into a blood curdling scream. For a moment you don’t understand.

And then you swallow, a chunk of hot meat slipping down your throat, and the scream dies down.

“What?...” You whisper, finally tasting the blood in your mouth, watching as your friend’s body falls to the floor. There’s a chunk of flesh missing from her neck, and the dots connect themselves in your head. You did that. Every part of you wants to scream, wants to cry out and beg someone to come kill you. Instead you fall to your knees, hard, uncaring. Your hands move themselves, grasping at the still warm corpse. Something has made you stronger, or at the very least removed the mental limits that kept you from destroying yourself. Flesh gives under your touch, tearing like paper, and you start crying as it reaches your mouth.

Footsteps approach, thundering fast, and you want to warn whoever it is. When you turn to look, you feel your hands let go of your meal. Your gaze meets that of a stunned Cassandra Dimitrescu, then drifts to the sickle in her hand.

“Kill me,” you growl, voice distorted, practically echoing. “Kill me now!” Not needing to be told a third time, Cassandra moves lightning quick, swarm-jumping forward before manifesting behind you, sickle dragging across your throat in one smooth motion. But it’s not enough. She realizes this, though, and slams her foot into your back, sending you tumbling forward. It’s enough to prevent you from countering, which gives her time to advance again, this time pulling a knife from her boot and driving it into the center of your back. When you scream, it’s not with your own voice, but that of a monster.

“Fucking fuck, what the fuck, red?” Daniella asks as she rounds the corner, eyes immediately landing on your bloodsoaked mouth. She’s quick to take in the scene, drawing a conclusion easily, even if it breaks her heart a little. Your vision fades as she approaches, and you know that it’s finally over. If only you had expired a few seconds earlier… because the last thing you hear is the startled cry of your would-be lover.

“No! No, darling, what happened-” Alcina finishes her sentence, but you do not hear it. You do not hear anything, anymore. You do not know it… but there will be hell to pay for your death.

------------------------

GOOD ENDING: When you awake, you find yourself in the softest sheets you’ve ever touched, a warm and familiar presence next to you. The first thing you see is Alcina’s sleeping face next to your own. She’s on her side, one arm around your waist, the covers pulled up to her hip. Warmth fills your chest as you take in the sight. For a few moments you just… appreciate this. Never before had you imagined that you would get to wake up next to the woman you loved so much. A sigh, one of bliss, leaves your lips. Slowly you move forward, gently placing a kiss to Alcina’s cheek. Seconds later her eyelids flutter open, and she tiredly takes you in.

“You’re… awake,” she murmurs, hardly awake herself. But her fatigue doesn’t last long. As soon as she’s fully processed the situation her eyes go wide. Then she’s pulling you closer, careful not to hurt you, and peppering little kisses over your face. “I’ve been so worried, dear. You scared us so much.” The hurt in her voice leaves you restless, making you curl up against her, desperate to soothe her worries. Moving hurts a little, but not enough to dissuade you from your goal.

“I’m sorry, love,” you say, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m okay, I’m alive, the plan worked out. You don’t have to fret for me anymore. I won’t leave you, I promise.” Slowly but surely, Alcina calms, exchanging kisses for softly running her fingers through your hair. There’s such love in her eyes that you can hardly believe you aren’t dreaming. “You’re amazing, Alcina. I could stay like this all day.”

“Maybe we should,” she offers, chuckling a little. Once again you give her a quick kiss, unable to resist the urge. “I should have never asked you to leave. I should have just trusted you.” The words give you pause, and you tilt your head in confusion. Realizing that you still didn’t know the full story, Alcina frowns. “The package is worthless, just a bundle of straw and a few rocks for weight. It was never what I cared about.”

Tension builds in your chest, and for a few seconds you have no idea how to react. It takes a minute for you to think, to connect the dots, but once you do it’s a tad bit easier to breathe. A scowl twists your lips as you think of what to say.

“If I had known that Heisenberg was forgoing his duties, I never would have sent you outside,” Alcina adds, the silence taking its toll on her.

“You shouldn’t have sent me either way,” you respond, bitterly, thinking of all that you had seen and heard on your journey. “I would have done anything to prove to you how I feel. There are other ways to show devotion- far less dangerous ways, at that.”

“I know, dear. You have every right to be angry… and watching you suffer has taught me all that I need to know,” Alcina says, still playing with your hair, trying to ease the tension. As upset as you about this recent revelation… it’s not enough to change how you feel about her, and you want her to understand that, fully and completely.

So you lean into her touch, let your eyes drift close for a moment, then softly place one of your arms around her as best as you can.

“We’ll need to talk about this more… just not right now. Right now, I need you, Alcina. I need to hold you, and be held by you, and just know that you’re here. That I’m here. That neither of us are going anywhere,” you say, resting your forehead against hers. “I need to feel safe, and your arms are the safest place I can imagine. Stay here with me?”

“It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.”

#alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #alcina x reader #lady dimitrescu x reader #tw blood #tw self harm #tw cannibalism #blood blood blood oops #I wrote this instead of sleeping because my hands cannot be stopped #typeity type type type #sorry if the formatting is off #i'm trying the new editor or whatever #if it's fucked I'll fix it whenever I wake up

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subwaysurf45 · 3 years

Text

Back Into the Swing of Things

summary: Bucky is finally stable and after your friendship turns into a relationship, Bucky asks you to teach him about the little things. (set around civil war)

words: 3355

warning: legit none just fluff!

pairing: bucky x reader

Masterlist

You were sat at the little desk in your room, your music was blasting through your headphones as you nodded your head to the beat. It was paperwork day, the worst day. For some reason it was a busy time or missions which meant mission reports, you liked to just bang them out all at once for one day every couple of weeks. Some people did them right after but the little notes you take in your journal allow you to wait a bit and then do five at once. The plate that used to have a sandwich was now empty, Bucky brought it by because he knew it was your day and if he stayed around you it would most likely lead to Bucky trying to pull you into bed for snuggles. He’d claim you’d look too cozy to be doing work, you'd wear one of his shirts and maybe some pants.

With a sigh you lean back in your chair, a couple pops coming for your back. “Four outta five…” you muttered to yourself as you took the papers and stacked them on the other reports. As you reached for the final one there was a knock on the door, “come in, Bucky.” You called over your shoulder.

“How’d you know it was me?” Bucky slipped through the doorway, he walked over and spun your chair around.

“Your knock is very polite,” was all you said. It was true, he’d knock loud enough to be heard but not too loud to seem demanding.

“Thanks…?” Bucky sat on the edge of your bed, “I wanted to ask you something,” Bucky looked to the floor.

“Talk to me,” You cheered and gave your full attention.

“I have a list of things in my notebook, just stuff I don't get- like understand. Would you mind helping and explaining some stuff?” His face was red and his eyes looked down, it was painfully obvious he was embarrassed.

“Sure,” You shrugged and Bucky smiled. He got up and went to get the book.

Debit Card Machine

Bucky was sitting across from you at a small diner, you went after rush hour to give yourself space and also Bucky doesn’t like crowded and loud spaces. Bucky had gotten a B.L.T. and you got something similar but you’d never been here before so you weren’t exactly sure what was in it- but it was good.

The waitress came by, the uniform was very retro like the rest of the place. It wasn’t way back to the 40’s more late 80’s early 90’s, Bucky had said he liked coming here because of the jukebox even though that was way past his time. He found it easier than an iphone, which was on his list of things to learn.

“Coffee or tea?” the lady asked.

“No, just the bill please,” You smiled at her, she nodded and walked away. Bucky got up and moved to sit beside you because he didn’t want to learn by looking at the thing upside down, the debit card itself was slightly conquered territory but he had the idea.

“And you said this was on your phone as well?” Bucky picked up the card and looked at it, his fingers running over the numbers that were lifted.

“You have to connect your card and all that to your phone so you just hover over the machine and it’ll pay.” You mimed the action of paying with your phone over nothing for Bucky to get the gist.

The machine showed up and you explained all the buttons, the waitress seemed confused because Bucky looked your age, she would have expected a guy to know how this works but she also kept her distance like most waitresses do.

“So you put your card in, the chip end goes in,” you showed. “Then you make sure the price matches the one on the receipt, if it does then you hit ‘ok’,” you did hit ‘ok’. “Then you have to tip, I personally go the percentage route so I’d click the far left button,” It made a sound when you did. “Now, depending on the service you can tip a different amount, I go fifteen percent as a baseline but she was really nice so I’ll tip twenty.” you typed it in, Bucky had a shocked face.

“Twenty dollars, that’s another meal!” He whispered, trying not to let the lady hear; she did.

“Twenty percent, our total goes from eighteen-tirty to twenty-forty five,” You showed the number again, then you clicked okay and proceeded to type in your four digit number. Bucky watched over your shoulder and tried to remember it all, when you were showing things at home he’d take notes and have a couple diagrams to remember it all but his notebook was no longer in sight. You glanced down after giving the machine back to see him rolling the book onto itself under the table, Bucky shoved it into his back pocket when you both got up to leave.

“Do you mind going over it again when we get home?” Bucky asked as he held your hand, the Avenger tower in sight.

“Of course,” you left a little kiss on his cheek.

Cooking Bacon

You didn’t remember reading this when you first went over the list. Granted, there was tons of stuff on Bucky’s list. It seemed he added it on later, like he watched Wanda cook and had a little idea to add. Either way, you both were in the kitchen in front of the stove. You both had aprons on, yours was a nice navy blue while Bucky’s read: ‘kiss the cook’. He wanted the navy one but then lost a game of rock, paper, scissors.

The pan was heating up on the stove, you had the lid ready beside it on the counter. Bucky seemed nervous because of the idea of the grease spitting out at him, he was starting to stand slightly behind you or away from the stove in an area he thought he wouldn’t get hit. “Alright,” you clapped your hands together after feeling over the pan to check the temperature. “We are gonna cook four pieces, so I’m gonna take them out of the package,” You were careful around the stove because Bucky seemed extremely nervous for you. He kept making little ‘peep’ing noises like he was about to say ‘watch out’ or something but decided against it, it was cute.

You put in two and then Bucky came over to put the others in, he was so leaned back he could barely get the bacon strips into the pan. On the last strip he haphazardly dropped it in, this caused the grease to spray back. A couple bits landed on your arm but a few more hit Bucky.

“Fuck!” He jumped back as you went to cover it quickly. The lid steamed up in seconds. Bucky was at the sink, washing his arm off. “Does it, like, burn through stuff?” His tone was so concerned but you couldn't help but laugh at the question.

“No, you’re safe,” you nodded. Bucky came back over and stood right behind you, his chin nestled on your shoulder as you waited a bit. His arms circled around your torso and he also watched the pan, he didn’t know what to look for per se, but he did it anyways. “This should be good,” you stepped forward which caused Bucky to let go. “We’re gonna lift the lid and start to flip them, alright?” You grabbed the tongs and clicked them a few times, it was a thing you always did.

“Let’s go,” Bucky’s voice wanted to sound excited but he was slightly scared.

You lifted the lid and stood off to the side, quickly but calmly you flipped the pieces over and then covered the lid. “So, we give that time, then we'll take the lid off and just move them around and flip them more, you can do that,” You smiled over your shoulder to see Bucky writing something down. It was cute how much he cared about the little things, you’d never been taught how to cook bacon or cooking in general, it was something you just found yourself doing.

Bucky took the tongs and went for it, he lifted the lid and went straight into flipping them. After he found they weren’t spitting back he seemed to loosen up, his shoulders rolled back and he seemed to find a comfortable position. He was looking over to you for any tips but you stood there with a smile on your face, he was actually doing a good job.

You got out a plate and paper towel, Bucky transferred the strips over. He watched you pat them down with a paper towel, this was something you adopted into your life because you weren’t the biggest fan of all the grease.

“This is a big part, so listen up,” Bucky looked over from eating one of his two pieces. “Write this down, never and I mean never pour this grease down the sink- ever.” Bucky had the piece of meat sticking out of his mouth as he scribbled it down, he hummed and nodded to let you know he got it. “There is a can under the sink, grab it for me, please?” You picked up the pan but stayed over the stove, Bucky came back with an open can. There was nothing in it except congealed grease, he seemed grossed out but you were used to it. “Dump it in here after it’s cool but not solidified, just don’t pour it down the sink.” You poured the stuff in and left it on the counter to cool off, Bucky finally bit down on the piece of bacon before handing over your two pieces.

“I think that went well,” Bucky nodded, he leaned against the counter with a tired sigh. You didn’t have to heart to make fun of him for being scared of the grease, he seemed proud of himself. So you just stood beside him and rested your head on his shoulder, “good job, Buck.”

Skin Care

Bucky was the type of boyfriend to sit in the bathroom and just watch you put on or take off your makeup, he was truly put under a trance when he would watch you. In the beginning he’d ask questions or ask what you were doing and why, but now he had watched you so much he’d pass you the tube of mascara as you finished on your brows.

Your skin had adapted to a long and specific routine, this was your time for about ten minutes before bed to fully unwind and have some quiet. You would rotate products and skip over some of the serums each night but there were the basics you were going to teach Bucky: Wash, tone, moisturize.

Before you went to the drug store you asked Bucky about his skin, he really had no idea what you were talking about and half the time he’d shrug it off. “I don’t pay attention to my skin,” was a common phrase. You lightly touched his face and felt his T-zone, he joked that sometimes if he opened his mouth really wide his skin would feel super tight and dry.

“So then you have dry skin,” you said. Thinking of the products to get him, Bucky didn’t have acne, it was more for cleaning the skin and keeping it healthy.

“I think,” Bucky really felt like a pain. He was trying to help you out so you could find good products but all he was giving was half answers, ‘ya, I guess’ or ‘I think so’.

But currently you both were standing in the bathroom, it was right before bed and Bucky adjusted his headband for about the hundredth time. He said it was too tight but you knew he was being a baby about it, his hair was also pulled back into a bun.

“We are gonna wash our face,” You showed how warm the water should be before splashing your face. Bucky copied right after, and awkwardly leaned forward to make sure water didn’t drip on the floor after while he waited for you to move on. “Now we are gonna wash our face, so take that bottle with the blue cap and put a bit in your hand. A little goes a long way,” You added and did the same, both faces in the bathroom were sudsy and ready. Bucky went in first to wash it off, his hands cupping under the tap and collecting as much water as he could before leaning right in to wash off his face. He did it twice.

“Pat dry?” He remembered you saying that before. His hands held the fresh towel, you hummed in response because your face was in water. Bucky patted and gently rubbed around, when you stood up you dried off as well. Both faces were damp, Bucky looked at the little water droplets running down your neck before turning back to the task at hand. “Toner- don't tell me, I know this one!” He grabbed your arm, “red cap?” His face lit up with joy as you nodded, “I got this!” He cockily laughed, he knew what he was doing.

Bucky took the little cotton round and drizzled some of the toner around on it, he passed one over to you before making one for himself. Bucky leaned in and got super close to the mirror, he watched intently as you rubbed your face. He copied, it was like the cotton pad was barely touching his face. The last thing he cleaned was his nose before pulling the cotton away, he scanned over the pad and saw the gross residue.

“Ew, that was on my face?” Bucky was enchanted by the pad, holding it super close to see the leftover dirt. You had already thrown away the pad, it made you giggle to see Bucky so hypnotized by literal oil and dirt.

“Moisturizer, final step for you,” You sang. “I like to pick it up with my knuckle, like this,” You unscrewed the lid and tapped your pointer finger knuckle to the opaque, soft cream. Bucky took his new one and did the same. He wiped it into the palm of the opposite hand, “rub it around, heat it up before putting it on,” He did just that. “You’re a pro, Buck!” You giggled as Bucky meticulously put it on. He was applying it upwards and spreading it evenly around, his fingers gently dancing across his face as the cream worked its way in.

“How do I look?” He turned to you.

“Like you’re glowing.”

“I feel like it,” Bucky laughed and looked back at the mirror. He tilted his head around to see how his skin would look under the light in the bathroom, he seemed to forget you were there and was completely in awe of what he did. Bucky brought his fingers to his face to feel around, the moisturizer had set and now his skin looked full and plump. The pads of his fingers gently tapped his cheeks and made the shimmer on his cheekbones move and twinkle.

“Alright, that’s enough admiring yourself,” you laughed and pushed him out of the way. Bucky stayed to watch you finish up your routine.

Record Player

As a way to say thanks for helping Bucky with over fifty niche things, Bucky decided to teach you how to properly use a record player.

This wasn’t any old player, this was Bucky’s player. No one was allowed to touch it without permission and even though you have never gotten the green light, you asked almost every week. This was one of the only things Bucky could really hold onto, when he touched the dark, stained wood he could almost see himself back in the 40’s; almost.

He once got really mad at the beginning of your friendship, you really didn’t know it was his, you just thought it was a talking piece. Bucky ended up yelling at you, he had just changed the needle and you were running your finger on it to see how small it was. Steve had ran in because Bucky was yelling- it was a whole ordeal that ended with Bucky not talking to you for three months.

But now there was trust and Bucky liked that after that little fiasco you didn’t even think to touch it, he could really trust you and now was a great time to show off his favourite thing. Bucky was all giddy to show his record player off to you, you were grabbing some water before he started and you noticed Bucky was using the cuff of his sleeve to wipe off a smudge before going back to inspect it.

“Alright, let’s start!” Bucky smiled. This man didn’t start with the parts and what they do, he started with the history of it all. Bucky pulled all the facts he knew about record players in general and the vintage one that was sitting in front of the both of you, his eyes seemed to light up with each new fact that popped into his mind. Part of you wanted to check your watch but you also had never seen this man get passionate over an object before, he could get passionate over people- you, Steve, Sam, etc. -but never over this. “Are you ready to play music?” He reached over into his bin and pulled a record you’ve never seen.

“Which one’s that?” You asked as Bucky pulled it out of it’s sleeve.

“It’s just a random one I picked up a week ago for this,” Bucky held the record the proper way. “Thumb on the center and index on the edge, don’t touch the actual grooves because the oils in your hands can clog them up,” Bucky moved his hand around to show you.

“Sorry, what do you mean you bought that record for this? And why does the needle look different?” you noticed the needle looked extremely worn, it looked great and new a couple days ago.

“Don’t worry,” Bucky dismissed it. “So now we are gonna place the record softly,” Bucky placed it down and turned back to you. He talked about the arm and the needle before showing you how to put it on manually and then with the little leaver, after showing them each way twice he stepped back and offered you a turn.

“Seems easy,” you mumbled and took the arm, you were doing it manually first. The movements were extremely soft and slow, when the needle made contact it took half a second before a really grainy sound came through the speakers. It sounded wrong but Bucky nodded, he applauded you for taking the needle off as well. Then you did it with the leaver, right when it was about to touch you thought it looked off so you nudged it a bit- bad idea. The needle didn’t even hit the record and part of the arm scratched the recessed vinyl. “Shit!” You yelled and ripped it off. Causing the record to scratch, the sound and the record itself, there was a shine to the edge. “Oh god! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to mess it all up- I really didn’t mean to break it- god, you must so ma- I’m sorry-” as you fumbled over yourself Bucky just started to laugh. “What?” you were about to cry because of the guilt.

“That was a sixties record and a needle that is five years old, you didn't do anything. I bought it because I knew this was bound to happen.” Bucky only laughed at your exasperated sigh, you fell into his hug like a child. “Poor baby,” he mockingly cooed, he found it so funny how you were screaming apologies at him even though it was painfully obvious it was a shit record and needle.

“That was scary, I think I need a nap after that…” you sighed.

Bucky threw you over his shoulder, “thinking the same thing, doll.

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obeymeluv · 4 years

Text

QUICK! KISS ME! [Bros x Reader]

A lead-up blurb before I go to bed.

School is killing me. This has been in the drafts far longer than I wanted.

No offense if your name is Bethany. It’s a name I picked at random.

The follow-up piece will have the kiss scenarios.

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Some of Asmo’s friends may have used you to get into a special makeup event, but it’s okay! They bought you a lip gloss as a thank you! The shade ‘Sealed with a Kiss’ was not what you thought it’d be

△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽

Being one of the first humans in the Devildom could be uncomfortable and sometimes down-right dangerous! It also had its perks. To you, that meant being close with the Seven Lords of Hell (and Diavolo). To other lesser demons and classmates, you were kind of a ‘get out of jail’ free card.

Were they late to class? Oh, just helping the human out!

Caught sneaking in food or drink when they weren’t supposed to? It’s to split with the human, of course! They thought you’d love to try it!

Everyone was keen not to overuse it and you’d actually made good friends this way. It was starting to feel less like an excuse and more of a way to be included. You were the friendly, reliable human that had won hearts and saved some asses. As a thank you, one of your closer friends (a repeat offender for lateness), invited you out to an exclusive makeup release. She was a VIP member and had early access an hour before the store opened to the Devildom public.

The fact that she chose you, a human, over some LITERAL century-old friends caused a bit of tension but she could care less. “I’ve seen them every day for over a hundred years. You get one year, and we’re going to make it awesome!” Bethany breezed through the store at a dizzying pace, picking through concealers and opening a box of mascara to look at the packaging. She moved at a pace only demons could manage; you thought you saw her by the nail polish display but when you looked again she was throwing sheet masks in her basket. Hooking her arm with yours, she picked up some foundation on the way back to the coveted display of lip glosses and lipsticks.

You weren’t totally versed in the differences between Devildom makeup and human world makeup. In all honesty, there didn’t seem to be a difference. Bethany swatched powdery cream lipsticks on her wrist and followed with ribbons of liquid lipstick. Every now and then she dotted them on your arm; she was adamant about finding a shade the both of you could wear as your thing.

“This one,” she decided, waving the tube at you and booping your nose with it carefully. “This is our color!” she took you by the hand and joined the checkout line. She had two in her hand but refused to let you so much as hold one, wanting to pay for it first. It wasn’t technically breaking the purchase limit rule; if they tried to nag her she’d just say she was holding onto it so another demon didn’t bully you out of it. You didn’t know if it was her VIP status or the fact that her defense made sense, but you were able to check out without a problem.

A few sour faces and mean glares met you outside but Bethany ignored it all, eager to have a Devilgram-worthy celebratory snack break (snack victory? You know, since you got the makeup?) The plan was to eat, hold down a table at the nearby cafe while her other friends shopped, and have group makeovers (or try-ons) before calling it a day. That plan was interrupted three bites into a croissant sandwich when Lucifer summoned you back to the House of Lamentation. He’d gotten wind of all the girls you’d be with and didn’t feel totally comfortable letting you hang out with them,

Had Barbatos seen something? Did Lucifer feel spurned that you weren’t hanging out with the Seven Lords of the Devildom? He gave no answer, simply asking you to stay put while someone came to escort you back to the house. Bethany was put off by the turn of events but few people dared to complain about the Seven Lords due to their connections with Diavolo (she was no exception). “If we can’t get the full makeover, we’re getting the selfie!” she declared, deftly breaking the seal to her Sealed with a Kiss gloss and swiping it on with help from the front-facing camera on her D.D.D

You busied yourself with opening your tube. Before you could ask for her phone (since the camera was already open), she took the tube from you and tilted your chin up. She dabbed the center of your lips playfully before carefully tracing your lips with the color. The heat rose in your cheeks and she smirked. Being part succubus, she could draw energy from emotions like embarrassment and the feeling of being flattered. Her fingertips pulsed under your chin as she drew on that energy.

Getting energy sucked could feel like a lot of things -- being light-headed, getting a rush of excitement, all prickly and tingly like your whole body was pins and needles. Whatever it was, it usually faded into drowsiness and kittenish contentment. She probably only touched your chin for seconds but the wash of coziness had you melting against your chair, your cheek cradled in her palm.

Did she take the pic? What was happening? It felt like Asmodeus had materialized out of thin air, helping you stand and making small-talk with Bethany before pulling you away, out of her aura that was trying to suckle the vestiges of happy energy you offered.

“And what shade did you get on those pretty lips, hm?” the cotton fell out of your head and ears, allowing you to really hear Asmo now that the aura effects had worn off.

“Uh,” you fished around in your bag and looked at the packaging. “Sealed with a Kiss.”

Asmodeus stopped so abruptly it’d almost yanked you back to him. The two of you were barely tangled at the pinkies and now he’d completely laced your hands together. He held your hands captive, drawing them up in surprise and basically dragging you into his torso. You were forced to look up into glittering pink eyes and if you didn’t know any better, they looked a little panicked.

“How long ago did you apply it?”

“I don’t know.” you blinked helplessly at him. That energy suck thing had a way of making your brain tune out and turn to pudding. That aside, who knows how long Asmo stood there and talked to Bethany while you were being siphoned?! “Bethany applied it, not me.”

Asmo clicked his tongue, huffed, resigned himself to only holding one hand. and started scrolling on his D.D.D to find that selfie Bethany posted. You were being dragged along like a child as Asmo’s shoes clicked towards the House of Lamentation. It amazed you how well he could navigate his D.D.D with his long, painted nails.

Whatever he was looking for, he found it.

Asmodeus tucked his D.D.D into his pants pocket, scooped you up in a way that terrified and amazed you (two people being supported by one set of heels?), and flew to the House of Lamentation. He didn’t always use his wings, as he preferred to decorate them and maintain them with oils, but the fact that he was flying made you nervous.

What had he found? What was the deal?

“Asmo--” you started nervously, the flapping of his wings nearly drowning you out as he pushed himself. Flying against the wind didn’t help. Your hair was a mess and the wind was in your face; the Devildom was always a little chilly but now it was enough to make your face tingly.

“She gave you enchanted makeup. There is a reason humans don’t use enchanted makeup.” Asmo’s pretty brows furrowed as he cut a hard angle and glided over a portion of the square. The tell-tale thicket of trees that lined the winding path back to the House of Lamentation were on the edge of the horizon.

“What’s going to happen?” should you ask that? Did you really want to know?

“You’ll feel something in your lips--some people felt tingling, some people felt pulsing, it can be anything, I think--and then they’ll seal shut.”

“SHUT?!” you yelped. It was enough to make Asmo wince. The startle carried over to his wings; they shuddered and locked; the two of you dropped for a heartbeat or two before he corrected himself.

“If I can’t get some makeup remover on it first.” Asmo panted, tucking his wings in and preparing for a quick descent. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought to teleport first--the panic? Trying to one-up Bethany by walking home and being extra cute with hand-holding?--but a quick touch down could roll into a simple skip teleportation and everything should work out!

“But my lips are already tingly!”

“Ugh, Bethany! I can’t believe you! I mean, I can because it’s you, but really, Bethany?”

“Asmo, focus!” you’d already skipped several feet ahead, clearing the front yard in two teleports. The third put you in the foyer. “I don’t want my lips to seal shut!”

The House of Lamentation was huge but when the occupants had supernatural hearing, that exclamation turned heads.

“What’s this about your lips sealing shut?” Lucifer appeared at the top of his stairs, his head already shaking.

“DID YOU MAKE A PACT WITH A WITCH?!” Mammon screamed down the hall, clearly not far behind.

Asmo scoffed, lowering his D.D.D with a pout. He was halfway up the main stairs, fingers working at lightning speed. “It’s the lip color!” he explained, stomping his foot. Noisy people were just so annoying! If everyone was talking he couldn’t explain! How rude!

“All this over some makeup?” skeptical Satan peered over the banister, book and arm casually propped up on it.

“If two people apply the color and kiss, they’re locked in a makeout session until it dries down. When one person applies the lip color, they can use it like a cheat sheet to see who secretly wants to kiss them,” his words tapered out from authoritatively informed to quiet and shy. “It’s from their ‘Liquid Love’ collection.” he muttered into the stunned silence of the room.

You were trying to open your lips and ask why. The magic had already taken hold. Asmodeus could see you trying to move your lips and strain your chin. Luckily, demons could read minds. “It’s because Bethany is stupid.” Asmodeus rolled his eyes. “Ambitious, but stupid.”

“Please explain, Asmo.” even when using the dear nickname Lucifer couldn’t hide the demand. His demon aura was creeping up his body and slowly becoming jagged and suffocating.

“Bethany has had a HUGE crush on our little human here, and wanted to seal it with a kiss, so to speak.” Asmo’s cheeks got pinker and pinker as he explained. Mostly because he was mad he didn’t think about it. His heart did something funny at the thought of you kissing someone else. Lucifer also looked like he wanted to murder someone about now, and Asmo had to remind himself that he was being looked through, not looked at.

“Just grab a napkin and wipe it off.” Mammon shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Asmodeus shook his head angrily. “It’s too late now. We need to find someone for them to kiss! Someone’s lips will break the seal on theirs...that’s kind of the point of the enchantment.”

“So they just pick someone to kiss?” Levi’s face was turning tomato red. Would it be him?! It would at least be one of them, right? What if your person wasn’t in the House of Lamentation and you NEVER SPOKE AGAIN?!

“Sort of.” Asmo patted your shoulders with his gentle, smooth hands. He started to rub them like he was trying to warm you up. Partly in encouragement and partly to get your attention because he could feel your brain spiraling down into panic. “They basically follow their mouth.”

“So that lip color is like a crush detector?” Satan abandoned his book at the top of the stairs and was now perusing articles on his D.D.D as he sauntered down the steps. It sounded like he’d found the one that sent Asmo flying to the House of Lamentation.

“Basically.” Asmo sighed. It was the stupidest way to confess to someone, he thought. Demon to demon, it was fine. Demon to human?! NO! The whole thing gave him a headache. The fact that Bethany thought she could just steal your little lips and be greedy with them was the biggest annoyance of it all.

“So,” Satan’s green eyes cut sharply from his phone to you. The corner of his lips curled up in a smart little smirk. He knew it was wrong to find your predicament so funny, but this was a very human thing to get mixed up in. “Who do your lips want? Who do you feel yourself being drawn to?”

#Blurb #Lead-up #Obey me! x reader #Asmodeus x Reader #Lucifer x Reader #Mammon x Reader #Satan x Reader #Beelzebub x Reader #Beel x Reader #Belphegor x Reader #Leviathan x Reader #Levi x Reader

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the-atlas-sister · 3 years

Text

Since We Were Fourteen Part One (Conner Kent x Reader)

No one's POV

"I don't wanna do this," a fourteen-year-old y/n grumbled as she and her parents rode in their limo towards LexCorp.

"Lex has something he'd like to show us," y/n's dad stated as y/n rolled her eyes and looked out the window. Her dad had known Lex Luthor since they were children, both of them growing up in rich households. He used to tell y/n all about the times they'd goof off in galas as children and meetings as teens. They were best friends.

Y/n, on the other hand, had never liked Mr. Luthor. She found him repulsive, greedy, and just plain untrustworthy. "Also, he is your godfather, so show some respect."

"It's not my fault he's my godfather," y/n grumbled as the limo rolled up to LexCorp. She could see Lex himself walking out of his building. He actually seemed happy to see her family, but she knew better.

"Lex!" y/n's father exclaimed as soon as he got out of the limo.

"D/n!" Lex stated, shaking his hand. "M/n!" He pulled y/n's mother into a hug as she and y/n followed her father.

"Hello, Lex," y/n's mother said kindly. "It's very good to see you. D/n was very happy that you called."

"It's good to see you all as well," Lex smirked. "And little y/n." Y/n frowned as he turned his attention to you. "How old are you now? Nine? Ten?"

"Fourteen," y/n corrected curtly.

"Ah, your a tad small for your age, aren't you?" Lex joked, leaning down to look at her.

"I'm 5'1," she stated, resisting the very strong urge to roll her eyes.

"Right," Luthor said, standing up fully to face d/n. "She's a tad rude, isn't she?" he said, not even bothering with the fact that y/n could hear him.

"She's usually much more polite," m/n reassured the bald man.

Luthor hummed, staring at you through the corner of his eye. "Well, come now. I must show you that project I was telling you about over the phone."

"Yes! Cadmus?" d/n exclaimed.

"Yes, please, follow me," Luthor turned on his heel and began walking towards the building.

"Come on," m/n urged her h/c daughter to walk with her family.

The group kept walking, y/n stealing glances at the different people and labs. Despite her distaste for Lex and the rest of his company- she had to admit, the labs and projects they seemed to be doing impressed her.

"Here we are," Lex stated, stopping in front of a sliding metal door. He typed in a code, making sure to hide the pin with his body. "Project Cadmas."

"Oh my," d/n gasped as he and his family admired the many tanks. "What... what are they?" he questioned as Lex lead them down the tall flight of stairs.

"Clones," a creepy looking guy answered. He wore round blue lensed sunglasses, and had messy redish-brown hair and a matching mustache. The way he stared at y/n and her mother made her uncomfortable. "My babies."

"So far all failures," Lex interrupted, placing his hands behind his back. "Except for this one." He lead the l/n family to a tank where a person, seemingly as old as y/n, was curled into a fetal position with tubes connected to it's body.

"Is it a person?" y/n asked softly, taking a step towards the person.

"A clone," Lex repeated.

Strange, y/n thought. It looks human. Although I suppose a clone could look like anything.

"Now, let me show you my other projects," Lex stated. Y/n ignored him and stayed still as her family and Lex left the lab.

"Hi," she said, placing her hand on the glass gently. It was cold, but she didn't mind. "Can you hear me?" No response from the floating boy- or clone. "It's okay if you don't want me here. But I thought you might want someone to talk to. I'm sure it gets lonely just floating around."

Still no response.

"Do you even have a brain yet?" y/n questioned, watching the clone-boy's dark hair float in the water. She placed both hands on the glass. "Hm," she hummed when there was no response.

"Y/N! Come along!" her mom's voice was heard from the elevator, making her turn away from the tank.

"Coming!" you called.

**Three Weeks Later**

Y/N POV

It was cold and raining in the graveyard.

How fitting, you thought, tears slipping from your eyes, despite the numbness in your chest.

"I'm sorry for your loss," people would say as they walked past you. A few placed flowers on your parents graves, others gave you unwanted hugs. They all tried to give you some sort of comfort, but none of it felt real.

They all left... one by one until it was just you... and your godfather.

"How sad," he said, grabbing your shoulder firmly. "I understand it must hurt." You felt your blood boil at his words. "I lost my best friend and you lost parents." You clenched your fists at your sides. "Car crash was it?"

Stop acting like your oblivious, you thought. Like it wasn't your fault. Like you didn't kill them. But you bit your tongue. You had to play nice until the time was right. Pretend to be the perfect little goddaughter.

"Let's go home," Lex stated, removing his hand from your shoulder.

#conner kent #superman #superboy #reign of the supermen #death of superman #lex luthor #superboy x reader #superboy x y/n #superboy x you #dc #justice league #lois lane #conner kent x you #conner kent x reader #conner kent x y/n #clark kent #part 1 #kon el #kon el x reader

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rumblelibrary · 3 years

Note

Hello 👀❤️

So... I don't know if this will work or not, but I thought why not, I send it in... And if you don't like it, that's completely fine ❤️🔥

I really like how you write the characters' mind... What they are thinking or how they act... I was thinking, maybe a new mechanic (Reader) at Ferrari (yes, it's a Niki Lauda fic, you know me❤️🔥) who is really shy, but very good at their job, and Niki likes them and he is an asshole with everyone (which is normal from him) EXCEPT with the Reader... And like... Maybe at first he doesn't realize this, but then he does, and gets all conflicted like why is he getting soft suddenly, out of nowhere... (It is obvious, but not for him)... I'm curious how you would see this, write this... The ending of this story is up to you ❤️❤️

Love you ❤️🔥👀

What Is This Feeling [Niki Lauda x Mechanic!Reader]

Word count: 2.5k Warnings: lot of swearing by our favourite Rat King Author’s note: Niki is quickly turning into my comfort character to unleash my sass, thank you for giving me the chance to write him!

Part 2

On your first day at Ferrari nobody took you seriously, but to be a mechanic wasn’t exactly typing letters, it was not a place where somebody high up in the ranks would set a lover to give her some benefit and a free pay check.

You didn’t talk a lot, you stood your ground from the moment you put hands on any part of the car, but you weren’t exactly the chatty type and, being the only woman, it took you time to be allowed to the after work beer, to the birthdays and all the balancing that came with a good team spirit.

In a world full of bias about women, you were spared thanks to your abilities and knowledge. Or maybe, because the mechanics team had someone bigger to fight: Niki Lauda.

To work with him was thrilling, but stressful.

He would walk in at any hour of the day, break some egos, pile up an amount of changes that to make a brand new car would be a faster option.

You sat on the floor beside the baby, yes baby was the car, it wasn’t like you had to stay on the floor, there were more than plenty working stations, but it felt more comfortable for you: it gave you the chance to stand and look at things from afar, you were in need to touch, to understand, to put things together. It was your skill, but also your curse, because it was hard to gain yourself a space on the floor in such a fast paced environment like the one at Ferrari. You were working on the ignition when he stormed inside, the soft chats died fast and the noise of the radio was the only thing left, but he didn’t seem to mind the effect he had on people.

In a couple of long steps he was in front of one of your colleagues.

“What is this?” The man looked down to his sandwich like it was self explanatory, but the following silence brought him to answer “my lunch”

“Nice” Niki said, his lips curling downward in a very sarcastic amusement “well, take your lunch out of my garage because I don’t want your crumbles in my engine” he hissed picking the crumbles that effectively fell on the working table and sprinkling them like salt on the man’s face.

The man frowned and left to eat outside and avoid to punch him as Niki proceeded to his next victim.

“And you call this a design development? I call this dog shit”

“If this is a well done job, I’d better retire already before I get your good job to crack my skull open”

“Just begin again, don’t even ask”

“Are you sure you don’t work for McLaren? Because by the quality of your work I am starting to wonder”

One after the other all your colleagues fell under the axe of Niki’s commentary.

Nobody was spared, it was a butchery.

“So? What is this?”

You looked up at him as he towered over you, Satan himself would be less scary, and probably less attractive, to your eyes. His standing figure with rebel curls and his Ray-ban glasses in his left hand, the polo shirt under the fancy jacket, even his bad character gave him the edge so many men more conventionally attractive lack.

“I am working on the ignition” you said as he bent down crouching beside you as you showed him, his cologne filling your nostrils like the best smell your nose ever encountered.

“Okay, in what way?” He asked resting his elbows on his knees.

You gulped softly “Well, I am trying to experiment if I change this in here” and you pointed to a section in particular “maybe the car will have a better performance at the beginning of the race”

“Have you considered that it could over work the battery?”

“I did, but I wanted to see if I make here something like this” and you took a little tube showing how you lace it around the section “if I use this to push the cooler to work into this part as well, we might avoid over heating”

He listened touching his chin with the edge of his glasses thoughtfully.

“Give it a try”

He just said standing up.

Your colleagues looked at you shaking their heads as he turned around and everybody looked down to their tasks again, so then he left.

______________________________________________________________________ This wasn’t the first time, he wasn’t letting you do things he didn’t approve, but he always listened to you, he advised you, and the harshest thing he said was probably “I think you’re not looking at the bigger picture”

Nobody commented on it and beside some joke here and there, the little preference he had over you seemed to pass unnoticed mostly by him.

“You know, you really need a girlfriend” Clay, the other driver of the Ferrari alongside him, said during some tests.

Niki looked at him.

“Why? Do I look like one that has to fuck a woman to be fine?”

He laughed as Niki was always so overaggressive “No, but you treat everyone like bullshit beside the new girl, so you either can be an asshole only with men or your seduction technique needs a real check”

He frowned, eyebrows furrowing together as his lips parted in disbelief

“You nuts”

“Maybe, but I haven’t heard you complain about her as much as you complain about the rest of the world”

He shook his head “You are just letting you Italian genes getting your head stupid”

Clay laughed at him nodding knowingly “Sure, sure” he patted harshly on Niki’s back knowing how much he hated to be patted around like that as he moved to talk to one of the mechanics working on his car.

Niki crossed his arms resting against the wall of the garage, his eyes instinctively looking for your figure finding you to one of the working table writing down some notes over the changes applied while looking at the projects.

His eyes dropping on your ass like it was the first time he checked it, realising it wasn’t the first time he mentally noted it.

Well, he couldn’t really say you were unattractive, or not his type, or a good mechanic.

His thought process was suddenly interrupted as Clay himself approached you and you moved on side showing him the papers you were just writing on.

He nodded and said something to you, his hand casually resting on the small of your back making Niki’s jaw almost snap for how much he was gritting his teeth.

You shuffled on side avoiding the touch with a casual smile, but Clay kept talking to you and from afar Niki saw him say something and wave his pointed finger between himself and you. You shook your head and smiled turning down whatever he just offered with all the politeness you had, Niki pursued his lips slightly in amusement for his best girl’s behaviour.

Wait a second. Best girl?

He glared at Clay that smirked at him from afar, a big ‘I knew it’ smirk on his lips.

Niki bit the inside of his cheek not liking it.

He was with you like with everybody else, what the hell.

Niki ignored you all day, when you showed him something he himself requested to be shown, he shuffled away, when you handed him something he was looking for, he looked for it somewhere else, he just wasn’t meeting your eyes and hell and thunderstorm fell upon anyone that even tried to engage a talk with him on that day.

“I can’t with your boyfriend anymore, I swear” one of your colleagues muttered to you.

“He is not my boyfriend”

He looked at you “Then he’d better be soon, maybe he’ll chill out”

“Are you even paid to stand and do nothing?” Niki shouted from afar and you two parted ways faster than two kids smuggling candies during class. ______________________________________________________________________

The next day was the judgment day for all the changes done on the car, your nerves were cracking as Niki arrived in his driving suit and your eyes immediately snapped a mental photo on his figure.

Did you ever went home wishing to have his company? Yes.

Did you ever wondered if he was so aggressive ever in the intimate times? Way too much.

Did you have any chance? Probably no.

You let out a big sigh as your colleagues reassured you “Hey, if it doesn’t work we either get rid of the rat or have some more time to work on it” he joked but you didn’t feel any better.

Niki looked up as he noticed your worried look, your lips nibbling down on your lips, your foot tapping rhythmically and nervously, the sudden instinct to lean his hand on that waist of yours, to rest his leg beside yours to make it stop that nerve wracking dance, to forbid your lips any more damage not caused by him.

All of that crowded his mind and he growled tiredly.

Stupid Clay, with his stupid theories.

He finished getting ready and put on his helmet settling down in his spot rolling his shoulders back, he needed to focus.

The head mechanic came over him repeating all the changes and just annoying the hell out of him, he is not always around the car only to check you out.

“When you're done telling me what I know, tell me something I don’t, I beg you”

The head mechanic did a big effort not to spit into his face and just left him waving his arms in the air.

You touched on your forehead nervously, if you failed it would show in the timings or maybe the car won’t even start.

You looked at him, seconds before he pulled down the dark lid of his helmet, his dark eyes so focused a shiver creeped over you.

You gasped as the signal was given and the car started.

Your fingers finding their way to your mouth as you nibbled your skin.

The car was fast, that was sure, you leaned beside the head mechanic that was taking the time. You breathed heavily, your mind going through all the changes you did, all the small settlements, the little details.

An eternal list that kept repeating itself.

Then the question as he was halfway through the leap, what if you disappointed him?

What if he asked you to be sent away?

Then you looked down to the chronometer, he was already almost two seconds earlier than usual.

A smile started to grow on you, the excitement filling your veins.

The sound of the engine roaring beautifully, you made it!

Then it happened, some smoke raised up to the sky, one of the wheels snapped, the breath died in your throat.

The car flexed on side but Niki controlled it and guided it against the sandy side of the track that slowed it down until it stopped.

“He was breaking his record” the head mechanic sighed “now he is just going to break our balls”

Niki moved out of the car throwing his helmet on the ground pushing off roughly anyone that tried to help him or check if he was hurt, some of the mechanics moving to the tow truck to recollect the car, Niki moving past you, his face tense and his posture of someone ready to snap some necks. You didn’t see him for the rest of the day, nobody talked about him, nobody mentioned anything as the storm will fall on all of the team the next day.

Now it was the head mechanic to face it for all of you.

______________________________________________________________________

That night you stayed over time, the other colleagues told you to just go home, to not let the thing sink of you, to look at it with fresh eyes and all those circumstantial phrases people gift you when they try to cheer you up.

As always on the floor, you had now the chance to spread the pieces out, collect them into branches of types and use. You pulled closer your notebook writing down the ideas and things to remember to check, the image of Niki almost crashing gutting you even if you soon realised it wasn’t your change that set off the wheel, but it was part of the cause, the car was now too powerful and the stress on the suspensions was deadly.

You yawned lightly pulling a catalogue of replacements parts trying to find the best mix you could manage, but you surely had to make up something about it. You didn’t expect to solve the problem or to find the solution for everything with a creative twist, but to, at least, plan a sequence of possibilities to present to your chief the next day.

A hand slowly leaning a mug of steaming coffee beside you.

You looked up to find Niki there, another cup in his hand, those messy curls calling to be touched, his impeccable style always winning you over with a dark turtleneck and his tweed jacket.

“Found the problem?” He asked sharply as always.

He was surprised to see you there, he spent the rest of the afternoon after the malfunction with the head mechanic and some of the administrators as he needed a solution in time for the upcoming race.

So he decided he couldn’t trust their promises and reassurances, but take the matter in his own hand, for a change. But when he arrived he saw the lights still on and you there. He was almost tempted to leave, it wasn’t a good moment to screw things with one of his most talented mechanics.

But you, again, were so into it, you looked so beautiful with your working jumpsuit and the hair messed up nibbling on that pen like it was a matter of life and death.

He couldn’t just let you stay so beautiful and alone, who knows who could approach you.

You nodded “I think so” you said showing him the piece, he leaned his head on side studying it

“May I?”

You nodded as he took off his blazer before joining you on the floor, he crossed his legs, your knees touching as he stole those papers from your hand.

“Signal to the administration this night shift, or they won’t ever pay you” he muttered without looking away from the papers.

You smirked “I know, but it is more a matter of principle than money, I didn’t like the heart attack you gave me today”

You were surprised by your own words, maybe it was because you really were over caffeinated or just realising how it was the first time you were alone and how you felt comfortable around him. No, not comfort, it was trust, you trusted him.

He looked up from the papers up at you, he didn’t replied to your comment straightaway, he let it sink in, he let your presence sink in.

A one-sides smirk appeared on his lips

“It is going to be a long night, then” Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief@thesunflowersutra Let me know if you want to get added <3

#niki lauda #niki lauda headcanons #niki lauda x reader #niki lauda fanfiction #niki lauda hcs #niki lauda rush 2013 #niki lauda rush

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity)#my writing #my fic

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